by Mark Leggatt
Above the heads of the crowd she saw the red and white security barrier lift into the air. She began to run, keeping to the cover of the trees that lined the road, scanning every house as she ran. Each one she passed was bordered by high walls or spiked railings. On the other side of the road she saw a block of flats surrounded by a low hedge. The gates were open. She readied herself to run across the road and then stopped beside the cover of an ancient oak tree. The road was clear ground. They knew who they were looking for.
To her left a Rolls-Royce emerged from a gated driveway, two Indian flags fluttering from the fender. She waited until it rolled past, kept her head down and walked quickly across the road, through the gates to the apartment block and along the side of the building. The driveway began to slope down to a car park and she could see the high rear wall of the property. She ducked behind the corner of the building and looked up at the wall. It was over twenty feet high, but directly below it was a line of parked cars. She ran at full speed towards a Mercedes SUV and jumped onto the hood. Metal buckled under her feet as she leapt onto the roof and threw herself up against the wall. Her fingertips caught the crumbling stone edge, tearing her skin, but she hauled herself up and swung her leg over the top.
From the corner of her eye she saw the shape of a black Range Rover between the trees, then looked down at the roof of a summerhouse below the wall. She lowered herself onto the slates and dropped into a garden.
An old man’s face appeared at the window of the summerhouse.
Kirsty smoothed down her dress, smiled at the old man and tapped her nose. “You ain’t seen me, right?” She took off across the garden.
Chapter 21
His throat tightened as he screamed, the sound ricocheting off the sides of the pipe. His legs flailed from side to side and his head smacked off the roof. He dropped back, stunned into silence. Focus. Do it. One way out. The image of a wall of black water flashed through his mind, cascading towards him through the darkness.
He pulled his arms tight across his chest and stamped his feet down. The trolley shot forward. The hammering came louder and sharper. Sweat was blinding his eyes and his legs spasmed in cramp. The trolley rattled along, its wheels just inches below his head. The hammering came even faster. They’ve got a team on it. A sound like a gunshot cracked past his head and the hammering stopped. It’s broken. His breath became ragged and his chest heaved. You’re not dead yet. Control your breathing. He kept his eyes wide open despite the pain, searching for the red light. Echoes played around his head then faded into the darkness. Then he heard it: water slapped against the side of the pipe and the stink of the sewer rushed past him and caught in his throat. Oh, sweet Jesus, not like this. His sneakers slipped and he arched his head back, gasping for breath.
A dull red glow appeared in the distance. How far? Jesus, I can’t see. He blinked as fast as he could and the red lamp came into focus. He forced his heels down to stop the trolley, his ankles bouncing off the rails. The metal cable tray tore the skin from his arms and he threw his hands up before the trolley had stopped, scrambling for the hatch. Find the hatch release switch. The water will cut the power. His fingers found a bank of switches just as the red light flickered, then died.
He heard his own screams. His hands flailed around in the darkness and the rank, fetid stench of sewage filled his mouth and nose as the roaring sound of water became louder. His fingers grasped a small ledge and he slammed his head against the lid of the hatch as a torrent of water hit his torso and spewed up over his face.
The white light blasted into his eyes.
“Connor! Hold on!” Her hands held him around the chin, lifting his face from the water.
He threw up a hand to the edge of the hatch as she reached down and grabbed his shirt. The trolley slipped away beneath him and he dropped to his knees in the stinking water.
Kirsty thrust her head into the hatch and wrapped her arms around his chest, then threw herself backwards, dragging him upwards.
He landed on top of her and rolled away. “Close it!” he croaked.
Kirsty scrambled to her feet and slammed the hatch shut.
Montrose lay face down, his whole body shaking.
She knelt beside him and wiped his face with her dress.
“Milchmann,” he croaked.
“What?”
“The password. Milchmann. Or milkman.”
“We have to move.” She leaned in to kiss his forehead, thought better of it and stood up, pulling the iPad from her bag. “And, uh, well done. Right, we need to talk to Zac.”
“Yeah.” Montrose got to his feet and looked around; they were in a bare, concrete-clad room, a single light bulb hanging from the roof.
“You’re in West Kensington,” said Kirsty. “An old World War II command bunker.” The sound of a tube train filled the room. She typed in a number and hit the speaker on the iPad. “That’s the Circle and District line on the other side of the wall. Zac?”
“Yeah, what’s happening?” said Zac. “Where’s the man?”
“Right here. End of the line,” said Montrose. “The password is milkman. Or milchmann.”
“I’m on it.”
Montrose leaned against the wall for a moment, then walked slowly towards Kirsty. Zac’s face was on-screen, his hair falling over his eyes as he typed into a keyboard.
“Holy moley,” said Zac. “You should see this shit. My screen just lit up like a freaking Christmas tree.”
“Don’t talk to me about shit,” said Montrose.
“It works?” said Kirsty.
“Oh yeah, it works,” replied Zac. “Question is, what the hell do we do now?”
“Change it,” said Montrose. “Change the password. Then get the hell out. We’ll meet up when it’s safe.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Any suggestions?”
