by Mark Leggatt
The fat man shook his head. “It would be more perfect if Montrose was dead.”
The Director laughed. “Every policeman and agent in Rome has his photo, and orders to shoot him on sight. Mr. Montrose has run out of lives.”
“No, I think we will never see him again. They will not have the chance. He will know the odds against him. He will become a ghost.”
“He may well try,” said the Director, “but I have something that will bring Mr. Montrose out into the daylight. And then he will die.”
Chapter 15
“Kneel down and bend over,” said Kirsty. “And drop the jacket in the bath. It’s not as if I’m going to wear it again.”
Montrose peeled it from his head and felt the blood soak through the fabric and stick to his fingers. The blast of freezing water made him jump.
“Got to be cold,” said Kirsty, holding the shower head. “It’ll help stop the bleeding.” She drove the jet of water against the wound, and it flowed pink into the bath. “It’s a clean cut. No big deal.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said.
“But you’ll have a nice scar to show all the girls when you’re pretending to be a super-spy.”
“And a bald patch,” said Priti, waving a razor in front of his face. “I’ll stop the blood with some adrenaline gel then use butterfly stitches.”
“You’ve done this before,” said Montrose, blinking to keep the water out of his eyes.
“I come from a family of boxers,” said Priti. “Part of growing up.”
Kirsty stopped the shower and patted the wound down. “If we can’t do a comb over, you’re going to need a hat.”
“Don’t make me go there. I hate wearing a hat.”
She tapped her fingers on the top of his head. “Well, don’t let your irrational dislike for millinery stop you from getting shot on the street by some copper. You saw the cop’s reaction, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“He clocked you. Big time.”
In the corner of his eye, he saw Pilgrim maneuver his wheelchair through the bathroom door. “Clocked?” he said.
“Recognized him,” said Kirsty. “And he checked something on his phone.”
“Are you sure?” said Pilgrim.
Kirsty leaned down and spoke in Montrose’s ear. “He’s talking to you.”
“Yeah,” said Montrose. “I think he did.”
Pilgrim tapped his fingers on the arm of his wheelchair. “Well, if a policeman has that information, this certainly gives us logistical issues. Priti? Any ideas?”
“I’m on it,” she said, “Let me finish this first then I’ll take care of it. Scalp wounds are always particularly bloody. Do you have any concussion, double vision?”
“No, I didn’t even feel it hit me.”
Priti patted down his head with a towel and cleaned the wound. “We can assume that if one cop has your photo then every cop does.”
“Indeed,” said Pilgrim. “But let us lift our heads from this particular concern for the moment. It was a risk, though given the potential outcome, one that was worth it, I’m sure you will agree. But from what Kirsty told me, the policemen were not there to arrest you. They were there because of the explosion.”
“Yeah, they were wondering what had just gone bang, why a tree was on fire, and probably most of all, why there were two burning corpses below it. If Connor hadn’t stuck his head out, we could have buggered off and no one would be any the wiser. Then cop number one sees him, checks his phone and shows it to cop number two. Then, would you believe it? The shooting starts. Again.”
Pilgrim blinked. “No attempt at an arrest?”
“Nope,” said Kirsty, “it went straight to the gunfight at the OK Corral.”
“I understand. But if you had not been on that hill, we would have been dealing with a very different issue. It’s clear the objective of the attack was to bring down a jet full of senior Russian intelligence personnel. And from what my contacts tell me, these are the moderates that are more sympathetic to western democracies. These are people who are often in conflict with the more hawkish and right-wing members of the Russian intelligence community and government.”
“They may well be,” said Montrose, “and that begs the question, if some element of the CIA is behind all this, like Linden keeps hinting at, then it makes no sense. I can’t believe the CIA would want to take down a plane of Russian moderates.”
“A valid point,” said Pilgrim. “Then we have to consider who would benefit from the attack.”
“Russian crazies,” said Kirsty, “or whoever was paying for it.”
Pilgrim nodded. “An astute observation.”
