by Mark Leggatt
Montrose fixed his eyes on Linden and took another drink. He let an ice cube drop onto his tongue, rolled it around his mouth then spat it back in the glass. “Just what do you mean by that?”
Linden walked to the window, looking out over the river as he talked. “I know very little of your history, Mr. Montrose, but I know who you are. What I don’t know is why you were in that village today. I am assuming that you were aware of the impending attack, and that you tried to stop it.”
“You got that right. Forget the CIA for a moment. I’ve got a question for you.”
Linden rattled the ice in his glass. “Fire away, old boy.”
“In the village, you saw me shoot the first guy, right?”
“From my vantage point, I saw him shot. Then when you appeared in somewhat of a hurry, I assumed it was you.”
“Then how did you know I wasn’t CIA? Or the second terrorist?”
Linden waved a hand in the air. “Elementary, my dear Montrose. I had a photograph of the two men that the CIA were following. And you are clearly not one of them. And since you were about to jump in the river dressed as Robin, Earl of Locksley, to flee the scene, I assumed you were not CIA either.”
“So, what were you doing there?”
“Well, you may have been following those two men, but I was following the CIA. I was very interested to see why they had allocated a significant amount of resource at short notice to tracking two men. And I’m not stupid enough to drive behind a rather large CIA convoy up a dead-end road to the top of a mountain. I drove around to the north to see what was going on. When I heard the gunfire, I thought the CIA had arrived early to give a touch of the old ‘shock and awe’. But it wasn’t the CIA, was it? It was you. I checked my tracker and the CIA hadn’t arrived yet. And I knew they would be loaded up to the gunwales with automatic weapons. Much like the general population of the United States, to be fair, but I digress. All I saw was one of the two men with a machine pistol and heard someone taking pot-shots with a handgun. Not the full-on gunfight at the OK Corral I was expecting. Then you come rattling down the hill. Which brought me to a question. Why would you be running? Surely the CIA would have been delighted with your brave, if somewhat fruitless efforts?”
Montrose shook his head. “That’s my business.”
“I’m sure, and I don’t expect you to tell me, but if it makes you feel better then get it off your chest. I’m all ears. I’m sure it’ll do you the power of good.”
Montrose grinned. “Not gonna happen.”
“I understand. I have no idea what agency you are with, though if you dropped those two bastards in the village, then you’re alright by me.” He raised his empty glass.
“Sure. So why were you following the CIA?”
“Well, we knew they were up to something and they had cut us out the loop. We don’t like it when that happens. And when it does, we know they’re up to no good. And a question for you, Mr. Montrose. I assume you also followed those two men to the top of the mountain. Did you know what they intended?”
Montrose shook his head. “I had no idea. And neither did the CIA.”
Linden looked out towards the river. “You think so?”
“What?”
Linden let out a bitter laugh. “Perhaps my cynicism is surprising, but given the history of the CIA, it really shouldn’t be.”
Montrose said nothing.
“And in the absence of a convincing rebuttal from your good self, I’m sure you understand exactly what I’m saying.”
“Hey, listen fella…”
“Let me be absolutely clear. I believe we want the same thing. To find out who is responsible for that murderous atrocity in the valley and stop them. Including anyone who is assisting them. And I mean anyone. That includes the CIA.” He placed his glass down on a table. “This is not a safe house, Mr. Montrose. It is not known to MI6 and therefore not known to the CIA. This is my personal bolthole. I’m working off the grid on this. Contact with London is at a minimum. We have too many CIA moles in MI6 and whatever Langley are up to, they are keeping their cards close to their chest. MI6 need to know what is going on and not through secondhand reports from Langley. We have our own informant. They told us an attack was imminent and that the CIA would stop it. That’s all. But the CIA didn’t stop it, did they? My job is to find out…” He waved a hand in the air, “Why didn’t they stop the attack?”
“What the hell are you talking about? We just lost a plane!”
“I’m sure you can work it out for yourself, Mr. Montrose, you’re not stupid.”
“Listen, you are way off the mark on…”
Linden fastened a button on his suit and straightened his tie. “I have to go. As I mentioned, this is not a jail. There is a spare key in the table by the door. If I’m going to find out the truth, I’m going to need all the help I can get. But if I feel that my trust is unfounded, then I will disappear faster than snow in the Sahara.” He walked over to a desk by the window and pulled open a drawer, then held up a cell phone. “This has my number on it. It has never been used. If you need me or you want to share information, then call me. Right now, I have to make some form of report back to London. I will not be mentioning the fact that I’ve made your acquaintance.” He turned towards the door. “I don’t expect you to be here when I get back, but I really think we should keep in touch.” He stood in the open doorway. “We can help each other, Mr. Montrose.” He closed the door behind him.
Montrose lifted the cell phone and switched it on. The ice in his glass chinked as he thumped it down on the table then strode over to the door. Only one number had come up in the address book. He switched the phone off then took the spare key from the table and pulled the door open. The corridor was empty.
