Rogue

by James Swallow

  Solomon immediately put the Hermes into wild zigzag turns, the force of it throwing everyone in the passenger bay against the racing restraints holding them to their seats.

  ‘There!’ shouted Lucy, finding the shape of an aircraft moving low in the sky at their 7 o’clock position. It was a peculiar-looking thing, an ungainly rectangular box held stable beneath two sets of counter-rotating blades.

  Marc pulled a pair of field binoculars from a storage bin and twisted around, peeking up over the lip of the hull to spot the helicopter.

  ‘It’s a Helix,’ he called back, ‘Russian, Kamov Ka-32, flying ALEPH colours.’

  ‘So much for getting away clean,’ she muttered. ‘Shooter?’

  He nodded. ‘I see an open hatch at the rear . . . I see a rifle . . . Shit!’

  Marc ducked and a heartbeat later they heard the hum of another round pass over them.

  ‘It’s gaining on us.’ Assim dared to take a quick look himself. ‘Can we outrun it?’

  ‘We go straight and full throttle, we give them a clear target,’ said Solomon.

  Marc gave a nod. ‘But every second we don’t, we’re letting them close the net.’

  Lucy looked down at the Stechkin auto-pistol and the stubby shotgun stowed in the gunwale.

  ‘We have nothing that can hit them back from this range.’

  Marc snapped off his safety belt and slid across the deck to Solomon’s side.

  ‘See that?’ He pointed towards a massive slab of white-painted steel half a mile distant, an enormous roll-on, roll-off car carrier steaming southwards. ‘Get us to it?’

  ‘Hold on.’

  Solomon gave the steering yoke a savage twist that made the Hermes launch itself off the waves like a leaping dolphin, coming about to aim directly at the cargo vessel.

  The speedboat shot away, but now they were presenting a longer aspect to their pursuers in the Helix. Lucy saw the flash of muzzle flare from inside the helicopter’s cabin and she ducked. A shot thudded into the hull with a noise like nails driven through wood.

  ‘We can’t hide behind that thing!’ she yelled, as the car carrier loomed larger. ‘It’s heading in the wrong direction!’

  Marc was emptying the contents of the storage bin on the deck, and he shoved the loaded Stechkin across to her.

  ‘You’re the best shot we have. You’ll have to get all the rounds on target.’

  She flicked another glance at the Helix. It had gained some height, enough that it would be able to pass straight over the cargo ship.

  ‘It’s still too far away!’

  ‘I know!’

  Another rifle round kissed the Hermes, and this time Assim cried out in pain as splinters of fractured hull raked his shoulder. The shots started coming thick and fast, the sniper on the helicopter giving up on accuracy in hopes of scoring a lucky hit.

  Lucy’s estimation of ALEPH’s mercenaries reluctantly jumped a few notches. The shooter would have to be good to even get a round close to target, firing at a fast-moving speedboat from inside the juddering perch of a hovering helicopter.

  The sniper kept pouring it on, and Lucy heard cries of alarm from crewmen up on the car carrier’s deck as wild shots clanged into the steel hull of the big ship.

  Solomon took them right through the foaming, stormy wake at the car carrier’s aft, banking on the speedboat’s velocity to punch them through the turbulence before it flipped them over. For one stomach-lurching second, the Hermes pitched into a thirty-degree roll, then slammed back down into the sea with a bone-shaking crash. A gush of salt water and spilled marine diesel came over the bow, drenching the lot of them.

  ‘Get in as close as you can!’ shouted Marc.

  Solomon turned hard, pivoting the speedboat into line with the cargo ship. The smaller craft scraped against the hull of the larger one, and Lucy looked up. It was like a sheer, thirty-metre high cliff made of ageing, white-painted steel. Off towards amidships she spotted the orange blobs of hard hats popping up as curious crewmen peered outboard.

  With the car carrier blocking the view, the sniper on the Helix had no visual on them. Solomon chopped the throttle, killing most of their forward momentum, letting the ship’s slipstream pull them along with it.

  The speedboat’s engine note fell to a low mutter, and Lucy caught the sound of double rotors in the air. The heavy beat told her that the Helix was hovering, the pilot inching it cautiously over the cargo ship.