She sat on the toilet and placed her feet on the edge of the bath. “If those guys were like the ones that Connor met up with, they’re not fundamentalists. They are professionals. They’re doing this for money. Someone is paying those two guys to fire a missile at that jet. Not just in Rome, but in the village, too.”
“And it’s like the village,” said Montrose, “they expected to escape. I’m sure of it. So, they were working for someone. If this is an American or Russian operation, why do you need to hire someone? You have Special Forces. Guys you can trust.”
“Deniability,” said Kirsty. “And false flag. They can make it look like any country they want.”
“Yeah,” said Montrose, “but that only works if you can rely on the people pulling the trigger to keep their mouths shut. And the CIA or Russian FSB won’t take that chance. The guy in the village, the one I spoke to, just before he was shot. He knew who he was working for. I’m sure of it.”
“Maybe that’s why he was shot,” said Priti.
“Maybe, but he was pretty damn sure it wasn’t him that was going to buy the farm. He thought it was me. He was part of a team. And they chose to shoot him. Why? I don’t know. They had hidden transport waiting for them at the bottom of the hill. These guys weren’t just hired hands, ready to pull a trigger. They were part of the team.”
“Okay,” said Kirsty, “what if it’s not CIA or Russian FSB. Who the bloody hell could it be?”
Montrose winced as the adrenaline hydrochloride bit into the wound.
“I’ll apply the butterfly stitches,” said Priti, “and you can comb over your hair.”
“You know,” said Kirsty, as she stood up to check Montrose’s stitches, “if you wanted it to be really deniable, you’d just pay someone else for the whole operation. And I mean, the whole thing. Steal the missiles, smuggle them out of Russia, set up the attacks, everything.”
Montrose involuntarily shook his head.
“Don’t move or I’ll end up sticking this up your nose.”
“Kirsty, what are you talking about?” he said.
She leaned over and spoke in a stage whisper into to his ear. “An agent provocateur. And not like the lingerie brand. Less deviant. But infinitely naughtier.”
Pilgrim nodded. “An old-fashioned name for a very modern approach. Yet we are not talking about some anarchist faction. This is too direct, too focused. Too professional.”
“It brings us back to the guys pulling the trigger,” said Kirsty. “If Connor’s right and they knew who they were working for, then the question is, who is the paymaster? And I mean the final paymaster. Not the guy handing out a wage packet for some asshole who shoots down planes. Who put up the money in the first place? The guys pulling the trigger could be a well-connected mercenary force, or criminal organization, but who is paying the piper? Is it the Russian FSB, the CIA, or someone else?”
“Cui bono?” said Pilgrim. “As the Romans would say. Who would benefit?”
Priti delicately placed stitches to seal the wound. “My first thought is an arms dealer. The price of those missiles must have quadrupled after the first attack. It is possible they have been stolen simply to be sold to the highest bidder.
And if the Russians are behind it all, their profit would be worth the risk. After all, Russia needs the money.”
“Could be,” said Kirsty, “but would an arms dealer really bring down a whole US C-130 stuffed with combat troops? Because that was the more likely target. That’s the plane that should have been in the sky.”
“I would have been tempted by the arms dealer theory,” said Pilgrim, “if it was clear that the transport plane that was shot down was the actual target. But the shooting down of a private jet full of Russian moderates does not sit well with that line of thinking.”
“Agreed,” said Priti, “but it had to be said. And I do not think it disproves the agent provocateur theory. If one of the members of the United Nations Security council is using a criminal or terrorist organization at arm’s length for its own purposes and to commit atrocities. No, wait, that happens all the time. What I mean is using them to commit an act that could start World War III.”
“I understand,” said Pilgrim. “Therefore, the question remains. Cui bono. Who benefits?”
“The Iranians?” said Montrose. “The Saudis? They’re up to all sorts of shit.”
“No,” said Pilgrim, “their ambitions are restricted to the Gulf. Though I am increasingly attracted to the agent provocateur theory. Which leaves us with several issues. Who are they, who is paying them, and what do they gain from these actions?”
