Operative 66 : A Novel

by McDermott, Andy

  It didn’t matter. His backup plan was still in effect.

  The rest of his plan needed to adapt. Armed police would be on the way. He had tried to assassinate an MP within a mile of Parliament. Even though he had failed, they would be out for blood. He had to escape before he was killed.

  Luckily, he had a route.

  The lobby joined with corridors running the length of the King’s Building. He ran down the one leading south. Curtis had gone north. He would have pursued, but time was now critical. He had to reach his egress point before the police arrived. If he was spotted, his chances of escaping were almost zero.

  Fleeing people filled the hallway. He fired a shot at the ceiling. ‘Move!’ More screams, and they flattened themselves against the walls. He charged past. Another exit to the courtyard was ahead. But he wasn’t going outside – not yet. Instead he reached a staircase and raced upwards.

  CHAPTER 57

  Reeve painfully stood. The lobby was now largely clear. Stragglers still crowded the exits, desperate to escape.

  The Iranian aide lay dead before him. Reeve looked towards the hallways. Curtis and the ambassador had fled north. Parker had run the other way. Why hadn’t he followed to finish the job?

  Because he had failed – and was now trying to escape. If he had assassinated Curtis, he would have voluntarily surrendered. All for a moment before the cameras to expose SC9. But the cameras were gone. His message would never be heard. So he was running.

  Reeve ran after him. Frightened people hunched against the walls. ‘Where did he go?’ he shouted.

  ‘He went upstairs!’ someone replied. The stairs were not far ahead. Reeve halted to check, wary of an ambush. But Parker was not in sight. He ascended, two steps at a time.

  A shadow swept across a wall above. Parker. He was almost at the top floor. Reeve kept climbing—

  The faint echo of Parker’s footsteps abruptly stopped. Reeve looked up – and saw the Operative leaning over the railing, gun in hand. He threw himself against the wall as a bullet chiselled a chunk from the polished concrete. Parker swore, then a door banged above.

  Reeve ran again. The fifth floor was the top. He paused at a fire door, taking cover against the wall before shoving it open. No gunfire. He rushed through. Parker was not in sight. Where had he gone?

  A crash of glass. Reeve whirled to find the source. Another door. He kicked it open. An office, tall windows overlooking the courtyard. All were intact. He turned. Another window on the side wall. It was broken. He darted to it and cautiously looked out.

  The window overlooked a rooftop. The Thames was visible beyond, the lights of the South Bank shimmering through the rain. A dark figure clumsily navigated the sloping tiles. Reeve leaned out for a better look. Where was Parker going? He couldn’t jump down from this height—

  He saw the other man’s plan. An extension linked King’s House to the neighbouring, palatial Somerset House. From there, Parker could reach the rooftops along the Strand. The scaffolding would let him reach street level and disappear into the crowds.

  Reeve climbed out after him. Parker reached the corner, vaulting on to the next roof – then looked back. He saw his pursuer. Reeve ducked, but the expected shot didn’t come. Parker’s footing wasn’t secure enough for him to aim accurately. Instead he ran along the roof’s crown.

  Reeve scurried in pursuit. The tiles were wet, his soles barely finding grip. Parker was twenty metres ahead. He leapt across to the extension’s roof. Numerous chimney stacks rose beyond where it met Somerset House. The Operative veered away from them, wanting an unobstructed run.

  However, Reeve angled towards them. He had seen something Parker hadn’t. The rooftop between the two ranks of tall stacks was flat. He could move much faster along it – and catch up. He hurdled an air-conditioning duct and landed on the level surface.

  Reeve kept running. Chimneys flicked past. He vaulted another section of ducting. Ahead, a structure blocked his path. A large dome, green copper shimmering wetly in the floodlights below. He would have to go back on to the sloping roof to get around it—

  Parker had realised the danger and stopped. His head turned, searching the shadows.

  Spotting movement—

  The gun barked. A bullet smacked into brickwork just behind Reeve. He slithered to a halt against a chimney. Another shot whipped ahead of him. If he had kept running, he would have been hit.