Montrose bent over to the screen. “How about…?” The words stuck in his throat as he saw a figure loom up behind Zac, the knife slashing forward then back in an arc across his throat. Zac’s eyes opened wide as he was pulled back from his chair and a gout of blood sprayed across the screen.
“Zac!”
A hooded figure stared at them from the screen, reached over and closed the laptop.
“Oh, Jesus...” Kirsty staggered back and Montrose grabbed her around the waist and held her up. She stood, her chest heaving, then brushed him aside. A single tear dropped before fury crossed her face. She roared at the iPad. “I will find you. I will find you and I will cut your fucking heart out!”
“Kirsty, we’ve got to go.”
She wiped her face and began to type into the iPad. “Zac’s laptop is fitted with a tracker. They won’t leave without it.” She brought up a map on the screen. “They’re moving fast. On foot.” She held the iPad closer. “No, in a car.” She turned to Montrose. “We’re going to Cambridge.”
“Kirsty, we need to speak to Pilgrim.”
“Listen to me. They have the final password and they’re on the move. Wherever they’re going, we have to get there first. And drive the bastards off the road. Then they’re mine. Don’t even think about stopping me.”
*
“Milkman,” said Arkangel, his phone pressed to his ear. “Type it in.” He stepped back from the desk and watched the technician enter the password. The black and green screen burst into life, scrolling through the activation program, then stopped at the blinking cursor.
“Attack program ready to activate,” said the technician, his finger hovering over the keyboard. “The choice is ‘Yes or No.’”
A voice boomed out from behind them. “Arkangel!” The technician sat back.
Arkangel turned.
Kutuzov stood framed in the doorway. “Come with me.”
Arkangel looked down at the screen then turned his back on Kutuzov and nodded to the technician, mouthing the words. “Ten seconds
. Do it.” He cleared his throat and stepped towards the door. Across the hall, in a sunlit salon, he saw Kutuzov standing before a window.
“Close the door,” said Kutuzov.
Arkangel hesitated, glancing back to the technician before he slammed the door behind him.
“Moscow want you back in Russia,” said Kutuzov. “There is a plane waiting for you.”
Arkangel shook his head and began to laugh.
“Relax,” said Kutuzov. “If they were going to kill you they would have done so by now. You are to be rewarded for locating the spy who broke into the embassy.”
Arkangel grinned. “That’s very kind of them. Do you know why he was there? The spy? Do you?”
Kutuzov crossed his arms. “Don’t play games with me. You’re not safe yet.”
Arkangel rubbed his face and looked past Kutuzov, out on to the street. “It astounds me how an imbecile like you managed to worm his way into Intelligence.” He dropped onto a sofa. “Or maybe it’s just that scum always rises to the top.”
Kutuzov’s face reddened and he spoke through gritted teeth. “I warn you, what you’ve done will only keep you alive for so long. The President is sitting behind his desk in Moscow, waiting for my call. When someone woke up the Red Star, the supposedly secret US Satellite Warfare Center in Virginia went crazy. Of course, we are saying nothing, but be in no doubt, we want control.”
“And do what? Take down their satellites? The Americans will blow you out of the sky, then NATO will crush you like a bug. You think threatening them will work? Tell them you’re going to kick their ass around space?”
“What we tell the US is none of your business. When we control the Red Star, we will deny everything. This is politics, you idiot. Our country has NATO troops on our border with Latvia and Estonia. Our former Soviet allies are now vassal states of Washington. And that is unacceptable. NATO troops are heading for the borders of Poland and Slovakia. But with control over the Red Star, Moscow will ensure they are driven back a thousand miles. Then we’ll do business. Just make sure you get that final password. And then you can call the President yourself.” Kutuzov held out his phone. “Or you can call him now.”
Arkangel ignored him and pulled out his own phone. “Guess who I’m calling?” He leaned back on the sofa and slowly dialed a number. Kutuzov’s expression turned to fury as Arkangel spoke into the phone. “Here’s the deal. The price remains unchanged. Two hundred million dollars. Fifty for each one. But, for four hundred million dollars, I can make it look like the Iranians. With absolutely indisputable evidence.” He listened to the response, his eyes closed. “Agreed. Consider it done.” He cut the call.
Kutuzov shook his head. “You’re an idiot, Arkangel. You think you can do deals for this? My men will find the password. It’s only a matter of time. We don’t need you.”
“Oh, your men. Of course. Well, you can stop worrying your little peasant head. We have the activation password.”
Kutuzov’s mouth dropped open. “You have it?”
“We have it and we have control of the Red Star.”
“My God. Moscow will…”
“Moscow won’t do anything. Apart from crying into their potato soup. You can phone the President if you like and ask him about his dreams of strutting about the world stage, smiling like a Bond villain because he’s got power over every satellite in space. But I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“What are you talking about? Hand it over. My men will...”
“Your men, Kutuzov, have a price. Twenty million dollars in a Swiss bank account and a US passport with a new identity.” Arkangel took a pistol from his jacket. “You see, I have friends too. New friends. In Washington.”
The look of horror froze on Kutuzov’s face as the bullets pierced his heart. He crumpled to the floor.