“Money and power,” said Kirsty. “It’s always the same. Everybody wants to blame everyone else, and if you create a situation where all the weird and wacko conspiracy theories fit, you can sit back, collect the money, and watch everybody run around in circles. The US might lose a plane, but get what they want, or the Russians might lose a plane, but get what they want. And one thing is for sure. Whoever it is, they don’t mind blowing planes out the sky.”
Montrose stood up. “Maybe it’s just me, but whoever is trying to hide in this mayhem is doing a really good job.”
“Oh yeah,” said Kirsty. “And I’d be very interested to see what the posh boy from MI6 has got to say.”
“Good point,” said Pilgrim. “I think we should set that up. Priti?”
“I’m on it.” She handed Montrose a bath towel. “Leave your clothes here, I’ll get you something else.”
Kirsty jabbed Montrose in the ribs. “She means get your kit off. What is this outrageous attraction you have?” She followed Priti through the door before he could answer.
Montrose pulled off his bloodied and scorched clothes and pulled on a bathrobe. Priti was waiting with the phone when he entered the room.
“Remember, if I see a tracker getting too close, I’ll just cut the call.”
He took the phone. Priti held up a hand as she leaned over her laptop and gave him the thumbs up. He hit redial and speaker. The call was answered immediately.
“Hello?” the voice sounded surprised.
“It’s Montrose.”
“My God, you’re alive?” said Linden.
“Still here.”
“I saw the explosion on the news. It was caught on video by tourists. I did not think anyone would survive that.”
Kirsty whispered in Montrose’s ear. “How did he know we were there?”
“Yeah?” he replied. “Did they get me on video?”
There was a pause on the line. “No, your name came up in a police report. They’re still looking for you. And I mean every copper in town. You know, if you need some help to get out of Rome, I have some friends…”
Montrose glanced over at Pilgrim who raised an eyebrow, then shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m gonna lay low for a while. Wait until the cops have got something better to do.”
“Understood. But be aware, the CIA and the Italians have got this place locked down tight. The CIA haven’t yet found out who leaked the info on the second missile, but let’s say they are looking at MI6 with renewed vigor. I have no doubt I’m being watched very closely. There’s nothing I can do, but I have a lead that may be of interest.”
“Go on,” said Montrose.
“This is straight from a friend at GCHQ. It’s RUMINT.”
Pilgrim shrugged.
Priti looked over at Kirsty, who whispered in her ear. “Rumor Intelligence, or unconfirmed gossip.”
“It’s not gone through the usual channels,” said Linden, “and the boys at Langley won’t be told, or they’ll know we’re up to something. Poking our noses in when we were told to back off. I’ll be frank, they are throwing a lot of shit around, and GCHQ is getting very pissed off. Right now, we don’t know who we can trust.”
“Understood. Go on.”
“The two men you killed in the village, the ones that brought down the C-130, they both travelled from Monaco on the day of the attack.”
“Monaco? The car they drove had an Italian plate.”
“Maybe, but not when it crossed the border into Italy. We heard from a contact in Monaco that cameras picked it up then dismissed it as an anomaly. Then GCHQ trawled through the cameras and saw it crossing the border. We have access to the entire European ANPR camera network.”
“ANPR?”
“Automatic Number Plate Recognition. Right across Europe. The car was rented from Nice in France and tracked back to the hotel in Monaco.”
“You got the details?”
“Of course, I’ll text them to you.”
Montrose turned to Priti. She concentrated on the screen and gave a thumbs up. “Listen, Linden, when do you think the CIA will get this info? What’s the process?”
“Look, we’re not even supposed to know about the BMW, never mind that it came from bloody Monaco. But I do know this. They will find out eventually. There is a CIA mole in GCHQ. It’s bad form, old boy. And we’re going to use this to flush him out. This is the best chance we’ve had for years, given that the Cousins are running around with their arses on fire. When we find the little shit, I’m going to personally rip off his bollocks.”
“How long?”
