My body shook uncontrollably as I huddled in the foot-well, hugging the shotgun. I waited for bullets to hose down the doors, levelling the weapon shakily in front of me.
I heard nothing except the chugging of the engine.
I reached for the ignition and turned it off. The wheezing engine shut down, steam hissing from the shattered radiator. Sliding out of the cab, I took cover behind the door, even now fighting the urge to sleep. In the distance I heard the crunching gears of a heavy vehicle, the throaty chug of a diesel engine.
“They’ve gone,” groaned Alisa Turov.
My eyes focussed in the gloom. The SVR officer was secured to a gurney similar to the one they’d used on me, an identical tangle of tubes plugged into her bare arm. Her blood-spattered hospital robe was torn and dirty.
“How do you feel?” I said, slipping the tubes out of her arm.
“What do you think? Like shit. I’ve never taken LSD before” she wheezed.
“What did you tell them?”
“I’m not sure, Cal” she coughed as I undid the straps on her wrists and ankles, “the dreams were crazy. I thought he was my brother.”
“He’s manipulating us” I said.
“Yes, I agree. He told me that they will return to Russia, prepare for another attempt on Belov’s life. And in the meantime they will publish all of the FSB material they have online.” She rubbed her wrists, which were purple and red. “Volk is obsessed with Sergei Belov.”
“Lucky Sergei” I grunted, handing her a blanket, “do you know where Van Basten’s server is?”
“I think I might be able to figure that out” she replied, “but tell me, do you know a woman called Samantha?”
“Yes,” I said, “she’s a friend, the woman I told you about when we went for dinner that time. The nearest thing I’ve got to family. Volk threatened her when he spoke with me.”
“Yes, he told me that she would be killed, as punishment for our sins. He said that Sergei had hurt his own, that we should feel the same pain. But I don’t know how he’s going to do that now. I presume this woman lives here in the UK.”
I stretched, my fury at Volk’s threat bubbling like lava in my head. “Yes, Sam lives in England. But I’m going to kill him first, Alisa. Where will the bastard go?”
She limped over to a chair. Her clothes were strewn across it. She picked up one of her boots and, sliding her hand into it, pulled out a slim black phone. “This is Fyodor Volk’s cell phone,” she smiled “I hope the answer to that question is in here somewhere.”
“How did you get it?”
“I picked his pocket when I was captured, when he first slapped me in the truck that took us to this place. Then I slipped it into my boot when they were too busy murdering Dudko to notice. They never checked my clothes when I was ordered to undress.”
“OK, let’s go” I said, “our stuff must be here somewhere.”
Alisa winced in pain as she pulled on her clothes. I covered the door with the shotgun, wondering if the Bedford would get us as far as the nearest town.
“Let’s go” said Alisa when she was done, “I must make arrangements with my organisation.”
“What arrangements?” I said.
“For our journey to Russia, of course,” she said, slapping my back, “now let’s find your clothes and get out of this dump.”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
I found my stuff dumped in a tangled mess, next to the ward where I’d been questioned by Fyodor Volk. There was no sign of weapons or body armour, but my muddy clothes and boots were strewn across the floor. I patted down the pockets and found my Blackberry. The battery had been taken out and the device smashed. I found my chest-rig in the corner, where I’d tucked away the cheap mobile phone Marcus had given me. It was still there, along with spare magazines and other stuff. Checking that I had a signal, I dialled his number.
The MI6 officer answered immediately. “Where are you?”
“We’re at Laverick Field training area, near Salisbury Plain.” I gave him an update on our capture, and Fyodor Volk’s escape.
“How many dead?” he asked drily.
“At least thirty” I shrugged, “it’s my Handler’s problem, although Volk’s done a pretty good job of making this look like a fucked-up terrorist incident. I’m off abroad for the duration after I’ve finished this job.”
“I’m glad you understand the importance of finishing the operation” he purred, “But Belov is safe?”
“Yeah, well he was when we last saw him. He was with his head of security at Croll House.”
“You and Turov need to get out of there,” said Marcus.
