by Mark Leggatt
“I’m sure they do,” said Pilgrim. “He was in the village?”
“No, he was at the foot of the hill. That was the escape route. That’s why they left the car at the village, they had another one waiting at the bottom of the hill, on the north side.”
“But they had the element of surprise. Why wouldn’t they escape the way they came? Why go to all that trouble?”
“Because the CIA were right behind them, they…”
“Yes, but did they know that? Did they seem in a hurry at the village?”
“No, they seemed to be waiting…”
“So, either they knew the CIA were behind them, or they did not. Or they didn’t care.”
“Oh, they knew. Or the guy who fired the missile knew. Once the shit hit the fan we could hear the cars tearing up the road. And he knew it was the CIA.”
Pilgrim slowly shook his head. “But they were not martyrs. They planned to escape. And you say that the Brit is suspicious of the CIA’s motives. Well, that’s understandable.”
“He gave me a phone.”
Priti gave him a look. “Where is it?”
“Relax, I ditched it.”
“You remember the number?”
“Yeah.”
Priti brought up a screen on the laptop and turned it towards Montrose. “Type it in here.”
Montrose leaned forward and punched in the number.
“You have missed calls,” she said. “And there is a message.”
A British voice came over the speaker.
“Mr. Montrose, I understand your reluctance to answer the phone, but I really think we need to keep in touch. The situation is escalating beyond my control. There is only so much I can do, and I must rely upon your help. This is no time to draw partisan lines. We both want the same thing. Now, listen carefully. I have been informed by a very reliable but discreet source that there is another missile for sale. I am desperately trying to find out where the sale will take place, and if I do, I shall pass on the information immediately. I have absolutely no doubt that MI6 have been compromised and will be used as a distraction. Ignore any distraction, Mr. Montrose, remember who is giving you this information. And also remember, we both have the same goal. I will be in touch very soon. Keep this phone switched on.”
“Where did the call originate?” said Pilgrim.
“Somewhere between here and Rome,” she replied.
“So, he’s on the way to Rome?” said Montrose. “That’s about three hours from here. Maybe that’s where he’s getting his information.”
“Perhaps Rome should be your next destination,” said Pilgrim.
“Yeah, and he won’t see me coming. I want to know where he’s getting his information.”
“I think you underestimate him,” said Pilgrim. “He gave you a phone. He will assume that you will use some method to work out his location. Otherwise his phone would not have shown his location so easily. If I was a cynic, which I am, I’d almost be tempted to say he is leading you to Rome. For his own ends, although perhaps he truly does believe you have a common purpose.” Pilgrim pushed himself up. “Rome is our next port of call. Let’s see what the eternal city holds.”
Priti lifted the monitor and clipped it to the side of the wheelchair, then lifted the cables out of the way. “I’ll drive.”
“And let’s be clear on our objective,” said Pilgrim. “We must stop the sale of the second missile at all costs. Or find and destroy it, or direct the CIA to do so.”
“Where the hell are they going to sell a missile? Down the market in Rome?”
Priti shook her head. “eBay,” she said. “Think of eBay, but for terrorists. Bloody hell!” She slammed shut the lid of the laptop.
“What is it?” said Pilgrim.
“Someone is tracking us. When I accessed the call someone started to track my IP.”
“How long have we got?”
“I have no idea. I can’t tell without logging on. And if I do, I’ll just make it easier for them. I could log on and change my IP but I don’t know how close they are.”
“Are you sure they can find us?”
“It will take time, though it’s possible. I don’t know who I’m up against.”
Pilgrim stared out towards the river. “If they have enough men they can swamp the area. We go now.”
Priti pulled out a phone from her sari and thrust it towards Montrose. “Take this. It has Level 5 encryption. You go first, you are the decoy.” She grabbed the handles of Pilgrim’s wheelchair and pushed him over to the elevator. “The safe house in Rome will be ready.” She turned to Montrose. “But not for you. I will route the number MI6 gave you to your new phone.”