  ‘Here it comes.’ Marc found the bright red plastic flare gun he was looking for and jammed a signal cartridge into the breech. ‘We get one go at this.’

  ‘I got it.’

  Lucy wriggled out of her safety harness and checked the Stechkin, flicking its selector to fully automatic fire. She put both hands around the lower frame of the gun, gripping it as firmly as she could.

  The ALEPH helicopter came into view, passing over the flank of the car carrier, a fat black bumblebee droning against the clear blue of the sky. She estimated the distance to target was maybe fifty metres, inside the effective range of the pistol.

  It was close enough now for Lucy to see the figures in the cockpit, and one of them reacted in shock as they spotted the drifting speedboat right beneath them. But Marc was already firing, the lazy, fizzing arc of the flare slicing up and over the hovering aircraft. The flare head burst into smoking crimson fire above the rotor blades, blinding the aircrew as Marc gave the word.

  ‘Now!’

  Lucy squeezed the Stechkin’s trigger and the gun tried to leap out of her wet grip. She fought it down, leaning into the drumming recoil, and fired into the belly of the Helix. In half a second, the magazine was empty and her hands were seared with exhaust vapour, but the helicopter was adrift, turning drunkenly on its axis. It sank low, clipping one of the cargo ship’s masts, and vanished out of sight, crash-landing on the upper deck.

  Solomon didn’t wait, and pushed the throttles to the stops. The Hermes made a wide turn and set into an arrow-straight course towards the peninsula of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat and the airport beyond it.

  *

  Marc scanned the airport complex as it came into sight, taking a juddering survey of the runways lined up along the coast. It was hard to get a clear view, but he saw aircraft moving around on the apron, white and silver darts reflecting the bright sunshine.

  He searched for a particular tailplane sporting the blue streak livery that signified the Rubicon Airbus A350, and spotted it on the move near the main terminal building.

  ‘He’s already rolling!’

  ‘Guess Ari got the message?’ said Lucy.

  ‘We will have to hope so.’

  Solomon angled the speedboat towards the seashore, without slowing down. Nice Côte d’Azur Airport was partly built on reclaimed land, and the section that faced the sea was concrete and rocks. There were no quays or inlets where the Hermes would be able to dock, but Marc realised that Solomon wasn’t going to let that stop him.

  ‘Be ready.’

  The speedboat hurtled towards the shore at maximum speed, barely giving Marc enough time to strap in. Skipping over the top of the waves, the forward velocity and shallow draught of the vessel pushed it out of the water and into the air as Solomon deliberately beached the craft.

  A horrible crunching and grinding vibrated up through the deck as the Hermes tore its keel to bits on the stones. Speed bled off to nothing, slamming Marc and the others against their straps. The boat shuddered to a halt and sagged to starboard, the broken hull giving a last, dying groan.

  ‘Out!’ shouted Marc, smacking the quick-release switch with a balled fist.

  He grabbed Assim, ignoring the injured hacker’s cry of pain, and shoved him overboard. Lucy and Solomon scrambled down after him, and together the four of them jogged across a grassy border, to a service road running parallel to the longer of the airport’s two runways.

  Marc had grabbed the binoculars on his way off the Hermes, and swung them up, finding the Airbus again. It was passing the
end of the other runway, and he grinned; but that fell off his face when he spotted three airport security vehicles racing to catch up with the Rubicon jet.

  ‘We have to get to them before the cops box them in,’ said Lucy, catching the sound of sirens on the breeze.

  ‘Those chaps . . . might give us a ride,’ said Assim, forcing out the words between each breath.

  He pointed with his good arm to a Toyota pickup with a huge FOLLOW ME sign in the flatbed, as it screeched to a halt a short distance away. Two men climbed out, one speaking into a radio, the other yelling in angry French.

  Lucy, as usual, cut to the quick. She aimed the Stechkin pistol in the direction of the pickup crew.

  ‘Agenouillez-vous!’ she barked, and they dropped to their knees on the tarmac, unaware that the gun was empty.

