by Mark Leggatt
“Generals,” said Montrose. “They’re all famous generals.” He walked between the rows of cabinets.
“I know the smell in here.”
“Yeah.”
“Gun oil and army clothing. I used to work in an army surplus shop in the East End of London. Good kit for homeless people. It smelled the same.”
He shone his torch up on to the wall and saw metal racks stretching down behind the cabinets. They were empty, apart from name tags. He leaned over and began to read. “Brown Bess.”
“I know what that is.”
He looked along. “Martini-Henry. Sten. Garland. Lee Enfield SMLE. World War Two weapons?”
“Oh, yeah, baby. I’ve landed in Day of Honor.”
“What?”
“It’s a computer shooter game. Like Call of Duty for World War Two. That’s how I know about these guns. But that begs the question. What the hell is this place?” She walked forward and saw stacks of plastic crates against the far wall beside a door. “Okay, I’ve found the way out.”
He tightened his grip on the pistol. “Right, we have to make sure… Kirsty?”
“Not yet.” She stood in front of the crates. “I’ve got a funny feeling…” She pulled open a lid and saw a black beret on top of a khaki jersey. “Bloody hell. That’s Monty’s hat. Or a copy of it.”
“You sure?”
She lifted it up. “He was the only man allowed to wear two badges on his hat. His general’s rank on a Tankie’s beret.” She replaced it back on the jersey. “It’s amazing the things you learn when you play computer games.” Opening the next case, she found a steel helmet with two white handled pistols in leather holsters, and a belt studded with ammunition.
“Patton,” said Montrose.
“Cowboy guns,” said Kirsty. “No good to me.” She dropped the lid.
“Wait, was that ammunition real?”
She opened the next lid. “Oh, come to Mama.”
“What is it?”
She lifted out some khaki webbing, holding long magazines on a strap. She swung them over her shoulder. “This is the motherlode.” In her hand she held a short rifle.
Montrose recognized the dark wooden stock and the stubby barrel. “A Thompson submachine gun?”
“Christ, this is heavy.” She pulled back the cocking handle and checked the breech, then slotted in a magazine.
“Listen, Kirsty… a tommy gun?”
“Connor, if some loony wants to keep mannequins dressed up as famous generals in glass cases and collect military weapons, I have no issue with that.” She reached into the crate and pulled out a parcel wrapped in oil cloth. It fell away and showed the barrel of a semi-automatic. “Colt 1911. WWII issue. Big ass 45.”
“You don’t need that.”
“You’re right, I’ve got a Glock, but this is a very cool dinosaur.” She dropped it in the crate, then pulled out a wooden box, stained with age and gun oil. The letters BSA were stamped into the top. “Made in Birmingham?” She opened the lid. “Oh, heaven.”
“What the hell is that? A pistol?”
She pulled it out, and looked down the long, fat barrel. There was no trigger guard, just a flattened piece of metal and a short pistol grip.
“That looks like it was made for a school project,” said Montrose. “It’ll blow up in your face.”
“I think not. This is a Welrod. Possibly the quietest pistol ever made. The British developed it for the SOE, for assassinations in WWII. But they were still using it in the Falklands and even in the last Gulf War. I am so having this.” She popped out the magazine, and pushed down on the rounds. She turned to him, clasping it to her chest and striking a pose. “This is the best present a girl could wish for.”
“Now you’re scaring me.”
She shoved the Welrod into the waistband of her jeans and then hefted the Thompson in her hands and sniffed. “This has been cleaned recently. It’s reeking of gun oil. And there’s another smell I recognize.”
“Yeah. Burnt propellant.”
“Somebody’s been firing weapons around here.” She shone her torch into the corner of the room and saw an open door. She stepped over and flicked a light switch on the wall. As she stepped through, a bulb lit above the door, just over her head, and another on the far wall flickered into life. A knee-high line of sandbags lay halfway across the floor. The bulb illuminated as far as a 50 meter sign, then faded into darkness. “I’ve found the firing range.”
Montrose ducked his head through. “Dead end.”
“Yeah.” She flicked off the light switch and turned back to the crates.
He looked down at the Thompson. “You know how to use that?”
“Mate, I’m expert level on Day of Honor. This is my personal weapon.” She checked the safety catch and tried to make the magazine holders more comfortable around her neck. “But they don’t tell you how heavy these things are in real life. Jesus...”
“Maybe you could…”
“What, find a more girly gun?”
“Kirsty…”
“If we go through that door and things get a bit fruity, I want to be holding a tommy gun, not a Glock 9mm pea shooter.”
“I hear ya.”
“So, you better get tooled up. Check the boxes.”
“I… I’ve never fired any weapons other than a 9mm. Not all Yanks are gun nuts.”
“Really? Have you ever played shoot-em-up computer games?”
“Not much, I…”
“Look, Connor, there’s more to the internet than pornography. You got to live a little, you…”
They heard a noise behind the door.
Kirsty dropped the lid on the crate and ducked into the darkened doorway of the firing range. They looked out as strip lights buzzed into life over the crates, illuminating the cellar. She brought up the short barrel of the Thompson. They looked out from the darkness and saw two men enter the cellar.
