The doughy guy, Jurgen, peered at the case warily. ‘Is that . . . ?’
‘Exactly what I said it was,’ Marc said firmly, then his tone shifted. ‘I’m sorry I got you into the shit, man. But I hope you can see why . . .’
Jurgen snatched a radiation counter from one of the suited figures and trained it on the case. His eyes widened. ‘I really hoped you were wrong.’
Marc looked back at de Wit. ‘Now the way I see it, you’ve got two choices. Take this fucking thing and dismantle it and make sure it never troubles the world again, or let the Russians walk away with it. Your call.’
Lucy looked across at Simonova, who stood in a tight cluster with her men, all of them still holding their weapons. The Italians outnumbered them two to one, but she couldn’t be certain if the GRU operative was willing to commit to another firefight.
‘That item is the property of my government,’ Simonova announced, carefully producing an identity card. ‘My men and I have diplomatic immunity in this country. We are leaving with it and you will not interfere.’
De Wit glanced at Marc and then at the Russians. Jurgen spoke quietly to him and he nodded. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, at length. ‘Your status is acknowledged, and you are free to go, although I imagine there will be repercussions . . .’ De Wit directed the HAZMAT team with a wave of the hand. ‘However, that device falls under the jurisdiction of the United Nations Division of Nuclear Security. Please feel free to report to your government on your return to Moscow that my department will complete the disassembly and disposal of the unit. I’m sure that the Russian Federation’s failure to do so, despite signing a treaty to that effect several years ago was just . . . an oversight?’
Lucy gave a pained grin. ‘Hey, I like this guy.’
‘That is how you wish to conclude this?’ Simonova studied de Wit, and then turned her icy glare on Lucy. ‘Very well. Watch your back, Keyes. You and the African.’ She holstered her weapon and her men followed suit. The Italians reluctantly parted to allow them to board the van and the VW roared away, disappearing past the cordon.
Paramedics arrived to give the two of them a look-over, and Lucy submitted to having her ribs taped up and her wounds cleaned and bandaged. Across from her, Marc sat staring into space as another medic did the same for him.
‘So now we’ve pissed off the GRU,’ he said quietly. ‘We should start a record of all the three-letter agencies who have us on their shit-list . . .’
‘Be happy,’ Lucy told him. ‘No-one else died, so that’s a win.’
Nearby, de Wit was barking orders into a mobile phone and shot a look up into the sky.
‘He’s calling in a helicopter to take the device to a secure location,’ said Jurgen. ‘Can I take it that it was you who asked them to bring me down here?’
Marc nodded. ‘De Wit can’t deny it if you back up what he’s seeing. And hopefully this’ll go some way to getting you off suspension.’
The other man gave a wan nod. ‘Yes. Thank you so much for making sure I am in close proximity to a nuclear bomb.’
‘Sorry,’ Marc repeated, and Lucy knew he meant it. If they hadn’t been able to find the device in time, Dane’s friend would have perished along with everyone else in the city, and that had clearly weighed heavily on him. ‘Again. About everything.’
De Wit finished his call and approached, giving the paramedics a look that told them to get lost. ‘You two will need to come with us.’
‘Let me guess, for a debriefing?’ Marc broke in. ‘That’s the second time I’ve been told that today and I’m still not interested.’ He started walking away toward the edge of the piazza, and Lucy walked with him.
De Wit was on their heels. ‘Perhaps you don’t understand,’ he insisted. ‘That wasn’t a request!’
‘Who called you in here today?’ Marc shot back. ‘You’d know nothing about this if I hadn’t kept Rubicon in the loop.’
Lucy raised an eyebrow. ‘How’s that?’
He glanced at her. ‘Remember I said I sent a message to Solomon’s digital dead drop? Well, that message pretty much said, Contact the NSNS, get those dicks to come to Naples, make sure Jurgen Goss is with them. I counted on Solomon following through on that.’
‘He always does,’ Lucy noted.
A scowl creased de Wit’s face. ‘The Rubicon Group provided some intelligence to us, that is true. They have assisted the division in the past . . .’