  Marc climbed into the driver’s seat, the other three into the flatbed, and he stamped on the accelerator.

  Ari’s unscheduled aircraft movement had shut down the airport as well as putting it on high alert, which meant there was no other traffic out there and nothing to stop Marc taking the shortcut across median strips to the main runway. He spun the wheel and the Toyota lurched onto a parallel course with the rolling Airbus.

  The airport police units were coming in fast, closing their window of opportunity. Marc cut across the path of the airliner, slewing wide and around, so that whoever was in the cockpit would see the vehicle and who was on board.

  ‘Come on, flyboy, it’s us!’ he grated, reversing the motion, cutting back the other way.

  The bright running lights on the jet’s forward undercarriage flashed one-two-three and Marc felt a rush of relief.

  ‘He sees us!’ shouted Solomon.

  The airliner bumped to a sudden halt, the blades of its Rolls-Royce Trent engines still idling.

  Lucy banged on the top of the cab.

  ‘Right side, right side!’

  Marc guided the pickup around the nose as the forward passenger door rotated inwards. He looked up to see Malte lean out and survey the group with a hangdog expression.

  In the next second, the end of a collapsible escape ladder came tumbling down to the runway. Lucy and Solomon helped Assim out, but Marc stayed in the cab, revving the engine. He could see the security vehicles. The three cars had halted, the officers inside uncertain of what was taking place.

  Turning the other way, Marc saw more cars powering down the runway from the opposite end, hoping to block them in.

  ‘Marc, we gotta go!’ Lucy shouted from the base of the ladder.

  He nodded and vaulted from the pickup’s cab. His action seemed to trigger something, and the trailing cars burst into motion once more. Marc was the last one onto the ladder, and barely got his feet on the rungs before the Airbus started moving again. The keening shriek of the engines pitched up and that meant only one thing – Ari was powering up for take-off.

  He felt the ladder shift even as he hauled himself up it, and then he was being dragged into the cabin by Solomon and Malte. Lucy slammed the door shut behind him and gave a shaky, nervous laugh.

  ‘Well, shit. We missed duty free.’

  The weird tension of the moment broke and Marc snorted.

  The familiar two-tone chime of the aircraft intercom sounded, followed by Ari’s smooth, professional tones.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please take your damn seats and strap your backsides in. I’m making my second illegal take-off in as many days and it is going to be bumpy.’

  They made it to the common area and belted in as the Airbus reached speed and the nose tilted into the air. Marc saw flashes of white and strobing yellow lights as vehicles veered into the grass rather than risk being struck by the airliner, and then they were off the ground.

  The deck sloped at an angle far steeper than any regular passenger flight would have experienced, as Ari pushed the A350 past its usual tolerances. Out through the window, Marc saw dark ocean and pale sky.

  ‘We made it,’ he said quietly, suddenly aware of his heart drumming in his chest.

  ‘This far,’ said Solomon.

  *

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ Delancort held up his hands, showing the police-issue handcuffs around his wrists. ‘I am co-operating.’

  ‘I will be the judge of that.’

  Lau walked to the conference room window, glowering out at the sun-drenched streets below. The Rubicon tower was still in semi-darkness, its systems out of action until the power grid could be reactivated.

  ‘I tried to convince them to surrender,’ Solomon’s aide began again. ‘I do not know what else I could have done.’ He looked around. ‘If I could speak to the board—’

  ‘They are in protective custody.’ Lau cut him off with a sharp reply. ‘Everyone in this building is a suspect,’ he amended, belatedly adding something to play to the fiction of Interpol’s involvement.

  The conference room door opened, and the woman called Grace stood on the threshold. She was grimy and cold-eyed, and she shot Delancort a wary look as she walked in and closed it behind her.

  ‘Speak,’ Lau ordered. He did not care what Solomon’s aide heard.

  ‘They’ve escaped,’ she said without preamble. ‘Nice Air Traffic Control just filed a formal alert. Solomon’s aircraft made an unsanctioned departure, last seen heading south-west over the Med.’

  Lau’s bony fingers tightened around the handle of his walking stick, gripping it so hard it caused him physical discomfort.

  ‘You were supposed to prevent that,’ he hissed.