  Scrabbling sounds over the slates. Parker was coming. He couldn’t run without exposing himself to fire. Which side would the Operative come from: left or right?

  He readied himself—

  Left arm extended for balance, Parker advanced. Reeve was behind the chimney stack ahead. The lights of London, reflecting from the low clouds, provided plenty of illumination. Whichever way Reeve tried to break, he would be visible.

  But would he come from the left side, or the right? Forwards or backwards? Forwards. Reeve wasn’t the kind of man to retreat. How he had found him, Parker had no idea. But it didn’t matter. In a few seconds, he would be dead.

  Gun raised, he rounded the chimney—

  Reeve wasn’t there.

  Impossible—

  Left or right? Reeve rejected both choices, remembering Simiane-la-Rotonde. He picked a third: up. He scaled the chimney stack. The low clunk of footsteps on slate came closer. Reeve glimpsed Parker approaching the obstacle, rounding it—

  He launched himself at the other man.

  Bodies collided. Prepared for the impact, Reeve came off better. His elbow smashed against Parker’s temple. The Operative fell backwards with a cry. Reeve landed on top of him. A clatter of metal from the shadows as he dropped his gun.

  Reeve pushed himself up, balling his right fist for a punch—

  Parker’s own fist swung – and hit his bullet wound.

  It was Reeve’s turn to yell in pain. His arm gave way. Parker pushed and rolled out from under him. His foot lashed at Reeve’s groin. Reeve twisted just in time. The blow landed hard on his hip.

  Parker forced himself upright. He turned to find the gun. No sign of it. He darted to the next pair of chimney stacks. It was not behind them either. An angry glance back at Reeve, then he ran.

  Reeve rolled over – and saw the gun underneath some air-con ductwork. He snatched it out and leapt up.

  Parker neared the base of the dome. A copper-sheathed section of roof angled upwards ahead. Reeve ran in pursuit. London spread out before him. The other man was almost at the metal roof. An access ladder led to a balcony below it. But the Operative was going up and over, following the most direct route—

  ‘Stop!’ Reeve yelled – as he fired.

  The bullet struck the copper sheeting ahead of Parker. Reeve’s aim was off; he’d meant to clip his arm.

  But it had the desired effect. Parker stopped sharply. Caught on the slope, he was completely exposed. The dome’s base was a featureless, curving wall providing no cover. He raised his hands and slowly faced his pursuer.

  Reeve advanced, the gun fixed upon him. He crossed the catwalk leading to the access ladder and started up the copper slope. Parker remained still, but Reeve knew he had not surrendered.

  They measured each other up. Reeve broke the tense silence. ‘Why did you frame me?’

  Parker cracked a thin smile. ‘It wasn’t personal. We had similar backgrounds, similar attitudes. So when I hacked SC9’s files and pinned my actions on to you, they fitted.’

  An open confession. Both men knew how the situation would end: with one of them dead. ‘There’s one big difference between us,’ said Reeve. ‘I’m not a Russian spy.’

  ‘You figured it out? I’m genuinely impressed.’ The compliment still sounded mocking. ‘The rest of SC9 didn’t. But then, they’d put all their effort into chasing the wrong guy.’

  ‘Why did you turn traitor?’

  ‘The
same reasons you would have, if you’d opened your eyes.’ All humour was abruptly gone, his Liverpudlian accent returning at full force. ‘Britain’s a fucking disgrace! If you’re not born into the right class, then that’s it – you’re fucked, you’re scum. You’re just there to be exploited by posh bastards. Your life means nothing to them if they can make more money.’ There was genuine anger in his voice, a passion Reeve had never heard from him. ‘My mum died on a trolley in a hospital corridor. There weren’t enough beds or enough doctors. Why? Because of cuts so some rich cunts could pay less tax!’

  ‘And you wanted revenge by assassinating a politician who’s opposed to all that?’

