by Mark Leggatt
“Exactly. But I need time to process the information from all of the cell phone masts and the distances between them. Once I have his cellphone connections compared against them, I can triangulate his speed and location to the nearest yard. I’m going to make sure he didn’t stop on the way from Germany. Then I can focus on what could be the pick-up point. And that is where the rest of missiles could be.”
“Okay,” said Kirsty. “Looks like we’re going to Germany.”
“When I’ve worked out the exact location, I’ll send a message to the helicopter company and they can redirect the pilot. They think you are rich business people going hunting.”
“They’ve got it half right,” said Kirsty.
Pilgrim’s voice came over the line. “Priti has been concentrating on the location records on Blokhin’s phone and I have passed on the remainder of the information to friends who can compare it with existing intelligence. We know Blokhin was well-connected to Moscow. But the wealth of contacts was wider than we expected, and include some very unsavory characters.”
“I want to meet them all,” said Kirsty. “Just once.”
“Perhaps one day,” said Pilgrim. “Mr. Blokhin has been very busy, especially with extreme right-wing groups all over Europe and Russia. The people he was working with are not the usual suspects. I will pass the information to the CIA when I am more certain.”
“Maybe the CIA know already,” said Montrose. “Just maybe not the guys you’re talking to, the whistleblowers, or whoever they are.”
“White Hats,” said Priti. “Just call them White Hats.”
Kirsty grinned at Montrose and held a finger to her lips.
“There are two bags in the trunk,” said Priti. “I had planned to give you more, but the harbor wasn’t safe to hang around.”
“Guns and ammo?” said Kirsty.
“Yes. And new phones. Ditch the phones you have. If we can track them, they can track us.”
“That’s all I need. Thanks, quartermaster.”
The sound of rotor blades made Montrose look up. A helicopter flew low overhead, heading north. “That’s our ride.”
“I hear it,” said Priti. “I have told the pilot to take you to Berlin. But it could be anywhere in southern Germany. I’ll give you as much notice as I can. Be ready.”
Faber pushed open the door.
Napier looked up from the desk, his mouth slightly open.
“Two dead Russians,” said Faber.
“And?”
“No Montrose. He’s gone. The cops are looking everywhere.”
Napier leaned forward and held his head in his hands. He opened his eyes and his head jerked up. “Fuck Montrose. Two dead Russians? Who?”
“I just got the report.” Faber checked his phone. “Fully classified. The French DGSE have told the Monaco government to say nothing.”
“Whatever. Who were the Russians?”
Faber flicked the screen. “Some ex-military goon, low level, and Sergei Blokhin.”
“Blokhin?” Napier stood up and pushed back his chair. “That piece of shit?”
“Yeah. Who is this guy? I’m just pulling his files now. I’ve got a request in.”
“Sergei Blokhin is one evil motherfucker. Well, he was. If it was Montrose that killed him, he did us a big favor. He used to be one of Putin’s billionaire oligarchs. Made a fortune in money-laundering through British banks in Hong Kong and real estate in New York. If you had dirty money, Blokhin could clean it. For a price. When he wasn’t doing that, he was into people trafficking and arms deals. The list is very long and very dirty.”
“So, we can connect him right back to Moscow?”
“It’s possible, but not that easy.” Napier slammed the table. “Dammit! If we had caught Blokhin and Montrose together we could have nailed this shit.”
Faber checked his phone. “The cameras caught him going into the club where we found Blokhin. They didn’t see him come out, but there are other exits.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Montrose is way ahead of us.”
“There was a girl with him.”
“Yeah? Have we ID’d her?”
“Not yet. We don’t have her face on record. She was wearing shades.”
“Let the geeks work their magic. We’ll find her.” Napier turned and looked out the window, down to the busy street. “The tip-off was right, whoever it was. Maybe they didn’t want us getting too close. All they said was South of France. We guessed Monaco. And we guessed right. And then we find Blokhin.”
“Maybe he was the middleman. Selling the missiles to Montrose?”
“No, we have a video of Montrose picking up the missiles in underground Rome. If he had them, why would he have gone to the club? Something about Montrose isn’t making sense, no matter what that asshole Campbell says. Whatever. Just shoot the bastard.”
“Yeah, but was Blokhin still the middleman for Moscow?”
Napier rubbed his face. “I don’t know. See, the reason Blokhin was in Monaco, was because he would be a dead man if he ever went back to Russia. He got caught selling arms to ISIS in Syria. And they were Russian weapons that were used against their own army. Worse than that, he didn’t give a kickback on the deal to Putin. Probably only a very large payment to Putin’s cronies kept him alive. You know, this guy was a real piece of work. I can’t say I’m sorry he bought the farm.”
“Maybe he was working for Moscow whether he liked it or not. You know, part of the bargain to save his life.”
“It’s possible, but if there’s one thing you could trust about this guy, it’s that he would sell his mother’s bones to the highest bidder. I can’t believe Moscow would be trusting him on any operation.”
Faber looked down at his phone. “Even as an expendable delivery boy?”