“No shit. I’m pumped full of drugs, there’s three feet of snow outside and we’ve got a bullet-riddled Bedford lorry for transport. Some help would be appreciated.”
“Nothing’s flying right now, maybe later today if the weather clears up,” he said, “get out of there before the police arrive, lie low. I’ll call you in the hour with instructions.”
“Make sure you do” I said, “and we’ve got Volk’s mobile phone. Alisa stole it.
“At last, laddie, a scrap of positive news” he replied, “I’ll see if I can get someone to take a look at it.” He rang off.
We limped back to the Bedford, holding each other for support.
“Will that truck still work?” said Turov.
“I hope so,” I replied. In my pockets I found a packet of ibuprofen, which I wolfed down with some snow to help me swallow. I passed the rest to Alisa.
We climbed into the truck and teased the engine into life, reversing it out of the building.
“This isn’t going to get us far” I said. The snowfall was lighter now, the sky a sickly dark grey colour beyond the rotting wire fence of the camp.
“Where is the nearest town?” said Turov.
“About five miles, I think. I’ve been here before, when I was in the army.”
We drove slowly out of the barracks, following the tracks of another heavy vehicle. I guessed it was Volk’s. We turned off before the main road, onto a rutted service track than ran through the woods on the edge of the training area. The heavy lorry rumbled from side to side. Turov stuck her head out of the window and puked.
We drove for two more miles before the Bedford’s engine died. We dropped down from the cab and walked through the snow, due east. The mapping app on the phone told me that we were only a short distance from a road.
Turov checked her own phone, tapping it in frustration. “No signal here,” she sighed as we walked along the track. Through the trees we saw that it ran parallel with the main road.
“I need to speak with Harry” I said, “he’s gonna love this.”
“We can’t stay out here,” said Alisa, shivering. The clouds were lighter now, sunlight trying to filter through them. Light flurries of snow swirled about our feet.
Finally we came to the end of the path, a gentle slope leading to a gate topped with coils of razor-wire. I poked around in the bushes for a few moments, finding a hole where kids had forced their way through, empty cigarette packets and beer cans lying in the snow. We wriggled through, finding ourselves by the main road. The only sign of life was an abandoned car, buried under a snow drift. We walked south for another hour, towards Netheravon, without seeing any traffic. The fat grey clouds thickened again, obliterating the sun.
Alisa finally got a signal for her telephone and checked the news. “Nothing on here about the shooting,” she said.
“There will be,” I shrugged, “if nobody heard small arms fire I could understand, but that explosion?”
Finally my telephone rang.
“Where are you now?” said Marcus impatiently.
“I’d say we were due north of Netheravon, on the main road.”
The MI6 officer was quiet for a moment. “Carry on walking, but news of your little adventure last night is filtering through. The police are trying to get to Croll House, so get off that road. They’ve enlisted the RAF to fly t
hem in. I’m going to get you moved as soon as the weather allows, same pilot as before.”
“Where will you take us then?” I said.
“A safe house,” he replied, “that’s all you need to know.”
I held the cheap plastic handset to my frozen ear and laughed, “as long as it’s got a bed and hot running water.”
“Get ready for my call,” said the old spook, hanging up.
On the outskirts of Netheravon we passed a cluster of houses, smoke curling from chimneys. In the distance I could hear children laughing as they played in the snow. By my watch it was ten in the morning, as if it mattered. I could have fallen where I was and slept, in the snow. I knew that I was running the risk of hypothermia.
Turov nudged me, checking my face. “Cal, wake up.” She pinched my ear, making me wince.
We carried on. In our filthy and blood-stained outdoor gear we looked like the survivors of a plane crash. We’d certainly attract attention. Alisa led me away from the houses, to a lock-up garage tucked away near some trees. She fiddled with a small multi-tool and picked the cheap padlock. Inside, the concrete-floored garage was empty apart from some gardening equipment. “Sit down” she said, covering me with a rough woollen blanket that smelt of petrol, “this place has power.”
