by Mark Leggatt
“I think we should all hear this.” He pressed the loudspeaker button and placed it in the middle of the table.
“I want to talk to the Director.”
The Director cleared his throat. “Speaking. Go ahead.”
“We have had news of the death of our colleague in Monaco. Therefore, we require immediate confirmation that all hardware is secure and ready for distribution. We are sending a man to assist you, and to protect our investment.”
The Director nodded. He breathed out slowly through his nose. “I understand. I can confirm that all hardware is secure and ready for distribution. Funds will be transferred as soon as they arrive from the customers. And I look forward to meeting your new representative. They can witness the next stage of the operation.”
“We also require assurance that Connor Montrose, who has come to our attention, is not a threat.”
His hands were clasped behind his back so tightly they began to shake. “Montrose is over one thousand kilometers away with the police forces and security services of three countries in pursuit.”
“Are your certain that he does not know the location of the hardware?”
“Yes. My planning ensured that Sergei Blokhin did not know, therefore there is no way that Montrose would have found out.”
There was a pause on the line.
“And what if you are wrong?”
The Director stared at the phone. “You are sending a new representative. He can witness operations for himself. The next few hours will see the hardware disposed of across the continents and through a network of transport and exit points to the Middle East. Then this site will no longer exist.”
“We look forward to his report.” The call ended.
“Gentlemen,” said the Director. “Time is short and so is my patience. We are at the end of the game. Focus, gentlemen. Put aside anything that distracts you from the objective. Some of you may be aware that as an expert on military history and strategy, I have a wide collection of military uniforms and weapons. Amongst these is a pearl-handled revolver carried by General Patton during the Second World War. If I find anyone leaving this site before the operation is complete, then I will go down to the cellars, find Patton’s gun, bring it up here and shoot them between the eyes.”
The phone rang. Napier stared at it for a moment, then lifted it to his ear.
Saitsev’s voice was low. “Since you are using this method of communication, I assume you are trusting me with information that, shall we say, you’re not at liberty to share through normal channels.”
“Yeah.”
“Then I am listening.”
“Did you hear about Sergei Blokhin?” said Napier.
“That piece of shit?”
“Yeah, that piece of shit.”
“I know why you were in Monaco. It’s not hard to work out. Did you kill him?”
“He was killed by an ex-CIA agent. Connor Montrose. We think Blokhin was involved in the distribution of the missiles. We don’t know how he got them or where they came from, but he arrived in Monaco the day before the attack in the Tuscan village.”
There was silence on the other end, then Saitsev spoke. “You know what this means?”
“That depends on who Blokhin was working for.”
“Tovarishch, that would be a short list. I have a longer list, that of people who would like to see Blokhin cut open and thrown in a sewer. That’s what happens when you try to fuck a cabinet minster’s fifteen-year-old daughter, and sell Russian arms to ISIS in Syria. If Blokhin had those missiles, he could have personally handed them over to the Russian president, accompanied by the Red Army choir singing the national anthem, and he would still have been dead within the hour.”
“You’re saying there’s no way they could kiss and make up?”
“Let’s say they would extract a very high price for that reconciliation. And more money than Blokhin ever had. Then they would kill him anyway. And Blokhin would be under no illusions. He was a dead man walking.”
“Well, when you put it like that…”
“If Sergei Blokhin was involved, then we are looking at a very different picture. Let me make some enquiries of my own. I need to see what kind of company he has been keeping. I’m sure it will prove very illuminating.” Saitsev let out a low laugh. “Unless of course, that I find that he was working for the CIA. That would be very disappointing.”
“Listen, Dimitri, that would be news to me. But I have to tell you, there’s gonna be a new CIA sheriff in town, and when that happens, and I find out that Blokhin was working for us, then I’m going to phone you on this number and tell you straight.”
Saitsev said nothing.
“I’m not shitting you. If I find that there was someone in Langley or Washington involved in a false flag operation, using a piece of crap like Blokhin, that resulted in the murder of US service personnel, then I will regard these people as traitors to my country and I will do anything in my power to stop them. Including passing on information that results in their exposure. And if I have to go to the Russian FSB to do it, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Do you understand me?”
Saitsev paused before answering. “I understand. My objective is to find and destroy or recover the missiles. If we do not stop this, then there will be planes dropping out of the sky. Both Russian and American. Tovarishch, if they end up in the hands of the lunatics in the Middle East…”
“Let’s concentrate on finding them. But you know what I think? The remaining missiles are not in Italy.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Logistics, my friend. They were delivered to Rome from somewhere in Europe. And I’m thinking the same as you. Blokhin and Monaco. But that was the end point of Blokhin’s most recent journey. I want to know where it started.”
“I hope you understand, if we discover them before you, then we will take action.”
Napier heard the steel in his voice. “What you mean?”
“I mean, if we discover them and we cannot recover them, then we will destroy them.”
“In a NATO country? You know how that could look?”