“Won’t they track me?”
“I will send it through a thousand onion routers,” she said and bundled the laptop into a metal suitcase. “Many security layers, it would take weeks.”
He held the phone in his hand, checking for the power button. “Are your numbers…?”
She snatched it from him. “Not here. Switch it on in Rome. You will leave first and go down to the east side of the river. They are looking for you, not us. You know the location of the transport?”
“Yeah, I’ve checked the garage behind the café.”
“Then you’re an idiot, but at least you’re an honest idiot. You use that transport, since you have compromised it. We will use the backup.” She pulled a pistol from her sari. “I will drive us out of here. Bengali-style.”
“And God help anyone who tries to stop her,” said Pilgrim.
She jabbed a finger into Montrose’s chest. “Go the wrong way. Head north then double back across the bridge. It will give us more time. There are cameras there that will pick you up if they are smart.”
“How long do you need?”
“Four minutes. Then we will be far enough away from here. If you have to use the phone in an emergency, my codename is Broadsword.” She pointed to Pilgrim. “He is Danny Boy. You must assume that all communications are being monitored. Don’t make it easy for them.”
Montrose pressed a button on his watch and saw the stopwatch hand move smoothly around the dial. “What about me?”
“You are Green Day.”
“What, like the band?”
“Yes. I picked it for you. My favorite album is American Idiot. Go!”
“What if they have closed the bridge on both ends?”
“That’s your problem, not mine. We are not going down to the end of the bridge. This is the Vasari corridor, remember? If it’s good enough for psychopathic Renaissance despots to escape, then it’ll do for me.” She hit the button for the elevator. “You take the stairs. And Connor?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t fuck up.”
The doors pinged open and she shoved Mr. Pilgrim into the elevator.
He ran down the stairs and kicked open the door into the corridor, then turned the corner and nearly walked straight into a guard.
“Chee fretta? Cosa stai facendo qui?”
“Yeah, sorry, I got lost.”
The guard moved into the middle of the corridor and spoke slowly. “You… got lost? In a corridor?” He reached for his radio.
Chapter 7
Montrose grabbed the radio from the guard’s hand and threw it behind him. “Fetch!”
The guard began to turn then stopped, pushing back his shoulders and widening his stance.
“Listen to me,” said Montrose. “You work in an art gallery and eat too much pizza. I’m on the run from the world and his fucking dog, so get out of my way.” He shoved the guard to the side and ran. A turning to his left appeared and he ducked in, just managing to stop before he fell over a balcony. Thirty feet below, the church of St Felicia opened up in front of him. He checked his stopwatch. She’d said four minutes then Pilgrim was clear. He knew the gu
ard would be looking for some backup.
He leant over the balcony and saw a narrow ledge to one side, leading to the top of an arched doorway. He climbed over, his fingers slipping on dust, and edged along the wall, holding onto the ornate stonework, then lowered his feet to the top of the stone arch. He stood for a moment, and looked down. A gaggle of tourists stood in a doorway and began to lift up their cell phones.
The guard appeared on the balcony, shouting back down the corridor.
The ancient flagstones looked unforgiving. Drop and roll, he thought. Don’t fuck around. Like I’ve got a choice.
He pushed his hands away from the wall and turned in the air, tucking his arms around his head and bringing up his knees just as his feet slammed into the flagstones. His shoulder crashed onto the floor of the church and he rolled onto his face. He lay stunned for a moment then flexed his arms. It hurt like hell but nothing was broken. Ignoring the shouts and camera flashes, he scrambled to his feet and faced the altar, then turned and headed for the door.
The stopwatch said two minutes to go. Pain from his shoulder stabbed through him as he lowered his arm. From the shade of the doorway he saw a cramped piazza, with high buildings on either side and tourists spilling out from pizzerias and panini shops. At the far end was a street leading off to the left and right. He looked down. The brim of a wide black hat tilted up, with thick, aromatic smoke curling around its edges. The wizened, grey face of a priest regarded him coldly, the cigarillo dangling from his lips.