A painter’s table held an electric kettle, which we switched on. Alisa found some instant coffee in a rusted tin and some ceramic camping mugs. We huddled underneath the blanket and sipped the hot drinks. The smell of the strong black coffee tickled my nose, the taste and warmth better than any medicine. I held the hot cup to my bruised face. Pulling off my boots I rolled the edge of the hot mug around my battered feet and toes. I sighed happily as warmth returned to my body.
“You’ll get chill-blains” chided Alisa.
“I don’t care” I grunted, “I never thought I’d say this, but on balance I prefer fighting in the desert.”
Alisa shook her head and rubbed my hands with hers. Then, despite ourselves, we slept. When I came to, the phone on my lap was bleeping.
“Are you OK?” said Marcus, “where are you?”
“Just outside Netheravon, we’ve found a garage to hide in.”
“Good, the pilot says it’s clear enough to fly. He’ll pick you up and take you to the airfield, there’s one in Netheravon on the east side of the village.” Marcus gave me an RV in Haxton, a neighbouring village.
“One more thing” I said, “it’s important.”
“Go on.”
“When I was drugged by Volk I mentioned a family friend. He’s threatened her and her kids. I want to you to make sure she’s OK. It’s a deal-breaker, Marcus.”
“What’s her name and where does she live?” he said.
I gave him Sam’s name and address. “Marcus, she doesn’t know about …”
Marcus sighed, “I understand. I’ll put some people, watchers, on her address. OK?”
“Thanks,” I said.
He hung up. We washed our hands and faces in melted snow, tidied up as much as we could then left the lock-up. Avoiding the main roads we made our way past a farmhouse where a man wearing a woollen hat busied himself with a tractor. We crept past him.
At the end of the road an old-fashioned Land Rover idled in a haze of grey smoke. The headlights flashed and we got in. The sullen pilot from earlier was behind the steering wheel, eyes hidden by sun glasses. The seats were covered with plastic sheeting. “Forensics,” he shrugged “can’t be too careful. Where’s your mate?”
“He’s dead,” I grunted.
“I’m sorry” said the pilot, face reddening. He reversed the Land Rover, snow-chained rear wheels sliding on the icy road, “there’s a flask of tea in my flight bag, help yourself.”
I rested my head on the seat, rubbing my hands under the car heater, “thanks.”
We drove slowly to Netheravon airfield, the apron dotted with snow-bound light aircraft. They looked like abandoned toys. A man wearing an orange parka was trying to clear snow with a shovel. He gave the pilot a wave. In the distance I heard the sirens of emergency vehicles.
He returned the wave, mumbling under his breath. “This is too risky.”
“We have spent all night being shot at and tortured” snorted Alisa, “that is risky.”
The Augusta sat on the frozen runway. The pilot pulled himself into the cockpit and started the engine. Flipping switches and muttering under his breath. Minutes later we took off, the helicopter powering through the clouds, heading east.
“Where are we going?” I said to the pilot.
“Sussex” he said, “near Chichester. We won’t be long. The weather’s been a bastard, this snow just won’t stop.”
Alisa was already asleep, curled across three seats. Yawning, I stretched out opposite her and crashed out.
The pilot woke me up, his gloved hand shaking my shoulder. “I can’t believe you slept through that landing” he smiled, “it wasn’t the best of my career.”
Through the window I could see that the heli had been put down on the edge of a brilliant white golf course, rotor blades still turning.
The pilot’s voice was urgent “OK, I’ve got to take off again, while I’ve got a chance. You’ll be picked up on the edge of those trees. Your man’s name is Bailey, OK?”
“Sure” I said, trailing a finger over my face to find a piece that wasn’t sore.
“Spasibo,” said Alisa to the pilot. She sported a black eye and bloody nose, hair matted with blood.
We climbed out of the heli, ducking our heads as the rotor blades threw up a vicious white hurricane. As we waded away through the snow the Augusta rose in the air, heading east. We headed for the trees, finding a track marked by boot prints.