The first man pulled the trolley towards the door. “Leave it open,” he said. “The sooner we get this shit moved, the better. It’s making me nervous.” Both men pushed the trolley out the door.
The room returned to silence. Kirsty edged out and stood in front of the crates.
Montrose held the Glock in front of him. “We better be fast.”
“You think they’re here?” she said.
“The missiles?” He shrugged. “If they are, we just need to eyeball them then get the hell out. Pilgrim can take care of the rest.”
Kirsty jammed the butt of the Thompson into her shoulder and stuck her head around the door. “Clear.”
Montrose followed her into the low, stone corridor, and heard the familiar hum of computer equipment and the whirring of hundreds of small fans in server cabinets. “Machine room.” At the end of the corridor they saw a long, dark room adjacent to the firing range, lined with server cabinets, glowing with thousands of pinprick lights.
“The Silk Road,” said Kirsty.
“Wait.” He pointed to the ground and a thick green cord running near the wall. “I’ve seen that before.” He walked forward, following the cord until it came to the foot of a server cabinet.
Kirsty shook her head. “Are they running network cables along the floor? Very naughty.”
“It’s not a network cable,” said Montrose. “It’s det cord.”
“What?”
“Detonation cord. It’s filled with plastic explosive.” He shone his torch down between the server cabinets, where the green cord looped in and out. “This place is wired to blow.”
“Oh, shit.”
He turned towards her, her face lit up by the thousands of tiny colored lights. “And I think we’ve got as long as it takes for those goons to load those boxes. After that I’ve got no idea.”
“Then let’s move. Missiles, yeah?”
“
Yeah. But they’re not gonna blow the place with missiles here.”
“They’re here or they’re not. Let’s just check this shit and go.”
“I’m with ya.” He backed out and down the corridor. “The trolley they used. We’ll hear them coming.”
“Wait.” She held a finger to her mouth. “That’s an elevator.”
He heard the whine of the motors. “Yeah. Service elevator for the computers.”
“And maybe missiles.”
“Maybe.”
She pointed to the end of the corridor then jerked a thumb right.
He nodded and crept towards the corner, then flattened his face against the wall and moved his head to the edge. He saw another corridor stretching around thirty feet. At the end a guard sat behind a small desk covered in security monitors, next to an elevator’s wide steel doors. He heard the rumble of wheels and two men emerged to the left of the guard, each hauling two metal suitcases.
Faber walked into the room and shook his head.
“Nothing? Nothing at all?” Napier closed his eyes and looked up at the roof.
“Every one of those names has restrictions put on it. Files locked, traces jammed. And as soon as we tried, we could see alerts going off all over the place.”
Napier stood, forcing back the chair across the floor. “You know, if I was a cynic, and I am, then I’d say that it’s as if someone knew we were going to look for those names. Someone called Campbell.”
“A little bird told me he’s on the warpath.”
“I don’t give a shit. He wants my job? If I don’t stop those missiles, then I don’t have a job.” He pointed at Faber. “Remember, everything goes in my name.”
“Understood. And appreciated, sir.”
“You can come and visit me in prison. Bring beer.”
Faber sat down. “What if Montrose, or whoever it is, sent them the same information? The same names?”
“And they set all those blocks up in time? I doubt it. And why would they do that? No, someone knew and blocked the search.” He pulled the chair back and sat facing Faber over the table. “We’re being taken for a ride. Washington is letting this happen. And I think Campbell is behind it. All of it.”
“Sir, that can’t be…” Faber looked down at the table. “They’re going to let this happen, aren’t they?”
Napier said nothing.
Chapter 23
Montrose pulled his head back from the edge of the wall. “Kirsty, I’ve found them.”
“What?”
“Two men. Each hauling a suitcase. Just like Rome. They got in the elevator. I saw where they came from.”
She lifted the Thompson.
“No, let them go. We only need to know for sure that the rest of the missiles are here. Taking out a few suitcases won’t help.”
“Okay.” She lowered the barrel and they heard the elevator doors close. “We can use the explosives and det cord. Blow the place sky high.”
“Det cord is not a like a fuse. That’s not gonna work.”
“What about the guard at the elevator?”
“We take him out. We need to see where those suitcases came from.”
Kirsty moved forward and looked quickly around the corner. “Sorted.” She swept the Thompson to the side and pulled the Welrod pistol from the waistband of her jeans, then tugged back the breech and loaded a round.
“Kirsty…”
She stepped out into the corridor and held the pistol in front of her, keeping it steady and walking quickly towards the man. She was halfway down the corridor before he looked up. The pistol coughed, and a red dot appeared on his forehead. He slumped beneath the desk.
“That went well.” She nodded to the elevator. “They’ll be back. We need to hide him.”
“Kirsty.” Montrose pointed through an open door, where they saw broken wooden crates stacked haphazardly against the wall, some stamped with Cyrillic script.
“There are no suitcases,” said Kirsty.