He locked the door behind him and ran to the end of the corridor then turned down a polished staircase. He emerged into the lobby where the concierge stood up. Montrose held up a hand. “Buongiorno, fella.” He ignored the stream of questions targeted at him and headed for the street.
Shielding his eyes from the sun he backed against the wall, away from the stream of pedestrians, and checked the street. He took out the cell phone, switched it on and checked the single number in the address book, repeating it to himself several times, then headed down the street. To the right he passed an arcade of shops with an exit onto the street at the far end, bordering the river. He stopped and doubled back, then weaved through the shoppers milling around. Aromas of cheese and cured ham surrounded him. An old woman stepped in front of him, dragging a tattered shopping bag on wheels. He brushed past her and palmed the cell phone into her shopping bag, then headed for the sunlight.
He turned right and stood behind a newsstand, watching for any tails to leave the arcade. He glanced to his right and saw the Ponte Vecchio and the three wide arches stretched across the River Arno, below the haphazard jumble of three levels of medieval apartments built across the bridge. At the end, he spotted the tower.
Mr. Pilgrim would be waiting.
Chapter 5
The members of the board sat around the wide table, some perfectly still, others tapping ornate pens on old-fashioned paper blotters. A technician disconnected the monitoring equipment and bundled it on to a trolley.
The Director stood at the window, gazing across the forest canopy, his eyes fixed on the spires of Dresden. He knew they would all be looking at him. Waiting for his words.
He thought of the small workshop on the edge of the city, below street level, where his mother, an itinerant Dutch worker who had survived the bombings had met his father, a visiting US Army liaison officer. While the Director was still in her womb, his father had found a way to repatriate her to the Netherlands, then back to the US. He had grown up in the countryside around Harvard, but he never failed to be amused and fascinated by his place of conception. His love for history had led him to uncover the hidden horrors of th
e forests bordering Dresden, and when his internet business had expanded and required an international base away from the prying eyes of US regulations, he could think of no better place. The retreating communists of East Germany had left a vacuum of land ownership and disputed titles, but money talked, and he built his nondescript headquarters on the remnants of a Soviet Army transport base, and leased the land to his own foreign registered haulage firms, hidden behind a web of shell companies. Then, he could hide in plain sight.
The technician left with the last of his equipment and closed the door.
The Director turned to face the room. “Now, we may begin.”
A fat man with a Dutch accent leaned over the table. “Who is he? This Montrose?”
Closing his eyes for a moment, the Director calmed himself. He would save his ire for later. “According to our files, he’s ex-CIA. He was a whistleblower. And in his desire for revenge, he seems to have left a path of dead bodies across Europe. He is wanted for treason. But then, one man’s traitor is another man’s hero.”
“I will come straight to the point, Director. I need proof that Connor Montrose is not a loose cannon and will not jeopardize this operation or threaten our investment.”
The Director nodded. “Good. I want all your questions out in the open.” The Director stood behind his own chair at the head of the table, his hands resting on its back. He had studied enough generals in his life to know how to enforce command and instill subordination. They would be allowed to ask questions. If they were not satisfied with the answers, then he would take a different course. An unmarked grave and an empty seat at the table could both be easily filled. “If you see this man as a threat or a risk to the successful conclusion of this very lucrative endeavor, then express that risk. What is it that you fear will happen?” The whole table turned towards the big man.
“It’s obvious,” he spluttered.
“Then you will have no difficulty sharing it.”
He slammed a hand on the table. “Montrose is ex-CIA. He could go straight to them. Tell them everything.”
The Director closed his eyes for a moment. “Tell them everything, you say. I appreciate your candor, but tell me, what exactly is everything?” The man stood open-mouthed and was about to speak when the Director continued. “You see, gentlemen, this is how I, and by extension, we, will control this endeavor. By clearly identifying risk and mitigating against it.” He faced the man. “Please continue.”
The big man sat back in his chair. “Montrose could go straight to the CIA and tell them everything he knows. He could have talked to the two men in the village. He witnessed them fire the missile. And what the hell was he doing there anyway?”
The Director began to walk slowly round the table. “We don’t know exactly what he was doing there. But I think it is a fair assumption that he had become aware of the information that was leaked to the CIA regarding the two operatives. That, I suspect, is why he was there. And we can also assume that Montrose, like the CIA, did not know the contents of the suitcases, or the men’s intent. Otherwise the CIA would have been waiting for them in the village. Or indeed, would have stopped them long before. Therefore, we have the CIA to blame for Montrose’s intrusion on this endeavor, but as you all know, despite this local difficulty, it came to a successful conclusion.”
“But… Montrose could tell them what he saw. And that he was there.”
The Director shrugged. “You have the briefing notes in front of you. According to a CIA communiqué sent earlier this year, Montrose is suspected of being a psychopathic terrorist, and lately, a treasonous whistleblower. I think that unless Connor Montrose has a death wish, the CIA would be the last people he would talk to.”
“But…”
“But let’s say that he does. What would he say?”
“He could… He could tell them where he got the information on the attack.”