“Over here,” said a gruff voice. I looked up and saw a short, swarthy man smoking a roll-up cigarette. He wore a waxed jacket, his heavy tweed trousers tucked into green Wellington boots. A russet-coloured field spaniel sat patiently at his feet. “I’m Bailey, this is Buster.” The spaniel wagged its tail.
“What’s the plan?” I said, Alisa eyeing Bailey suspiciously.
“The plan is that we go back to my place. I’m an Increment, one of Marcus’s regulars. I’m sure you know what that means?”
Increment was MI6 parlance for a part-time, often deniable auxiliary. “Sure,” I said.
Bailey’s dark eyes flashed, “Well, this one is even more off the books than usual, I know that much. Marcus asked me to look after you for a couple of days. He tells me you’ve got a telephone that needs examining too.”
“Yes,” said Alisa, “it’s an HTC Android phone.”
Bailey chuckled and started walking thought the trees, “My love, you might as well be talking Mandarin. I don’t do gadgets. I’m more of a shooting, stealing and hiding things type. I’m also a trained paramedic. Mister Rice will be coming later to have a look at the telephone.”
“Mister Rice?” I said.
“He’s another increment, but a boffin.”
“Is your house far?” said Turov as she limped through the snow.
“Ten miles” smiled Bailey, “but my car is just around the corner. First things first, you two need medical attention, food and sleep. Let’s get that sorted first.”
Bailey’s ageing Toyota Land Cruiser was parked on the other side of the trees. We got in, Buster the spaniel sniffing around us, tail wagging. “He used to be a firearms search dog,” said Bailey knowingly, “you two must have been around guns.”
“Enough questions Mister Bailey” said Alisa, “please.”
“Fair enough” he said amiably, switching on the car stereo. Country and Western music flooded the car as we drove off of the golf course, and into a small village. The house was a neat bungalow at the end of a pot-holed private road. Inside the place was barrack-room tidy and warm, smelling of baking and beeswax.
Bailey put the kettle on as we stood awkwardly in the kitchen. “Right, here’s the score with the safe house. The guest bedrooms are at the back of the building.
Take your pick. Leave all of your clothes in the garden waste sacks on the beds and they’ll be incinerated this afternoon. In the wardrobes you’ll find clean clothes in a variety of sizes, wear those for the time being.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Don’t interrupt” he said, sergeant-major sharp, “I’ll buy you new clothes in Chichester tomorrow, write down your measurements and requirements on the pad near the television. There’s food and drink in the fridge, help yourself. First you shower, the bedrooms are en suite. After that I’ll triage and treat any minor injuries. Then you sleep, you look like corpses. I’ll wake you when Mister Rice arrives.”
I took the offered cup of tea and nodded my thanks, “what then?”
“Marcus will be in touch” he said, “until then, rest. If you want to watch the news you’ll see that your adventures are on every television channel in Europe. So don’t leave the house, for Christ’s sake. And no telephone calls whatsoever unless I say so.”
“Can we trust you?” said Alisa. I followed her eyes to a knife-rack near the hob.
Bailey laughed, his skinny little hand reaching into a drawer. He pulled out a black, well-oiled Browning 9mm pistol, unloaded it, and passed the weapon and magazine to Turov. “Yes, you can trust me. But, let’s be honest, do you have much choice?”
“No, tovarich” she smiled, leaning forward and kissing Bailey on the cheek, “we do not.”
She reloaded the pistol and handed it back to him.
“Thanks,” he said “now bugger off and sort yourselves out.”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
I took a shower, near-scalding water stinging my aching carcass. I looked at the puncture marks in my arm and the stab injury below my ribs, pink water dribbling from the wounds. I turned the temperature up to maximum. Anything to take my mind off of the strange buzzing sensation in my head, mental after-shocks from whatever narcotics Fyodor Volk had pumped into me.
Bailey knocked on the door and handed me a dressing gown. After passing me coffee and sandwiches he gently treated the cuts and bruises that covered my face, neck, arms and torso. “Right, that’s you done. Get some sleep” he said curtly, picking up his medical kit and heading for Alisa’s room.
The Ninth Circle Page 24