Arkangel stepped over Kutuzov’s corpse and opened the door. “Clean that up,” he said to a guard and marched back across the hall to where the technician sat at his desk. “Well?”
“Attack underway. We should have the results very soon.”
Arkangel waved a hand around the room. “Pack up everything. Leave nothing behind. Not a trace.”
“Where are we going?”
“Not far. An Iranian diplomat has just died and left us the keys to his home.”
The technician smiled. “He has wi-fi?”
Arkangel nodded. “Of course, and is being closely monitored by MI5. It’s perfect.”
*
“They’re moving fast,” said Kirsty. “Too fast. What the hell is going on?”
Montrose pulled off his stinking shirt and threw it into a corner. “What do you mean too fast?”
She traced her finger across the screen. “The tracker is supposed to pick up local wi-fi and record the location. But it keeps jumping in and out in seconds. It’s gone through hundreds of them. The last time it came on, it had covered two miles in a minute. There’s no motorway close enough to Cambridge to get that kind of speed up.”
“Helicopter,” he said. “Got to be.”
Kirsty’s eyes opened wide and she brought up a flight tracker app. “There are hundreds of commercial flights over the south of England.”
“Can you trace the fight route?”
She focused on Cambridge. “There’s nothing in the sky. It’s not logged. Wait.” She flipped over to a map where a line of red dots recorded each wi-fi the tracker had found. She zoomed out, then traced her finger down the screen. “They’re heading for London. Right to the center. I think I know where they’re going.” She narrowed the map onto the River Thames. “Battersea heliport. It’s a direct line.” She shoved the iPad into her bag. “Take your trousers off.”
“What?”
“I know, it’s the second time I’ve asked today, but this time I mean it.” She took a penknife from her bag. “Cut the legs off your jeans. It’ll keep the smell down a bit. And don’t bother with a shirt. One glimpse of sunshine in London and the place is half naked, so you’ll fit right in.”
“Kirsty, we have to find a way of getting out of here. Every cop, every camera is looking for us. And the Brits will know that the pipe is broken. They’ll be heading to each exit point.”
“I’m working on it. But they know what we look like and you’re covered in shit. We’ll have to risk it.” She pulled her dress over her head and handed it to him. “Turn that into a skirt.” She tossed him a pair of nail scissors. “I’ve got work to do.” She paced around the room in her lace vest and panties, typing on the iPad.
Montrose got to work with the scissors.
“We have to get across London fast and undetected,” she said. “And through the traffic.”
He hacked away at the legs of his jeans, trying not to look at her, but noticing a bright red Welsh dragon tattooed on her ass.
“Got it.” She jabbed the screen. “We’ve got one hundred yards to go, dressed as a couple of London weirdos. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Cycle shop. Notting Hill.”
*
Kane’s footsteps echoed off the walls of the ballroom. At the far end, below a fifteen foot high portrait of Nixon, the figure of the Farmer sat hunched over a desk. Kane looked at Campbell’s feet, his rubber-soled shoes moving noiselessly beside him. “How come the Farmer gets a bigger office than the US Ambassador?”
“I couldn’t possibly say, sir.” Campbell picked up the pace.
Kane grimaced as pain shot through his broken nose and he gave Campbell a look. “Might have known you’d be a soft-shoe kinda guy.”
“Best not keep him waiting, sir.”
Kane lengthened his stride. “Jesus, it’ll all be over by the time we get there.” The room was bereft of furniture, apart from two chairs in front of the Farmer’s desk. A series of high, wide windows tinged the sunlight from Grosvenor Square with an eerie green l
ight from the security glass. As Kane approached, he watched the Farmer trying to type into an iPad, his massive fingers slowly tapping each key. “What do I call him?”
“He doesn’t have a title, sir.”
“I thought he was CIA?”
“Not exactly sir, higher than that. We just call him Sir.”
“We?”
“Have you met him before, sir?”
“No. What is this, a fucking cocktail party?”
“Well, we’re in the right place.”
Kane bit his tongue as they stood facing the desk. He was about to speak when the Farmer looked up and Kane just couldn’t lose the image of a seven foot tall Mr. Potato Head after a car crash. The Farmer’s huge bulk spilled over the ornate chair and the tiny blue eyes on his bulbous, pockmarked face, framed by a ring of red hair above his ears, betrayed his Irish ancestry. He leaned over the desk and the iPad disappeared under his arms. “This better be good.”
Kane cleared his throat. “If I didn’t think it necessary, sir, then I wouldn’t...”
“Who gives a shit what you think. It’s what I think that counts.” The Farmer looked for the iPad and held it up, showing the schematic building plans for Project Orbital. “Okay, talk.”
“We think the Russians are now an immediate threat to the entire operation. Montrose escaped from the embassy using the pipe.”
The Farmer slammed down his hand on the desk. “How the fuck did he know about Orbital?”
“Elizabeth Purley betrayed our operation. No doubt she was working with Montrose. And previously the Soviets. Whatever Montrose is looking for may still be there. Warrender was held in the cells of the Embassy. I’ve checked the old recordings. He didn’t talk. But maybe he left a clue in that cell. And that’s why I’m here. If the Russians discover it, or Montrose talks, it’s game over.”