  ‘I did the best I could,’ she retorted. ‘But it’s above my pay grade to jump off a roof.’

  ‘They will send the Air Force after them,’ offered Delancort.

  ‘I did not ask for your opinion,’ said Lau, without taking his eyes off Grace.

  ‘That jet’s loaded with electronic countermeasures and mil-spec gear, right?’ she added. ‘They reprogram their ID transponder and they can ghost into any commercial traffic they want.’ She gave Delancort a hard look. ‘Now might be the time to start exploring other options.’

  Solomon’s aide shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the room’s lights flickered back on. Lau looked out through the frosted glass door and saw that power had returned to the entire floor, and perhaps the whole building as well.

  Then the cellular telephone in his pocket vibrated. Warily, Lau drew it to his ear.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am disappointed,’ said Glovkonin. ‘I wanted this done cleanly.’

  Lau turned away, glaring out at nothing once more.

  ‘I told you to give me more men.’

  ‘And what would you have done with an army? Invaded Monte Carlo? This was meant to be bloodless.’

  ‘Ekko forced my hand. He sabotaged the tower’s power grid.’

  ‘Yes, I am aware.’ Lau wondered how that could be so, but said nothing as Glovkonin paused. ‘He thinks he is safe. But there is nowhere he can go I will not find him.’

  Lau maintained his silence, waiting for the question he knew was coming.

  ‘What is the status of the Grey Record database?’

  ‘Uncertain,’ said Lau. ‘There was an electrical overload, a fire. But I will tell you now – it is worthless. Ekko destroyed it.’

  He enjoyed a thrill of spiteful amusement at informing the Russian that his prize was lost.

  ‘How can you be certain?’

  ‘Because it is what I would have done. He would not flee his castle with those riches still in it. He has denied them to you.’

  Lau heard something brittle shatter, and imagined Glovkonin back in the halls of the Corsican manor house, hurling a crystal glass at the wall in impotent rage.

  He let that fester for a moment.

  ‘I know Ekko Solomon,’ Lau continued. ‘And I know that this story does not end here. He is a man of secrets. Many of them.’

  Glovkonin was silent for a moment.

  ‘I want that intelligence.’

  Lau found
Delancort’s reflection against the office window and studied him dispassionately.

  ‘I have a place to start.’

  SIXTEEN

  It was late afternoon by the time the local police had completed their sweep of Solomon’s apartments, and Lau stood alone in the wreckage, surveying what he had taken from his old comrade.

  The elegant, minimalist space had been turned over in search of what might have been hidden there, but Lau knew that nothing of value would be found. Ekko was too meticulous to leave behind something obvious that could be held up as a smoking gun, as evidence of his extra-legal activities.

  Not that it was required. The Combine fostered entire agencies of people whose jobs were to sow disinformation and build false truth out of nothing. That was, after all, how this takeover had been engineered from the start. Lies and deceptions set in motion to entrap the self-righteous. It had worked perfectly.

  Glovkonin was angry at losing the information in Ekko’s files, but that did not concern Lau. His personal victory was near complete, tarnished only by Solomon’s escape.

  ‘I have what was yours,’ Lau said to the empty room. ‘What was always meant to belong to me.’

  He turned as the apartment door opened, and the woman McFarlane entered. Her aide stood warily in the corridor, unwilling to re-enter the rooms where he had been witness to such violence and bloodshed.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Lau dismissed her with the question, studying the places where police markers taped off the locations of bodies, bullet casings and blood spatter.

  ‘You owe me an explanation,’ she seethed. ‘You lied to me!’

  ‘I told you what you needed to hear,’ he replied. ‘Anything more would have confused the issue.’

  ‘Confused?’ she shot back. ‘You didn’t think it bloody well relevant to tell me you were once Ekko Solomon’s business partner? And that he shafted you?’ McFarlane shook her head. ‘Dear God, I knew you were holding something back, but this?’

  ‘We used each other to get what we wanted,’ Lau said coldly. ‘Do not pretend otherwise. You wanted Solomon gone. Rubicon is now free of him and his blind crusade. Take the win, Esther.’