“Padre, you gotta get some carpets. That floor is a fucking nightmare.”
A shout came from inside the church behind him and he took off for the road, around the corner, then turned back towards the bridge. Cameras, he thought, slow down. Above him he saw the corridor and the tower. The window was still open. He stepped onto the bridge and tried to keep to the side, but tourists crowded the entrances to the line of shops on either side. The only way was straight down the middle, and no cover. And if his pursuers were already on the bridge, he knew it didn’t matter.
A gap opened up between the buildings and he saw the murky waters of the Arno. It’s a long way down, he thought. But if there is someone waiting for me at the end of the bridge, that’s exactly where I’m going.
He picked up the pace and made it to the end, then glanced left and right. And saw them. They were moving too fast and too straight to be tourists. He crossed the road and broke into a run when he entered the courtyard, weaving past the tables. He grabbed the handle of the wooden door, slammed it behind him and ran past the boxes, throwing them over his shoulder. He booted his way into the garage, shut the door and threw the bolt.
Running past the SUV, he unlocked and pulled up the metal shutter to the street. The sunlight flooded in and he saw a Kawasaki trail bike at the other side of the SUV with a helmet hanging from the handlebars. He heard a metallic squeak and saw the garage door handle drop slowly then stop.
He swung his leg across the bike and kicked over the motor. The rear wheel spun as he stabbed it into gear, dropped the clutch and took off down the street.
Napier slid behind the polished marble table and faced the restaurant. The long salon was empty of customers, but filled with tables covered in bright white tablecloths and gleaming cutlery. He looked up to the ornate chandeliers and tapestry-covered walls. From the far end of the room a waiter walked towards them. Sunlight sparkled on the crystal glasses. “How long have we got?”
Faber slid into the booth and placed his phone on the table. “They open for lunch in thirty minutes.”
“Good, because I think that’s how long it’s going to take the waiter to get here. Where’s Montrose?”
“We left him in Florence. There are teams combing the city, but he slipped the net.”
“Shit.”
Faber’s phone buzzed and began to slide across the marble table. He flattened it with his hand and checked the screen. “It’s Campbell.”
“It’s asshole hour. Right on time.”
“Want me to take it?”
“No. I want to know why…” The doors behind the waiter flew open, and three men marched down the center of the room. The waiter stepped aside to stop himself from being mown down. Napier shook his head. “They don’t do subtle, do they?”
Two of the men grabbed chairs from nearby tables and placed them in front of Napier’s booth. The other stood to the side, his jacket open.
Faber leaned over. “I said two men only. Lose the goon.”
The Russian dropped onto the chair. “That one is here to stop me killing you.” He grabbed a glass from the table and poured himself some water, his knuckles white as he held the bottle, then gulped it down.
Napier thought the glass would shatter in his hand. “Oh, a bit upset, are we?” He placed both hands on the table and leaned over. “There is a valley north west of here, covered in the body parts of fifteen American servicemen and women. And if their plane had not taken off first, then the bodies of over a hundred combat troops would be lying there. But that doesn’t matter, because poor Ivan is a bit upset. What fucking planet are you on?”
The Russian took another drink. The bodyguard shifted his stance.
Napier pointed a finger at the bodyguard. “You start to get brave, big boy, and you’ll be leaving here in a fucking box.”
Spittle flecked at the edges of the Russian’s mouth. “I’ll tell you what planet we are on. The planet where our latest technology is stolen from us and ends up in the hands of terrorists. And who do they target?” He slammed down the glass. “The fucking Americans! What a surprise!” He jabbed a finger at Napier. “You’re behind this. I can smell it. We didn’t even know those missiles were missing. Because if we had, you’d be the first place we’d come looking.”