“You know, that’s a tempting thought, but if Sergei Blokhin had all those missiles, then there would be planes dropping out of the sky all over the Middle East, and he would be chilling on a yacht in Monaco. Delivery boy maybe, but that’s as far as it goes. I just don’t get Moscow ever trusting him again. It doesn’t smell right. How did he die?”
“On his ass. Shot in the head at close range. They used a pillow to mask the sound. I don’t think he was killed for what he knew. He was just rubbed out. Maybe someone was cleaning up.”
“You mean Montrose? Could be.” He sat at the desk. “I don’t think Montrose is working for Moscow. He’s a loose cannon. A crazy guy. It’s not Moscow’s style.”
“So, if it’s not Moscow calling the shots, who the hell is?”
Napier pressed the tips of his fingers against his mouth for a moment, then looked up. “That’s the million-dollar question. I know that fucking weasel Campbell is going to point the finger at Moscow, but my gut tells me some weird shit is going on and Moscow might not be in the loop.” He stood up. “I need to speak to Dimitri Saitsev.”
“Sir, Director Campbell is following our every move. If he finds out…”
“Yeah, if he finds out that I’ve got an unofficial back channel straight to the FSB while some asshole flying a desk in Langley is trying to pin this on Moscow, it won’t look good on my end of year appraisal and I might not get my performance bonus. Yeah, got that. Fuck it.”
“Sir, are you sure about Saitsev? He…”
“I’m sure about nothing. Except that this stinks. Campbell stinks. The whole of Washington stinks. They’re playing politics when we should be stopping innocent people being killed.” He looked over at Faber. “Listen, I appreciate your support. Things are about to get… If you want to walk away, I totally understand.”
Faber shook his head. “Tell me what you need me to do.”
“Thanks. I need you to contact Saitsev. Campbell’s watching me more than you. Just tell him Tin Can.”
“Tin Can? That’s it?”
“Yeah. Then I want you to go
across the street and buy two pay-per-use cell phones. Program each with the other’s number. Bring one to me, and take the other and hide it behind the cistern in the men’s restroom in the Ristorante Cornelia in Via Grossi. It’s not far.”
“Tin Can? Saitsev will know what that means?”
“Oh yeah. Years ago, we were both working in Syria. It wasn’t exactly a fun time, trying to defeat and undermine ISIS despite the shitstorm of misinformation from both our countries. We were being bugged at every move. By ourselves, the Russians, the Syrians, the Turks. The Iranians had a whole network running on the ground, and the British were listening to every word from RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus. Even the backchannels had backchannels. Saitsev and I said the only way we could talk in private was if we had to two tin cans and a piece of string. And we made a deal that if I ever needed to talk to him, I would leave a phone taped behind the cistern in a restaurant. Just like in The Godfather, except that was a gun. You know the scene?”
“Yeah, I know the one.”
“Okay, do that, then send him the message.” The phone rang on Napier’s desk. Faber went to pick it up, but Napier placed a hand on top of the receiver. “Just go. I know who this is.”
“I’m on it.”
He watched Faber close the door behind him then picked up the phone. “Yeah?”
There was a slight pause on the other end then he heard a familiar voice. “This is Director Campbell. I’d appreciate it if you would identify yourself correctly, Director Napier.”
“Depends if I want the caller to know. I get a lot of weirdos calling me. So, Director Campbell, what can I do for you?”
“Where is Montrose?”
Napier rolled his eyes and looked up to the ceiling. His grip tightened on the handset. “We missed him by about five minutes. Right now, we are searching every…”
“Director Napier, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to believe that you do not understand the importance of finding Montrose, but let me spell it out. He is central to finding these missiles. He is a terrorist, and a clear and present danger to this country. If you cannot find him then…”
“Goddammit! Don’t lecture me, you fucking desk jockey. You can sack me any time, but you won’t get anyone better on this operation. You know that, I know that, and any post-op enquiry will know that. This is my turf.”
“Napier, do not dare to make ultimatums or threats to me. I can guarantee you that…”
“Yeah, whatever. I’m not on your Christmas card list. If you even celebrate Christmas. You’re probably down with the fucking Grinch. Let’s stick to business, yeah? Montrose has gone. We are turning over every stone to find him. And if you want, I will personally drop his fucking corpse on your desk. But before I shoot him, I might just shake his hand.”
“What?”
“He killed Sergei Blokhin. In a private club in Monaco.”
“Sergei Blokhin? The arms dealer?”
“Yeah, exactly. And Blokhin is just the kind of low-life snakeshit dealer that would sell missiles to terrorists. Montrose did us a favor. We’ve found Blokhin’s phone, but it’s been wiped. From checking his number, we know he only arrived in Monaco a few days ago, so while we’re looking for Montrose, we have to track Blokhin’s movement. It could lead us right to the missiles. Montrose killed him for a reason. I want to know why, because this is looking increasingly unlike an FSB Moscow operation, and more like right-wing lunatics causing mayhem for the highest bidder.”
