by Mark Leggatt
Montrose patted the weapon in his pocket. “I think all my Spidey-senses just went crazy.”
“That’s good enough for me.” She took the weapon from her jeans and loaded a round, then held it low. “Let’s go.”
“Slowly, there’s no threat. Let’s find out why he’s here.”
“Priti, are the skies clear?”
The voice of Mr. Pilgrim came over the line. “The skies are clear. I have the internet flight tracker on my screen.”
“We’ve spotted him,” said Kirsty. “Big ugly fucker with a metal suitcase at the top of the hill.”
“All traffic has been grounded,” said Pilgrim. “The last plane has landed without incident. Priti?”
“I’ll be at the bottom of the hill in five minutes.”
“Thank you,” replied Pilgrim. “Now let me be clear, we still have a very serious situation. If there is no safe opportunity to recover the suitcases, then we will withdraw and I will inform the authorities. Are we clear?”
“Clear,” said Montrose.
“Oh, if you insist,” said Kirsty.
The sonic boom of a supersonic fighter cracked over their heads. Montrose looked around, but could see nothing. “Pilgrim, where’s that fighter?”
There was a pause before he answered. “I don’t have it on my flight tracker.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Kirsty, listening to the fading roar of the jet engine, “he’ll be fifty miles away by now.”
“And that doesn’t make sense,” said Montrose, “Fighter jets don’t take off on a schedule. They can’t be the target.”
“Unless you had a spotter at an airbase. You wouldn’t have to be that close. Everybody knows when a fighter plane takes off.”
Montrose began to walk towards the gap in the brick wall. “Pilgrim? Do you think they could take down a fighter jet?”
“Since they were able to bypass all existing defenses in the first attack, then we can’t be sure. But they have lost the element of surprise. Whoever is controlling those jets knows of the threat. They may be using them to draw fire, though I think that is unlikely.”
“Yeah,” said Montrose, “but what a prize that would be. What about the flight tracker? Anything showing?”
“I’m working on it.”
Kirsty began to run and Montrose followed close behind. She stopped at the gap in the wall and looked around. “There he is.”
The man was dragging the suitcase down a gravel path surrounding an area of grass.
“Let’s just walk. We’re tourists.” He shoved the gun in his pocket.
Kirsty took his hand. “Do you think they could shoot down a fighter jet?”
“No, I don’t see it. Not from the ground. They go too high, too fast.” Their feet crunched on the tracks made in the gravel by the suitcase. Ahead, the man stopped and pulled out his phone.
“What’s he waiting for?” said Kirsty.
“Maybe the other suitcase and its owner.” He pointed to a raised area in the center of the grass. “There. Looks like a pitcher’s mound. I’ll bet that’s the top of the hill. Easiest place to meet.”
“No, he’s ignoring it.” She pulled out her phone and checked the map. “This isn’t the top of the hill.” She pointed to the far end of the grass, at a white stone building, bordered by low trees. She held up the map to Montrose and pointed to the camera symbol on the map. “Just past those trees. About twenty feet. That’s the high point.”
The man walked towards the trees.
“Okay, get ready to run,” said Montrose. “As soon as he’s out of sight.”
“I’m ready. So, here’s the plan. We walk up and shoot the fucker then grab the suitcase.”
“Yeah, I’m with you, but we’re missing something.”
“You mean his bestie with the other suitcase? What if they packed it all in one?”
“No chance.”
“Okay, softly, softly catchee monkey, then shoot monkey and his mate. Yeah?”
“If he’s here.”
“Well, he’s bugger-all use on his own. Unless he’s got a really good pitching arm. Let’s get closer, just in case.”
The man disappeared between the trees.
“Go!” Kirsty sprinted forward, kicking up dust from the gravel. She stopped at the trees and Montrose stood behind her, looking over her head.
The first man stood in front of the ancient foundations of a house, bricks jutting from the ground and covered in thick grass. In the center stood a tree on a raised mound of earth. Behind him was a white building and the remains of Roman arches. He turned towards the arches and a second man emerged, dragging another metal suitcase.
“Oh, shit. Game on,” said Kirsty.
“Yeah, but we’re still missing something.”
Kirsty adjusted the grip on her pistol. “What? A nine-piece orchestra and dancing girls?”
“No, a target. The skies are empty.”
“Fuck it, shoot them anyway.”
“We need to get closer,” said Montrose, looking down at the pistol. “I’d be lucky if I hit the tree at this distance.”
“Good point.” Kirsty shoved her gun in her waistband and Montrose did the same, then followed her out onto the gravel path. She brought out her phone and held it up towards the ruins. “Only tourists taking a shot,” she said. “Don’t stare at them, Connor. We’ll just walk around the grass until we’re close enough.”
“Yeah. Pilgrim, can you hear me?”
The earphone crackled. “One moment,” said Pilgrim.
“Shit, they’re looking over.” Kirsty pulled Montrose’s arm and turned him away then held up her phone and reversed the camera. “Keep moving closer.”
In the distance, he heard sirens. “I don’t think we’re going to have much time left. Pilgrim, we’re going to do it.”
“Do they have backup?” said Pilgrim.