“Yes. But we are staring down the barrel of a gun. If Moscow thinks it is going to be blamed for these atrocities in Europe, then military action will not be a deterrent to them. They will strike anywhere and hard. They are damned if they do and damned if they don’t.”
“You know it may be seen as an act of war?”
“If it stops a civilian airliner dropping out of the sky, then it will have been worthwhile. Then we will send in the diplomats.”
“Yeah.”
“Luckily, they survived the Rome attack. It is no coincidence that they were a target.”
“I hear you. I hope to God it doesn’t come to this.”
“We have to be ready. Russia will not shrink from military action in Europe if it is the only option.”
Napier squeezed the phone tight in his hand, “Dimitri, you have to talk to these people, if they think that NATO is going to…”
“Tovarishch! Let me explain the Russian mindset. We are pariahs. The US sanctions have crippled our economy. We have NATO armies camped on our border in our ex-Soviet states. The Ukraine will be next, it’s only a matter of time. Then it’s checkmate. Until then, Moscow will never stop doing what it can, anything it can, to undermine the west and NATO. It is the most important mission in the FSB. Nothing else comes close. Our enemies are armed, ready and on our border. Destroying NATO is our obsession.”
“Well, given the assholes you put in the White House, you’ve had some success.”
“We cannot always rely on the United States providing us with a succession of immoral, greedy imbeciles. Though sometimes, it is too tempting. No offense, tovarishch, but in your free democracy, we have freedom to create havoc.”
“Yeah, we got that.”
/> “So, we look out over the border and we see the future. There is absolutely no doubt that the US and their allies would use these missiles to blame Russia for military aggression and state terrorism. Then what would happen next? Would it be an excuse for NATO armies to cross our border? I do not think so. Even the hawks in Washington don’t want to see their pension fund threatened. No, I think you would harness your outrage to drive us to starvation. All it would take would be for the missiles to end up in the arms of Russia’s enemies, then our markets would crash and Washington could sit back and watch the Russian bear eat its own children. And when revolution has burned everything to the ground, then NATO can don their blue helmets and walk in with their food parcels to distribute democracy at gunpoint.”
“Dimitri, sometimes I think…”
“I have to go. Listen to me. Someone is trying to set fire to Europe. And it’s either your tribe, or mine.”
The upper room was thick with cigarette smoke as Saitsev reached the top of the worn wooden stairs. “Open the window. Sit down.”
One man opened a window onto the noisy street, and the restaurant tables below, then took his seat with the others in front of their laptops.
Saitsev stared out of the window for a moment, then looked at each man in turn. “I am convinced that the missiles are in northern Europe. I want a company of Special Forces in the sky, ready for immediate deployment. If we can recapture them we will do so, if not, we will destroy them.”
One of the men stood up. “Sir, do you mean deploy a Special Forces team in Europe?”
“Yes, I do. In a NATO country.”
“What will…? Do you want me to call Moscow? Tell them?”
“No, I’ll call the President myself. He’s going to ask a few questions. And I want a cargo plane in the air and minutes from the European border.”
“Will the cargo plane pick up the missiles?”
Saitsev gave him a thin smile. “No. The Special Forces team will collect the missiles, if it is possible, though I think it unlikely. The cargo plane will be delivering a cargo, not collecting it. I’ll come to that later.” He stared down at the floor for a moment. In the silence, the noise from the restaurant drifted up the narrow staircase, and he turned and closed the door. At the end of the table, plates of pastries and cold meats lay untouched. Beer fizzed in open bottles. He pointed to the food. “You eat, I’ll talk.”
The men got up from their seats, filled their plates, then sat and began to eat methodically.
The bare wooden floor creaked as Saitsev stepped slowly around the room, his hands behind his back. “The CIA have been on a day trip to Monaco.”
The men didn’t stop eating, but looked up expectantly.
“But they got there too late for Sergei Blokhin.”
All the men started talking at once, spraying beer and food across the table with their mouths full. “That bastard! I’ll…”
“Eat,” said Saitsev. “As soldiers, you should know your next meal is never guaranteed.”
“Blokhin,” said one of the men, “Do they have him?”
“They have his corpse.”
The men laughed and clinked beer bottles across the table. “God bless America!” said one. “Maybe the CIA can help us kill them all.”
“No,” said Saitsev, “it was not the CIA who killed him. It was a man called Connor Montrose. I want background on him. Eat first.”
“His name has come up several times,” said one. “Who is he working for?”
“That I don’t know. My enemy’s enemy is my friend. For now.”
“Why did Montrose kill Blokhin?”
“I do not know. But Blokhin may have been involved in delivering the missiles to the terrorists.”
“In the name of Christ! We should have shot that treasonous shit and fed his body to the dogs in Syria!”