Napier leaned back in the booth. “Seriously? Your latest technology is missing, and that’s the best you can come up with? Let me tell you what I think. You lose a missile, then suddenly it takes down an American plane, then, er, what happens next?” He looked up and shrugged. “Oh, yeah. Its market value increases tenfold.” He stared straight into the Russian’s eyes. “I’ll bet you’ve got the Iranians and Chinese and all those fucking goofballs in North Korea jerking themselves into a frenzy over getting their hands on a portable missile that can bypass all the latest systems and take down a plane flown by a combat veteran pilot. Congratulations. You must be fucking delighted. Sanctions are biting, yeah? Nobody wants to do business with you, yeah? So, you come up with this shit. And you think we...”
“You disgust me. If you think this is about money… You…”
Napier threw his hands in the air. “Well, remind me, how much did the price of your Buk Missile system go up after you shot down Malaysian Airlines MH17 in 2014 and murdered nearly three hundred people? And you tell us it was the Ukrainians? The whole world knew you were lying. And still do.”
The man standing behind the Russian growled and placed his hand inside his jacket.
Napier stood up and jabbed a finger at him. “You start playing the tough guy, asshole, I swear I’ll fucking shoot you first!”
“Enough!” The Russian jerked a thumb behind him. The man seated beside him rose slowly, not taking his eyes from Napier, then followed the other man out of the salon. The Russian closed his eyes and slowly rotated his neck until there was an audible click. “This is getting us nowhere. Now is the time for cool heads and cold hearts. We have known each other too long. The Ukraine is a sensitive topic, but you know that. It’s why you said it.”
“Dimitri, your militias blew MH17 out of the sky. All those civilians. That’s what happened. And you still deny it.”
“You set us up! You made sure that plane flew over a war zone that was covered by anti-aircraft batteries. You sent them to their deaths!”
“Oh, man, that’s internet conspiracy bullshit. The plane left from a NATO country. And we stand together,
because when one is attacked…”
“Do not make me laugh! NATO? Your own little private army! Tell me, when was the last time you invoked Article 5 of NATO? I’ll tell you, because like most Americans, your grasp of history is laughable. It was 9/11. And who did you attack in revenge for the destruction of the Twin Towers? Eh? Afghanistan. A bunch of mud huts and opium growers. And tell me what was the nationality of the attackers? Saudi Arabian. Did you attack them? No. You’ve had half of Europe’s armies chasing local gangsters across Afghan mountains. It was a farce. You didn’t destroy Al Qaeda! You didn’t even find them. Tell me, the Madrid atrocities, the Paris attacks, the London bombings and murders, did you invoke Article 5? When Argentina invaded the British territory of the Falkland Islands, back in the 80s, did you fly to the rescue of your fellow NATO member? No. You tried to persuade them to give up the island, so you could curry favor with the fascist junta of Galtieri. Your NATO allies, they know what kind of friend you are, and they will come to the same conclusion as us. That you set this up to fire NATO into action, and…”
Napier’s and Faber’s phones buzzed together in quick succession.
A high-pitched beep came from Dimitri’s pocket. They sat in silence for a moment.
Napier read out the message on the screen. “New missile for sale. The Silk Road.” He looked up but the Russians were already running for the door.
The Director stood with his hands on the back of the chair and looked at each person in turn around the boardroom table. “I have good news. The second missile is ready for sale and has already attracted a great deal of attention.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said the fat man. “It is, as you say according to plan. Except one thing. Is he dead yet?”
The Director smiled. “I think you have something of an obsession with Montrose, but I appreciate an eye for detail, that is no bad thing. I will come to Montrose in a moment. First, to the price. I’m told that Moscow and Washington are testing the waters. They may be under the foolish assumption that they will be able to bargain.”
A thin, reedy English voice came from the far end of the table. “And you are sure we should involve no one else? We could treble the price if the Saudis or Chinese knew about this.”