“Perhaps, but remember, Montrose didn’t know about the attack. We saw he tried to stop it. If he knew it was taking place he would have acted sooner. And what do we care where he got his information from?” The Director pointed around the table. “We are the original source of the information. We are the reason the CIA followed the two operatives to the village. The reason that the CIA knew, and by extension, Montrose, is because we told them.” The Director stood up. “Montrose poses no present risk.”
At the end of the table, an elderly man leaned his cane against his chair and bent over to flick through the pages in front of him. “Perhaps, Director, but it is clear that Montrose is a loose cannon. Impetuous and unpredictable. Those words are written right here. And judging by the spelling, this is a British report.” He sat back, his bony hand grasping the stick, his knuckles showing through parchment-like skin. “He is out of control. A whistleblower. The kind that likes to talk. And he has a price on his head. He is a wanted man, and not only by the CIA. As far as I can see, he is wanted by every security agency in the West. Even the Iranians have been looking for him, but it seems they are content for the CIA to kill him when they get the chance. Montrose may not be running to the CIA, but we can be very sure that they will be searching high and low for Montrose, and if they find him, what else can he tell them? How can we be sure? You say that the information that led him to the village must have come from the CIA. Can we be one hundred percent sure?” He placed his hands flat on the papers. “My question is, why let him live? However small the chance, why take it?”
The Director said nothing, but stood for a moment, looking out over the forest, both hands clasped together as if in prayer.
“Director,” said the old man, “you are a student of military history. This is not part of the operational plan. Kill him now.”
Turning towards them, the Director walked slowly to his chair, then placed both hands on top, bowed his head and closed his eyes. He was an expert in military history, not a mere student. If he had thought that the board member’s comments were in anyway a slight, then he would be dead within the hour. He opened his eyes, looking at each one of them in turn. “Do you take the time to study military history, gentlemen? You should. The logic and method of business is very much akin to that of war. Everything we have done, or are about to do, has in essence been done before. I remind you of the words of the philosopher, Jorge Agustín Nicolás Ruiz de Santayana y Borrás.” He rolled the words off his tongue. “Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it.”
He began a slow walk around the table, his hands clasped behind his back. “Study the great generals. Rommel, Zhukov, even back to Saladin. And not only their results, but their methods and approach to the fight. These are the men upon which our global history rests. We often need to go back generations to find the true leaders in global conflict, not that bumbling oaf Schwarzkopf. But not just the winners. Study Napoleon at Waterloo, or Von Paulus at Stalingrad. Learn their history, their decisions, their faults, and see you do not repeat them. Because the one thing that crops up time and time again is lost opportunity. In the words of the great Sun Tzu, in The Art of War, ‘in the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity’. Napoleon should have committed his cavalry much earlier and dealt with the British infantry and artillery while he had the chance. That indecision destroyed an empire. Von Paulus should have ignored Hitler and retreated to his supply lines but spurning the opportunity cost him an entire army and defeat in the East. The skill of the great general is to see the opportunity and to seize it, no matter what it takes. And that, gentlemen, is what I intend to do. You see Montrose as a threat.” He shook his head. “But you fail to see the opportunity. Ex-CIA? A wanted man? Suspected of terrorism? Gentlemen, I always plan for both fortune and misfortune. Connor Montrose is a gift from the god of war.”
Director Napier stood before his office door, fumbling for his keys. He turned as two Marines in full dress uniform marched towards them down the narrow corridor. Napier pushed Faber to the side and let them throu
gh. “This is supposed to be a low-key CIA facility. Why do we have Marines running around like they’re going to a cocktail party in West Point?”
“They’re straight from the relief guard at the Embassy in Rome, sir,” said Faber. “There are others on the way. There was no time to get changed when orders came in from Langley to go to full operational mode.”
Napier unlocked the door to his office. “Where is he? The technician?”
Faber followed him in and closed the door. “He should be here any moment, sir. He’s one of my men. He knows to keep this tight.”
There was a knock on the door. “Enter,” said Napier.
A young soldier in fatigues entered the room.
Faber nodded to the soldier and gestured towards his boss.
“Mr. Napier?” said the soldier.
“Yeah, you know who I am. Talk to me.”
The technician held a sheaf of documents close to his chest. “It’s Russian, sir.”
“You sure?”
“No doubt. We examined the missile casing that was left at the village. The instructions in Cyrillic code had been removed, but not when you look at it under x-ray. Everything matches. We double-checked with the labs in Langley. We even spectrum analyzed the paint on the missile launcher. It fits the Khrunichev missile plant just outside Moscow.”
Napier stared down at the floor. “That is all.”
The technician stood for a moment then held out the documents. “You should read this, sir. I printed it off instead of sending it through the system. No one in the CIA has seen this except me.”
Faber reached out and took the documents, and the soldier marched out of the door.
“Tell me,” said Napier.
Faber flicked through the pages. “This is from our men at the scene. Confirmed USAF C-130 transport plane. Death toll is confirmed as five crew and ten medical staff heading for our NATO base in Turkey. The plane was loaded with medical aid and food for refugees. But they don’t think that was the target.”