“Well, let’s just say karma caught up with him.” Saitsev leaned over the table. “We are about to get very busy.” He pointed to one man. “Brief our team in Moscow about Blokhin. Highest priority. We know who his friends are. I want them all tracked and monitored. I want men in their faces. House visits. Kick the toilet door down if they’re having a crap. I want to see who starts to panic. I want to see who starts to run.” He pointed to another man. “Blokhin was killed in his club in Monaco. I want to know where he has been for the past two weeks. Every step. Find his number, and break into any system to track his movements. Credit card, cell phone masts, border records, anything. Phone calls, texts and emails. The French DGSE have several harvesting cell phone masts in that area. The CIA probably don’t know they are being monitored. Get onto our French contact. I want to know everything that the CIA do. Every map that they look at online, every website. They are desperate to find the missiles, not save the reputation of Mother Russia. Do whatever you have to do, but I want Monaco to be sucked dry. If Blokhin was involved in delivering those missiles, then they came from somewhere. We must find them before the CIA.”
One of the men looked up.
“Talk.”
“If we do find them, and the Special Forces are sent in to recover them, that might be…”
“It might be considered an act of war if people start shooting. Yes, I have no doubt. But if we don’t find these missiles, then I have a feeling that it really won’t matter any more.” He pointed to another of the men. “Get me the cargo plane. When you have it, I want to speak to the pilots. Two at most. They must be Special Forces trained. Other air crew will not be required. There will not be a return journey.”
Chapter 20
He tightened the headphones against his ears to suppress the roar of the engines. The helicopter swung north east and picked up speed, and Montrose could see the peaks of the snow-covered Alps in the distance. Opposite him, Kirsty wriggled her bottom deeper into the leather seat and grinned. He made to speak, but she pressed a finger to her lips.
The chopper climbed high and fast and he clamped the kit bag tighter between his legs to stop it sliding on the floor.
As they reached cruising altitude, Kirsty loosened her seatbelt then leaned forward and unzipped her bag. She pulled out a pair of jeans and Dr. Martens boots, then kicked off her heels. She undid the seat belt, pulled on the jeans and laced up her boots.
Montrose looked down at his bag. He unzipped it and his hand brushed against the cold metal of a 9mm pistol. Beside it lay a phone. He brought it out and held it up to Kirsty.
She took it and switched it on, then connected his Bluetooth earpiece. Once she had finished her own, she connected the call and handed it back. “Can you hear me?”
“Can we use these phones up here?”
“Yeah, they don’t interfere with aviation systems, that’s total shit.”
Priti’s voice came over the line. “Welcome back. I’ve fed Blokhin’s phone history into a database and I ran a triangulation of his number to all the phone masts around the club and then found the nearest cameras.”
“You saw him arrive?” said Kirsty.
“Not in person, but I didn’t need to. I saw a black Mercedes Maybach arrive and drive into the underground hotel car park. Then the masts lost the signal, so it had to be him.”
“That’s a big limo, right?”
“Yeah, and it’s easily big enough to get four large suitcases in the trunk. I think it’s certain he delivered the missiles to Monaco himself. That way there would be no weak links in the chain. Then I scrolled back two days before the attack in the village. He left Monaco in the Mercedes and I tracked his phone and his car through all the phone masts and all the way through Italy, into Austria and then Germany. I could work out where he would be by his average speed then check it against the camera. He never broke the speed limit at any time. Now, in Italy, that’s a crime in itself. And he avoided the most direct route through Switzerland.”
“Why would he do that?�
� asked Montrose.
“Borders,” said Kirsty. “Switzerland isn’t part of the European Union. More chance of getting stopped by the border cops. Yeah, I think that nails it. He was the delivery man.”
“Did he take the back roads?”
“No,” said Priti. “You’ve less chance of being stopped on an autoroute. He entered Germany and headed straight for Munich, but he didn’t stop, he kept going towards Nuremberg, then stopped fifty miles from the city.”
“Where?”
“A service station and truck park. I am trying to access the cameras right now,” replied Priti. “He stopped for five minutes and when the signal began moving again, it shows he returned to Monaco using exactly the same route. The bad news is that I can’t get into the cameras at the service station. I can see them on the network, but they are either switched off or pointing at the sky.”
“Yeah,” said Kirsty. “That’s what I’d do.”
“Priti,” said Montrose, “I have an idea. If Blokhin was there for five minutes to make the pickup, then whoever delivered the missiles to him had to either be waiting for him, or arrive at the same time, yeah?”
“Makes sense,” said Kirsty. “Let’s make an assumption that you wouldn’t be hanging around in a service station with stolen missiles in your trunk, and let’s make an assumption that the service station is a mid-point on the road. So, we’re looking for someone who arrived from the opposite direction in a vehicle big enough to carry four suitcases, within twenty minutes of Blokhin’s arrival.”
“And then that vehicle would then return the way it came,” said Montrose, “minus the missiles, yeah?”
Kirsty leaned forward. “How many vehicles would drive to a service station, then turn around and go back the same way? In the middle of no place?”
Pilgrim’s voice came over the line. “I appreciate your reasoning, but if I may exercise a note of caution, a lot of traffic can travel down a motorway in twenty minutes, even if you have cameras.”
“Not just cameras,” said Priti. “Thanks to German efficiency, that road is lined with ANPR cameras. They can read license plates.”