Marc pulled out the damaged sat phone and tossed it to Jurgen, who caught it awkwardly. ‘Before we went underground, I sent another message. Piazza Dante, right now.’ He pointed at the phone. ‘You’re going to want to get Goss there to give that the full soak. Probably a lot of good intel on it, and he’s the only person you have who is smart enough to do it.’
They approached an open-fronted tourist café that had been emptied during the police’s evacuation of the area. ‘Got any money?’ Marc demanded.
De Wit’s frown deepened, but he handed Marc his wallet. Lucy watched him pluck out a few euro notes and give it back. ‘What are you doing?’ she said.
‘I dunno about you . . .’ Marc reached behind the café’s counter and helped himself to a couple of cans of San Pellegrino soda, glasses and ice, leaving the cash by the register. ‘But I am dry as a bone.’
He sat heavily in a chair and poured the drinks. Lucy joined him, wincing at the tight pull of the bandages.
‘Just give us a minute, yeah?’ Marc told de Wit. ‘We need a breather.’ The man muttered something unpleasant in Dutch beneath his breath, and stalked away toward one of the police cars.
‘He’s not happy,’ noted Jurgen.
‘Is he ever?’
Jurgen gave a brief smile and gestured with the phone before he set off after the other man.
The pain in Lucy’s ribs was dulled but steady, but still in that moment the orange soda tasted like nectar and she briefly forgot about her aches. ‘Are we done?’ She ventured the question, afraid that the answer might not be what she wanted it to be. ‘Are we actually done with all this?’
The conversation halted briefly as a police Jet Ranger swept in low over the boarding school that backed onto the square and made a quick landing. Lucy saw the HAZMAT team clamber aboard the helicopter with the Exile device sealed inside a heavy bomb-disposal container, and then it took off again, on a speed course toward the nearest military base.
‘Let’s say yes,’ said Marc. ‘I am finished.’
‘Are you?’ A familiar figure in a red leather jacket approached them, toying with a matte black smartphone in one hand. Kara Wei pulled a pair of Ray-Bans down her nose to look over the gold frames at the two of them. ‘Wow. You kids look like you’ve had fun, huh?’
‘Hey, girl.’ Lucy offered her fellow Rubicon operative a fist-bump, which Kara returned. ‘I was wondering where you were. I figured if Marc called, you’d be here.’
‘Malte is around too,’ she explained. Kara placed the phone on the table and tapped it. ‘Go ahead, sir.’
A rich, stentorian voice issued out of the smartphone. ‘Lucy. Mr Dane. You are safe . . .’ There was a note of genuine concern in Ekko Solomon’s voice. ‘When you went off the grid in Mogadishu, we feared the worst. I am pleased you were able to make contact again. Has the situation been contained?’
‘Done,’ Lucy explained. ‘All threats neutralised.’
‘Good. Kara will take you to the extraction.’
‘When you’ve finished your drinks, that is,’ Kara added, cocking her head. ‘But that is only an option for Rubicon employees. And technically, Dane, you were just part of this operation as a . . . consultant, am I right?’
Lucy offered a smile. ‘She has a point.’
Marc downed the rest of his drink and stood up, crunching a piece of ice between his teeth. ‘That’s true.’ He shrugged off his battered, water-stained jacket, and looked around. He seemed to be weighing his options, looking for a way out.
Did I mi
sread him? Lucy wondered. Was I wrong to think he wanted to be part of this?
Not everybody was wired to do what Solomon’s people did. She could tell Dane liked the rush of adrenaline, and she was sure he wanted to be somewhere where his actions made a difference. But seeing the sharp end of it like this, being a breath away from making the wrong choice and risking innocent lives . . . Not everyone had the heart for that. I wouldn’t blame him if he walked.
Marc picked up the smartphone and studied it. ‘Mr Solomon. You remember what you said to me a year ago, back in London?’
‘I believe I offered you a job –’
He spoke over him. ‘I’ll take it.’ Marc hit the END CALL button and cut off any reply, then wandered away, tapping at the phone’s screen.
Kara and Lucy exchanged glances. ‘Did he just –?’