“What?” He gazed around at the broken crates. All empty.
“No suitcases,” she said. “They’ve used them all. Because there are no more missiles.” She shook her head. “We’re too late, Connor. We have to go.” She ran back towards the elevator. “Bring him. The other goons will be back for the... Oh, Jesus. Look.” She pointed to a TV screen by the desk. It showed a line of panel vans and trucks being loaded with suitcases.
“They’re still here,” said Montrose.
“We need Pilgrim. He can arrange an airstrike.”
“You sure?”
“Connor, once those wagons start rolling, they’ll be all over Germany in twenty minutes. We’ll never get a better chance.”
He pulled out his phone. “No signal.”
Kirsty grabbed a phone on the desk and listened to the tone. “I’ve got an outside line. Give me Pilgrim’s number.”
He held up his phone. “Tell him it’s compromised.”
She dialed the digits. “He’ll know.”
“Let me talk…”
“Mr. Pilgrim? Listen to me carefully. We have no time. The missiles are here. They are being loaded onto trucks right now. They are ready to go. Your number is now compromised. We are leaving. Bomb my position. I repeat, bomb my position. Please confirm.”
Montrose felt his mouth drop open.
“Understood,” said Kirsty, and dropped the phone. “Connor, time to bugger off.”
The elevator whined and they heard the car stop. Montrose looked down the corridor. He realized they’d never make it to the end without being spotted. “Missile room. Now!” He grabbed the guard by the coat and dragged him from behind the desk.
Kirsty ran in front and waited inside the door, then dragged the guard’s corpse through as Montrose made it inside. The elevator pinged.
Montrose pulled out his Glock and listened to the sound of wheels in the corridor. “Let them take another load of crates. Then we go. If we start a shooting match they’ll think they’re being attacked and send the trucks out ASAP.”
“Yeah. Connor, how long before NATO bombers get here?”
“Airbase in Germany. Five minutes? Ten? Depends if they’re in the sky.”
Kirsty lifted the barrel of the Thompson. “They’ll be in the sky.”
The technician leaned over the laptop and silenced the alarm.
“What is it?” said the Director. He fought the urge to run and slowly got to his feet.
Grigor Mikhailov placed his whisky glass on the boardroom table and stood up.
“The system has detected that a call was made to an outside number. It took a few minutes for the system to track down exactly where the call was made, but it was from the security guard’s phone, next to the elevator door in the cellars. I have tried to contact him. There is no answer. And we have also detected an unauthorized cell phone on the wifi.”
The Director walked to the window. “Has it penetrated the wifi?”
“No, sir. I can block it if required. But we have it triangulated to near where the outside call was made. The guard’s station, near the elevator.”
“You have the number that was called?”
“Yes, sir, it is recorded on the telephone system. It was registered in Italy three days ago.”
The Director laughed.
Mikhailov walked around the table towards the technician. “Director, do you have a spy?”
“If we do, then they’re too late. And rather reckless.” He turned to the technician. “Block all outside calls.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And block all the cell phone masts within a mile of here. We can talk through wifi calling and the routers. I don’t want this unknown cell phone finding a signal. Understood?”
“All outside calls are now disabled, sir. The phone masts will be cut in a few mi
nutes, once their systems shut down.”
“And what of the person who made the call?” asked Mikhailov.
“They are too late, whoever they are.”
Mikhailov came closer. “And the missiles?”
The Director sat at the boardroom table, and waved an arm towards the window. “I’ve always enjoyed that view. Such a pity.” He faced Mikhailov. “In ten minutes the trucks will disperse as planned to the agreed transfer points, and the drivers will destroy all evidence and disappear throughout Europe. They know the penalty for being caught.”
“But what of the missiles? If the missiles don’t reach…”
“It is of no consequence if most of the missiles are captured. It’s not central to the objective. Ideally, we require just one to get through and take down a plane, but it’s really not necessary. Cherry on the cake, you may say.” He stood up and stared out of the window, towards the spires of Dresden. “Never under estimate the desire to return to the past. To rebuild. As we will rebuild.”
“Where will you go?” asked Mikhailov.
“It matters not. We can bring up the Silk Road anywhere in the world. But next time, I am very much attracted to China. A truly great civilization. Endlessly fascinating. And always ready to do business.” His phone rang and he held it to his ear.
A refined British voice spoke. “I’ve just had a message from MI6. An airstrike was ordered for this location. Rather unfortunate, really.”
The calm demeanor of the British always infuriated the Director. He squeezed the phone tight in his hand. “It is indeed.”
“However, I informed them that they were very much mistaken and were being fed false information.”
“That is refreshing news.”
“In fact, I told them that I was close to the location, having followed a tip-off from a Russian contact, and that they can tell the CIA that there is nothing here but warehouses full of nitrate fertilizer which would give the impression of being an arms dump if the CIA were idiot enough to bomb it. I made it clear that they were being duped by the Russians, and that there would be a number of innocent deaths. So, if they wanted to make their situation even worse, to go right ahead.”
“Well, the fertilizer part is true. Do you think it will work?”