“No idea. I’ve seen nothing.”
“Then it’s not safe. You could be surrounded.”
“Shit,” said Kirsty, looking around the ruins.
“He’s right,” said Montrose. “You could hide a company of men up here. We would have no idea.”
“Abort the operation,” said Pilgrim. “I have a feeling you’ve walked into a trap. Be very careful. I will inform the authorities about the two men. They have no targets in the sky, so the authorities can take care of them.”
Montrose saw the fury on Kirsty’s face. “He’s right.”
“No, it doesn’t make sense,” she said. “They don’t drag two suitcases to the top of the hill just to trap us. If they did, we’d be dead already. They must know the flights will be cancelled. So why are they here?”
The voice of Priti came over the line. “I’m at the bottom of the hill. Ready when you are.”
“Priti, can you see a guy dressed as a Roman soldier looking like a total dick?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll meet you there.”
“Priti,” said Pilgrim, “do you see any more fighter jets in the sky?”
“No, military flights don’t give out a radar beacon and identifiers like commercial flights. But you can find them, if you know where to look.”
“I’ll check all military flights,” said Pilgrim.
“Some internet trackers only monitor one type of beacon,” said Priti said. “Not everyone uses the same frequency. USA flights are different from the EU. I’ll try a different tracker.”
“I have access to the NATO military tracker,” said Pilgrim. “There is nothing over Rome. The fighter jets are out of range.”
Montrose glanced over his shoulder. The two men were staring into the eastern sky. Then he saw it. At first just a speck of white amongst the blue, then a glint from the sun on a fuselage. “Then what the hell is that?”
Kirsty scanne
d the sky. “Where?”
“Oh, my days,” said Priti. “I’ve found it. I can see the beacon on my screen.”
“Connor,” said Kirsty, “Stop looking at the bloody…”
“North east of Rome,” said Priti. “It’s not NATO or a civilian. The beacon code says YK40. What does that mean?”
“It’s a ICAO code for the type of aircraft,” said Pilgrim. “Hold on.”
Montrose could hear him hitting the keyboard.
“It’s a Yakovlev Yak-40. A Russian Air Force private jet. Used for state officials and military top brass.”
“Hold on,” said Montrose, “they’re not going to shoot down…” He turned and saw the two men drop their binoculars and push the suitcase flat on the ground. “Oh, fuck.”
Kirsty dropped to one knee and brought up her pistol.
One of the men looped a machine pistol around his neck.
“No, we need cover, we’re out-gunned!” Montrose ran to the crumbling arches with Kirsty close behind. They dropped behind the shattered remains of a column and brought up their weapons.
The first man hosted the launcher onto his shoulder and the second man lifted the warhead from the suitcase, slotted in the second propellant section and carried them both towards the launcher.
“We’re going to have to get closer,” said Kirsty, and edged out on to the gravel.
“No, last time they…”
She skirted the column and sprinted across the gravel, then dropped prone on the ground and fired two rounds.
The second man spun around as the bullet caught him in the arm and dropped the warhead to the grass. He rolled flat and pulled a machine pistol from his jacket.
“Cover!” shouted Montrose, and fired six rounds at the man.
Kirsty rolled to the side then sprinted for the column. Gravel sprayed around her and she dived behind the stone.
“You okay?”
She grinned. “Yeah. I got the bastard.”
The ancient red brick above them exploded into powder as a burst of automatic fire ripped over their heads.
Montrose kept low and ran to another arch then looked out.
The first man was kneeling down as the second stood behind him, lifted the missile with his good arm and hoisted it on to the launcher. It dropped into the mechanism and slotted home. The second man dropped to the side and lifted the machine pistol.
Kirsty steadied her weapon against the column and began firing, but several rounds slammed into the stone and she ducked back.
“Keep him busy!” shouted Montrose, and held his gunsight as still as he could and squeezed the trigger.
Another burst of fire scattered gravel at her feet. Kirsty leaned out and fired two rounds. “You’re high and right!”
“I know. I’m not trying to shoot him.” He leaned out again and fired. They heard the whine of a ricochet when the round hit the back of the missile and a thin white stream of propellant gas burst into the air, knocking both men to the grass. “Hit the suitcase!” They both stood and emptied their magazines towards to the metal suitcase, until a blue spark jumped into the air towards the gas. A fireball blew out from the bottom of the tree and they both threw themselves behind the stone.
Heat scoured Montrose’s legs and flame burst over his head. Then the roaring in his ears stopped and he rolled onto his back.
Kirsty dropped onto his legs, smothering the flames, then pulled off her jacket, straddled his chest and threw it over his head. She held it tight then pulled it free.
He looked up.
She sat on his chest and wriggled her thighs. “You’re still alive. How many fingers am I holding up?”
Blood ran down his face. “Now, that’s just rude. How do I look?”
She rolled off and stood, holding her gun in front of her. “Like a shit Guy Fawkes on a bad day. A few cuts. You’ll be fine.”
He got to his knees and peered out. Above the burning tree, a huge mushroom cloud of black smoke drifted south through the blue sky over Rome. On the smoldering grass he could make out the two blackened remains of the men. Police sirens sounded from all directions. “Priti?” said Montrose. “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” she replied. “And I’m very glad to hear your voice. Are you both okay?”