  ‘I was ordered to kill her, Alex. She’s a threat to the establishment. They want her dead. I was going to do their dirty work – and then expose them for it. I’m going to show the world how corrupt this country is.’ Even with the gun on him, Parker couldn’t help gesticulating in anger. ‘The more I learned about it, the worse it got. We’re as bad as any fucking banana republic. No, we’re worse: we just have better PR! Cool Britannia, didn’t we put on a good Olympics show? But it’s all just a front! We’re arms dealers, warmongers, fucking robber barons. The British Empire never ended, it just went corporate. And all the money they steal goes to the same people – at the top!’

  ‘And Russia’s any better?’ Reeve shot back.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck about Russia. Yeah, they recruited me, helped me become a prime candidate to join SC9. As they said, “You want to bring down the British establishment? The walls are too thick to break from outside – we’ve tried. But if you plant a bomb inside . . .”’ He mimed an explosion. ‘They gave me the hacking tools. But I would have taken the same from fucking Botswana if they’d offered. This is about revenge, Alex. I want those posh bastards to pay for what happened to my mum and dad!’

  ‘And what did happen to them? Your mum died in hospital – what about your dad?’ Reeve felt a growing unease. Parker had been desperate to escape. Why was he now willing to stand there venting long-concealed rage?

  ‘My dad died in prison. He beat the shit out of our landlord. The bastard evicted us so he could turn our home into flats. Dad was trying to protect his family and keep a roof over our heads! But the establishment couldn’t let that stand, could they? So all these posh bastards in wigs and gowns spouting fucking Latin stitched him up. The newspapers joined in too. Some photographer got a picture of Dad telling him to fuck off. So that was on the front pages. Look at this working-class thug – he’s angry! He’s a killer!’

  ‘Your dad killed this guy?’

  ‘It was an accident! He hit his head when he fell – he didn’t die until days later. But no, that got turned into fucking murder.’ Parker’s fists clenched in fury. ‘They found him guilty, he was sent down for life. Six months in, he was stabbed in a fight. He died, and they didn’t even fucking tell me! I got pulled out of class on the Monday. “Bad news, sorry, your father died in prison at the weekend.” That was all they fucking said. I was left with nobody. Nobody.’

  ‘So you wanted revenge on the system.’

  An unnerving smile. ‘Yeah. I didn’t realise it at first. I joined the army because I was angry. I wanted to kill people. But even there, it was always posh bastards telling me what to do. Fucking Ruperts everywhere. You know the type.’ Reeve did; a ‘Rupert’ was squaddie slang for a public school-educated officer. ‘I don’t know how the Russians found me, but they did. A guy called Morozov gave me some . . . career advice. I took it. Pushed myself hard, got into the SAS. Did the right things, and eventually got the tap. I’d made myself look perfect for SC9. And now . . .’ The smile widened, wolf-like. ‘Everything’s paid off.’

  Reeve’s disquiet increased. Parker now sounded almost victorious. Maintaining his distance, Reeve angled up the slope to stand level with him. ‘It hasn’t, though. I stopped you.’

  Parker laughed. ‘You stopped me from killing Elektra Curtis – but I still won. Or I will do, in . . .’ He turned his left wrist to view his watch. ‘Just over two minutes.’

  Reeve took a step closer. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I stole a load of files from SC9’s servers when I hacked them. The real hack, not the one I botched to set you up. I was in their system months ago. Found all the juicy details of SC9’s greatest hits, at home and abroad. Some famous names in there! I sent them out in a password-protected file.’

  ‘To who?’

  ‘To everyone. The papers, TV, internet news. All over the world. So the government can’t just slap a DSMA-Notice on the media to suppress it. I was going to announce the password to the cameras after assassinating Curtis. You messed that up. But it doesn’t matter. If anything went wrong, another email with the password gets sent automatically on a timer.’ He lowered his hands, palms upturned, challenging. ‘I’m not going to stop it. And you sure as fuck won’t be able to make me.’

  Reeve frowned. ‘You think?’

  A disdainful snort. ‘SAS versus SRR? Proper soldier versus glorified boy scout? Who’s going to win?’

  ‘SC9,’ Reeve countered. ‘Because that’s who we both are. Who we both were.’ He realised he had one chance to stop Parker’s plan. Another step closer. ‘Take out your phone.’

  ‘Why?’ But he knew Parker already suspected the reason.