‘I think he did.’
‘– hang up on the boss?’
Lucy rose to follow him. ‘Marc, where are you going?’
He waved her off. ‘I’ve got to call someone. It’s important, yeah?’
She accepted that with a nod and he kept walking. Lucy heard the ringing of another phone, then a faint click and a woman’s voice.
‘Hey, Kate,’ Marc began, and there was something lonely in his voice Lucy had not heard before. ‘I was hoping we could talk.’
TWENTY-SIX
The traffic on Moskvoretskaya Embankment was bumper to bumper, moving in sluggish fits and starts through the slushy snow rolling down from the low cloud above. A frigid polar wind off the river came up and spattered the thick, wet flakes along the flank of the black limousine crawling slowly in the direction of the Bolshoy Moskvoretsky Bridge and Red Square beyond it. Outside, temperatures were dropping as the evening approached, but inside the darkened cabin of the limo it was warm and comfortable amid the soft leather upholstery and glassy accessories.
The man in the back seat brushed a speck of lint off the front of his suit jacket and prepared himself a generous glass of Stolichnaya Elit, swirling the vodka in a thick-based tumbler before taking a mouthful. He glanced out of the window as they crawled past the grand edifice of Moscow’s Imperial Orphanage, contemplating his next move.
The digital tablet on the seat next to him chirped, and he frowned, picking it up. As the device automatically scanned his fingerprints, he spoke his name into a pinhole microphone to complete the security protocol. ‘Pytor Glovkonin.’
The screen blinked and presently an elegantly dressed woman appeared on the display. ‘Good evening,’ she began. Her aristocratic French accent was soft and always alluring, but the frown on her face marred her usual beauty.
‘Celeste.’ Glovkonin saluted her with the glass. ‘An unscheduled contact? It is always a pleasure to hear from you, but . . . should I be concerned?’
‘The operation centred on the Exile device has been concluded,’ she explained.
‘Your tone tells me that it did not go our way.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘The committee wanted me to inform you. Despite our best attempts, the second phase of the project was a failure. It appears that the device was deployed in Naples by the criminal who stole it, but circumstances led to its capture by investigators from the United Nations.’
‘Distressing,’ he offered. ‘After so much preparation.’ He kept his tone even, despite the annoyance that simmered beneath his calm exterior. His personal investment in the operation had been extensive, in part as a plan to regain some of the costs incurred by the failure of the Washington project a year earlier.
Glovkonin was already well aware of the events in Naples, thanks to his contacts in the GRU, just as he had recently learned that the threat of a nuclear device being deployed in Moscow had been a bluff. But he saw no reason to reveal that. The Combine’s governing committee did not see fit to bring him fully into the fold, so he saw no reason to give them more than he needed to.
It continued to frustrate him. Glovkonin was one of the richest men in Russia, and he was not accustomed to the idea that there were certain things he could not have. His association with the Combine had added considerably to his personal fortune, but he wanted more. He wanted to be part of the inner circle, to know the names and faces of the committee’s members.
They showed no interest in making that happen, however. The clandestine network operated on a cellular structure, making sure that no member knew more than the identity of one or two others. Celeste was Glovkonin’s contact, but he wanted dearly to know who ran her, who she answered to. Patience, he chided himself. That will come soon enough.
‘At least we can take heart that Fedorin’s removal was expedited correctly.’
Celeste nodded. ‘That met our expectations, oui. The committee commended your assistance with that phase of the project. The general’s replacement is much more aligned with our group’s needs. That will prove useful in the future.’
‘I was happy to help.’ He took another sip of vodka. ‘How will the disruption of the operation affect us, moving forward?’
She eyed Glovkonin, as if unwilling to share a confidence with him, but then relented. ‘Key agents have been lost. A facilitator in Italy was assassinated. One of our field operatives was badly injured extracting from the situation in Somalia . . . But the device, yes . . .’
‘There were plans for it,’ he prompted.
Celeste nodded again. ‘Indeed. It sets back one of our projects a year, perhaps more. Other options will need to be explored instead.’
‘However I can help . . . ?’