Kirsty pulled Montrose behind the red brick wall, and wiped away the blood from his head wound. “Slightly toasted and a bit bloody, but fine.”
The voice of Pilgrim came over the line. “I take it that the smoke means the missile has been destroyed?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Kirsty.
Montrose looked out. “Maybe it’s still…”
“For fuck’s sake, Connor.” She made to pull him back and saw two Italian cops staring at them. One of them pointed to Montrose. “Oh, well done. No point hiding now. Why don’t you walk over and say hello?”
“What is it?” asked Priti.
“Cops.” said Kirsty.
“Then get out,” replied Priti. “I’m heading for the road on the west side, I’m parked outside a big villa at the bottom of the hill. I’ll be directly south-west from you.”
“Look, I’m sure…” began Montrose. His throat dried when he saw the cop checking his phone and showing it to the other cop.
“Get ready,” said Kirsty.
The cops brought up their guns and began running towards them. One of them levelled his pistol and took aim.
“Run!” She pulled Montrose back to the red arches and fired two rounds over the heads of the police then sprinted past him, through the rear of the arches, vaulted a set of low railings, ran across an ancient courtyard, and ducked behind a line of broken columns.
Montrose caught up with her and squatted down behind a column. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, I just want to know exactly where we’re going. This place is a bloody warren.” She checked the map. “I got it. I know where Priti is going to be. Follow me.” She ran around the crumbling remains of a villa, then slid down a grassy slope.
Montrose followed her, crabbing sideways as the slope became steeper. He could hear traffic behind a line of trees and saw a tiled roof at the bottom of the hill. He followed her through the trees, the ground becoming steeper, until they reached the wall of the villa. He followed her around into a courtyard and saw gates to the street where Priti was waiting.
Kirsty ran over to the SUV and pulled up the tailgate. “Connor, get in. And wrap my coat around your head, you’re bleeding everywhere.”
“Look, I don’t…”
“They’re looking for a man and a woman. And they recognized you. Don’t be an arse.”
He clambered in and lay down flat.
Kirsty pulled the retractable cover from behind the rear seat. “And frankly, you’re still a fucking jinx.” She slammed the tailgate shut.
All eyes were fixed on the TV screen mounted on the boardroom wall. The Director stood motionless as the fireball blew up into the air. The picture shuddered when the blast wave hit the drone and spun wildly until the operator regained control. The picture fixed upon the burning tree.
“Enough,” said the Director. The picture froze. Behind him, he heard chairs being pushed back. He didn’t turn around. “Sit down.” He took a deep breath then spun around on his heel. “Tell me, gentlemen. What did you see?”
The old man leaned over the table. “An abject failure, Director. That is what I saw. How on earth could you describe it as anything else?”
The Director let out a low laugh. “And you all agree?” No one moved. He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “You look, but you do not see. Arthur Conan Doyle, gentlemen, creator of Sherlock Holmes.” He gazed around the table at every man in turn. “Most disappointing. Or then again, absolutely perfect.”
The old man sipped from his glass of water. “Please explain, Director. I personally can’t w
ait to hear this. I’ve always been a big admirer of Sherlock Holmes, yet I always found his arrogance to be his weakness.”
The Director closed his eyes and bowed his head towards the old man, in the knowledge that this irritation would soon cease. “I will tell you what you saw. A jet full of Russia’s most respected statesmen, known as the moderates in the Kremlin. The peacemakers, they are called, flying in to negotiate with the US Ambassador and the CIA to resolve this crisis and ensure the return of their property.” He glanced back to the screen, showing the burning tree. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be the first to die.” He smiled. “And yet a jet full of Russians did not have to fall burning from the sky onto the innocents of Rome to achieve the objective. Focus on the objective, gentlemen. You are distracted by the vicissitudes of combat. Remember the British Army adage, no battle plan ever survives first contact with the enemy.”
The old man choked on his water. He sat still for a moment, then looked up. “I think this plan may also be struggling with the second and third contact, Director.”
“How amusing. Yet it does not alter my point. The Italians will find conclusive evidence that an attempt was made on the lives of Russian diplomats by a missile from the diplomats’ own armories. A missile that is suspected to be in the hands of the CIA. Moscow has not yet seen the video of our friend, Connor Montrose, with two suitcases in his hand in the underground streets of Rome. But they will. They already know his name. They already have his details. And so does every policeman and agent in Rome. The trap, gentlemen, has been set.” He turned to the technician. “Show them.”
An image appeared on the screen, at first blurred, then resolved into the face of a man peering out from behind red brick columns.
“Voila! The elusive Mr. Montrose. You see, I now have an ex-CIA operative with the missile in every scene.” He counted them on his finger. “One at the hilltop when a C-130 is blown from the sky, and out of all the attackers, he is the only man to survive. Two, we have him with the suitcases in hand, after they were bought by the CIA and collected by their operative in underground Rome. Three, at the scene of the crime on the Palatine Hill. And we will drip feed this to the Russians, then sit back and enjoy the games. It could not be more perfect.”