“Napier, you are making assumptions way above your pay grade, you must…”
“Don’t shit me, this operation is exactly what I’m paid for. You know it, so let’s not shuffle around like a couple of kids squaring up in the playground. I don’t give a shit how you paint this to the Chiefs of Staff or the President in the Situation Room, but I’m betting that if Sergei Blokhin was involved, then this shit just went right off the weird scale. So back off and let me do my job.” He listened to silence on the line, imagining Campbell gritting his teeth, wondering how he was going to explain to the President how a Russian billionaire mobster, pedophile and arms dealer, hated by Moscow and on the run in Monaco, fitted into this shitstorm.
“Napier, whatever I tell the President is none of your business. Do you know where the missiles are?”
“Not yet.”
“You failed to pick up the missiles in Rome. Do you know where Montrose is?”
“You know that…”
“Then you have singularly failed in every task I have given you. You have also failed to make any tangible progress. I will instruct the section head of France and Germany to take over this operation, and I expect you to give them any assistance and full cooperation. They will be in your office within the next thirty minutes. You will hand over all information and give a full briefing. Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime.”
Napier stood open-mouthed.
“You see, Director Napier, you may be an expert at running around Rome in blacked-out SUVs, talking to Russians, swapping information, and generally looking busy for the cameras, but post operation enquiries are my specialty, and so are the politics of the CIA. I guarantee you, I will squash you like a bug.” The call ended.
Napier stared at the phone.
The door opened and Faber walked in, holding out a phone in his hand. “It’s done.”
The Director stood quite still, staring out of the window across the forest canopy to the spires of Dresden, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
The other board members said nothing. Some picked up their glasses of water, before changing their minds, and some checked their phones, even though they knew that the raid on the club would be unlikely to be on the news.
At the end of the room, below a wide TV screen, a technician worked at a laptop. He sat back and the Director turned around.
“I’ve managed to access the cameras outside the club. We had to break through some security and the camera was locked. We may be detected, but they won’t be able to trace it back here.”
The Director nodded. “Let us see.”
The screen flickered into life. Several board members leaned forward. The picture showed several police vans and unmarked SUVs at the door of the club. Policemen stood at the doorway, semi-automatic rifles lowered.
“Director?” said one of the members.
The Director smiled, but his eye twitched.
“Can we be sure of Montrose?”
The Director tried to laugh but it caught in his throat. “Gentlemen, the brave Montrose walked into the lion’s den. The last report said he was disarmed by security at the front desk. Then he met with Blokhin in a room full of heavily-armed men. Montrose was surrounded, unarmed and helpless.”
“But can we be…?”
“Be quiet!” The Director fixed his gaze on the screen. “Show me the hotel camera. The exit to the car park. Then roll it back.”
The technician brought up the requisite camera, then rolled back the frames, showing a policeman and two cars on the ramp.
“Stop.” The Director walked slowly to the screen. “The taxi, gentlemen. As planned, it left the hotel with Montrose’s corpse and was waved through by a policeman. There!” He jabbed the screen with his finger. “There, gentlemen, is the stuff of your nightmares, his corpse thrown into the trunk.” He faced the table. “It seems the CIA got there a little too late to rescue their friend.” He squared his shoulders and raised himself up on the balls of this feet for a moment, then faced the table once more. “Now, with the demise of Mr. Montrose, we will release the video showing him sneaking through a Tuscan village, collecting the stolen Russian missile from the streets of underground Rome, and his visit to the Palatine Hill.” He nodded to the technician. “I’m sure conspiracy theorists around the world will have the time of their lives. I estimate that it will take intelligence communities around the world ten minutes to iden
tify him and leak his name to the media. This will be, I have no doubt, the worst day in the history of the CIA. But who knows, perhaps in the next few days we can improve on that.” He allowed himself a wry smile and looked around at the board members. “Any questions?”
“Sir?” The technician spoke, still hunched over his laptop.
His tone sent a chill down the Director’s spine. “You… may speak.”
“I have a report from our Monaco contacts. Sergei Blokhin is dead. Gunshot wound to the head. Suspected assassination.”
There was complete silence in the room before all the board members began to talk at once.
“Silence!” The Director leaned forward, placing his hands on the table to steady himself. “Anything else?”
“One other casualty.”
The board members sat completely still.
“I see.” The Director turned slowly. “Montrose?”
“No. Not Montrose.” The technician reread the message. “Montrose has gone.”
The Director looked open-mouthed at the screen, his voice reduced to a whisper. “The taxi. Focus on the taxi.”
The technician leaned over the keyboard and the picture zoomed in, blurred at first and then sharpened. A face appeared behind the wheel of the taxi.
The Director edged forward until he was only inches from the screen. “Montrose.” He could hear his own teeth grinding. Any sign of weakness now and he would not see the end of the day. A shock of adrenalin burst through him. He spun around and faced the table. “What a talented man.” He thrust out an arm towards the technician. “Do not send the video. We have a little housework to do before we can progress. And tell every resource in Europe I want Montrose’s head on my desk. Literally. One million dollars.”
A cell phone rang. The board members stared at the Director’s phone on the table. It vibrated and moved across the polished wood. One of the board members leaned over and held it still.
The technician looked up. “It’s St. Petersburg. They have hidden their number.”
“I’ll take it in the …” The Director walked over, but the board member pressed the answer key.