‘Noted.’ The limo jerked and started moving smoothly again as at last it pulled free of the traffic bottleneck. ‘I should make you aware of one other thing. During the operation, an outside factor became involved. One that played a large role in the failure. A group you may be familiar with.’
He knew what she was going to say. ‘Rubicon. I will be honest with you, Celeste – ever since Ekko Solomon’s people interfered with the Washington operation, I have been agitating to prepare a project on him. We need to assemble an option to neutralise.’
‘Agreed,’ she replied. ‘Be aware that your suggestion has been taken under advisement.’
He saw his opportunity and seized it. ‘I would be happy to lead that initiative –’
Celeste showed a patient smile. ‘We will keep that in mind. Au revoir, Pytor.’ The screen went blank.
A low, lion’s-growl chuckle sounded from across the limo’s cabin. The other occupant of the vehicle shifted and became briefly illuminated by the glow of a passing street light. He was handsome and steely, but there was a darker streak of cruelty that glittered in his eyes. ‘How you must hate to be at their beck and call.’
Glovkonin smothered an angry retort with a wan smile. ‘One does what one must to survive and prosper, Khadir. You of all people should know that.’
‘Why am I here?’ said the other man. He nodded at the inert tablet. ‘To witness that exchange? Your Combine mean nothing to me.’
‘It is not my Combine,’ Glovkonin replied. ‘Not yet. That is going to change.’
Khadir’s lip curled. ‘Much was promised and still our attack on America failed. I listen now and I hear of more failure. Why should I care?’
‘Who has helped you survive, Khadir? Over the last year, who is it that has kept you alive while the United States is hunting down and executing your brethren in Al Sayf?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘We have a future together, you and I.’
‘We are not allies,’ spat the other man.
‘There is no such thing,’ agreed Glovkonin. ‘Only men whose interests align for a time.’ He toyed with the glass in his hand. ‘My interest is to be the hand that guides the Combine. Yours is to watch the world burn.’ That got him a harsh look from the terrorist, but he pressed on. ‘We can both have what we want. If we align.’
Khadir looked away, out across the river, and was silent for a long moment. ‘Who do you want killed?’
‘I have
a few suggestions.’ Glovkonin glanced at the tablet. ‘It may take a while to put things into place . . . But the woman will have to go. And there are others. The African.’
‘Solomon?’ Khadir glanced back, a flicker of interest in his eyes.
Glovkonin smiled. ‘I see I have your attention.’
Acknowledgements
First, a thank you to everyone at United Agents and Bonnier Zaffre, who took me on and gave me the chance to tell these stories: Robert Kirby, Kate Walsh, Joanne Hornsby, Margaret Halton, Jonathan Lyons, Mark Smith, Joel Richardson, Kate Parkin, James Horobin, Emily Burns and the rest of the team – your hard work and confidence in me is eternally appreciated.
This novel is a work of fiction and while I tend to err on the side of drama, as much as I can I’ve tried to maintain a sense of authenticity. With that in mind, my appreciation goes to John Boyle, James M. Bridger, Rosie Garthwaite, Adam Goldman, Johann Hari, Ross Kemp, Tom Kington, Justin Marozzi, Jonathan Medalia, Sgt Dan Mills, Martin Roach, Jeremy Scahill, P. W. Singer, Richard Wheeler, Richard Whittle and the International Atomic Energy Agency for the various articles, papers and books which were of great use in my research for this novel.
I must also thank the friends, colleagues and family who have been greatly supportive of my writing over the past year, as I introduced Marc Dane to the world.
And last but always first and most, all my love to my parents and my better half, Mandy.
About the Author
James Swallow is an veteran author and scriptwriter with over fifteen years of experience in fiction, television, radio, journalism, new media and video games.
He is a three-time New York Times bestselling author of over 40 novels with over 750,000 books currently in print, in nine different worldwide territories.
He was nominated by the British Academy of Film and Television Arts (BAFTA) for his writing on the critically acclaimed DEUS EX: HUMAN REVOLUTION, 2013’s blockbuster videogame with over 2.18 million copies sold.
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