  ‘Just do it, or I will shoot you.’

  Parker reluctantly produced his phone. ‘Unlock it,’ Reeve ordered. Parker looked down, tapping slowly at it with his thumb. The first two digits were zero and two. ‘Use the facial recognition.’

  ‘I haven’t set it up.’

  ‘Then why are you keeping it away from your face? Look at the fucking screen!’

  Parker hesitated – then whipped his arm back, about to throw the phone—

  Reeve shot him.

  Parker lurched back against the dome’s base. But his arm had already started its forward movement. The phone flew from his hand.

  Reeve lunged for it – but missed. It spun past him. He whirled, seeing it arc towards the roof’s edge—

  Parker’s throw fell short. It hit the copper sheeting just short of the brink . . .

  And skittered over it.

  CHAPTER 58

  An involuntary cry of ‘No!’ burst from Reeve’s mouth. He ran to the edge. A clack from below. A balcony ran across the building five metres beneath him. A small rectangle of light shone from the wet shadows. The phone had survived.

  How well, he didn’t know. But he had to find out. Parker’s timer was still ticking down.

  A glance back. Parker had collapsed against the wall, clutching his bloodied abdomen. Reeve scurried down the slope to the ladder. It led to the top of the building’s façade. From there, more steps descended to the balcony proper.

  He took them. The phone had gone dark. Where was it? Everything was wet, reflective . . .

  There. A faint sheen on a curved corner. He hurried over and retrieved the phone. The screen lit up as he raised it. Several cracks lanced crookedly down it. The glass was damaged; what about the sensors beneath?

  No warnings that the cameras were broken or obscured. The facial recognition might still work. He just needed the right face. Reeve turned and ran back up the stairs—

  Parker hurled himself down them.

  The two men collided again. This time Parker came off better despite his wound. The impact hurled Reeve backwards. He landed hard on top of the balustrade . . .

  And rolled over it.

  Gun and phone clattered to the balcony’s floor as he clutched desperately at the stone. Primal terror as he fell – then his left hand caught the stonework’s edge.

  He jerked to a stop. His shoulder crackled, agonising spikes driving through bone. The bullet wound seared as if oozing with lava. Torn muscle strained, stitches snapping . . .

  He swung his right hand up – and clapped i
t against the balustrade.

  Reeve dragged himself higher. His toes scraped the wall below, searching for purchase. Finding none. His entire weight was being taken on his hands. Mostly his right; his left arm was weakening, quivering in agony. He swung a leg higher. If he found a foothold, he could lever himself back on to the balcony. The muscles in his right arm started to burn—

  His sole pressed against solid stone.

  He forced himself upwards, reaching across the balustrade’s top—

  Parker rose beyond it.

  One of the Operative’s hands still clutched his bleeding wound. The other held the gun. Both men’s eyes locked.

  A sadistic smile – then Parker pounded the gun down on Reeve’s hand.

  Bone cracked. Reeve yelled. Raw instinct jerked his hand back. His mind and training regained control – but too late. The movement had unbalanced him. His foot slipped – and he fell.

  Another jolt of pure fear—

  His left hand still had grip. It caught him again. The survival urge overcame pain and fatigue and injury. His fingers closed vice-tight on the balustrade’s edge.

  But he was now dangling twenty metres above the ground. His reserves of strength would only last for moments.

  And Parker would not even let them hold out that long.

  Reeve could see the other man through the balustrade’s carved pillars. He sidestepped to stand in front of him. Reeve tensed, waiting for the gun to smash his fingers—

  Movement. Beyond Parker, back the way he had come. Someone was on the rooftop.

  Connie.

  A new fear filled Reeve. The moment Parker killed him, he would turn on her. It didn’t matter who she was. She was a witness – a complication.

  And Operatives were trained to eliminate complications.

  ‘Connie!’ he yelled. ‘Run!’

  Parker hesitated, surprised. Then he let out a brief laugh. ‘The “look behind you” trick, Alex? I expected bet—’

  ‘Alex!’

  Reeve’s heart plunged. Connie hadn’t heard him, or hadn’t understood—