“No idea. There’s been no reaction from Langley, so we’re waiting for a shift change to try to nail it down to a group of people. We’re scrabbling around in the dark. It could be ten minutes, could be ten hours. But we’ll know, because Langley will go ballistic. When they do, I’ll let you know. Until then it’s all yours.”
“Thanks. I mean that.”
“No guarantees, though. It’s the best I can...” The call ended.
“Tracked again,” said Priti. “But I was a bit more prepared this time. Whoever it is, they know what they are doing.”
Kirsty smacked Montrose on the butt. “Monaco, baby! Let’s go. I want a drop-top Jag, shades, and enough jewelry to make Liz Taylor turn in her grave.”
Montrose looked over at Pilgrim. “Monaco?”
“It makes some sense. The Principality of Monaco has become a very appealing place for those who have amassed considerable wealth and prefer their networks to be less obtrusive. The secrecy and security around the whole principality is very attractive.”
“And the whole country is smaller than Central Park,” said Kirsty. “But it stinks of money.”
“And it’s four hundred miles away,” said Priti, “so no drop-top Jag, I’m afraid.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Listen,” said Montrose, “I step outside this room and I could get a bullet in my head. My face is on the phone of every cop in Rome. I’ll never get through an airport, so four hundred miles is a long way to get lucky.”
“Leave it to Priti,” said Pilgrim, “I’m sure she’ll think of something.”
Napier watched the priest walk away, his footsteps muffled by the robes.
Faber stood to the side of the altar, a slab of stone covered with a thin white cloth. A threadbare tapestry bordered in gold thread hung on the wall above him. He looked down at his phone, but there was no signal. Two fe
et above his head, rough stones arched across the chapel.
The priest reached the open door and grabbed the handle, then leaned back to haul the thick wooden door closed.
“Why here?” said Faber.
“I wanted somewhere that can't be bugged. You checked?”
“Yeah. I ran a scan. And there’s no signal.”
“The walls are ten feet thick and held together without mortar.”
Faber flicked his eyes from side to side.
“Relax. The priest tells me it’s been here for over two thousand years. The stones fit so close together that you couldn’t get a hair between them.”
At the sides of the tapestry above the altar the stone was polished and smooth. Faber pushed the tapestry aside and saw the stone was covered in deep, ornate carvings, some with traces of paint. “Jeez, look at this.”
Napier walked over. “No, not Jesus.” He pointed to the symbol of a man plunging a spear into the neck of a bull. “Mithras. This place was built way before the Christians arrived.”
“A Roman god?”
“It was a cult that spread through the whole Roman army. It wasn’t for the faint-hearted. I wonder if the priest is sending a message.”
“I thought this was a peaceful place. Now, I’m not so sure.”
Napier stared at the door. “Yeah, peace. I don’t think we’re gonna see much of that for some time. But I’m going to let Dimitri know that his asshole country has gone too far. Shit is about to get real.”
The door swung open and Saitsev marched in. “Napier. You stupid bastard.”
“Hey, Dimitri, don’t hold back, dude. You got something to say, just get it off your chest. Go on, tell me how you feel.”
The Russian visibly shook with anger as he walked stiff-legged towards him. “You nearly started World War III.”
Napier held out his arms. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Behind him, a bodyguard lowered his head to fit through the door and stood to the side, then unbuttoned his jacket.
Saitsev stood in front of Napier. “Whatever you are going to say, whatever argument, or explanation you have, you must explain why the FSB, or any of the Russian security services, would use one of their own missiles to shoot down a jet full of Russian intelligence personnel and military chiefs over Rome.” He moved closer. “I am scared. I am scared that you will try to explain this action as some sort of rogue terrorist or anarchist faction, or some right-wing Russian plot, because then I will know that you are part of this malicious, murderous lie. Then there is no hope. You see, you and I are the last line of defense. The negotiators in that plane were coming here to work with you to bring this madness to an end.” He rubbed his face and looked up to the ceiling. “But no more. They are returning home. We are all that is left. And my patience is at an end. Now, talk.”