by Mark Leggatt
“What?”
“You’re gonna have to kill me. It’s the only way to shut me up. You knew about Blokhin. You knew about his friends. It doesn’t take much to work out that you knew it all. You are up to your neck in…” He heard the squeak of Campbell’s chair as it was shoved back.
“Shut up! You stupid amateur! I warned you before, you take me on and I will crush you! And when I am finished you will be legendary throughout the CIA and beyond, as the idiot who was responsible for the deaths of thousands. So, how brave do you feel now?”
“Bring it on, shithead.”
Campbell stared at the screen. “You really have to wise up, Napier. You think this is a personal conflict with me, but you are facing an oncoming train of pain. This is one of the most ambitious projects ever undertaken by the CIA. You’re just a noisy cog in a huge machine, so it’s time you got on board and do exactly as I say. I hold your reputation and career in the palm of my hand.”
“Squeeze. See what happens.”
“Napier, we are on the brink of controlling Moscow. Our friends are in position. We will have the Russian bear by the balls. Then you can do the squeezing. Any time you like. How do you think you would feel?"
“Nauseous, to be frank. I think you took that analogy a step too far.”
Campbell shook his head. “Enough. Time for you to choose. You win or lose. And think of the prize. Once the Russian government falls, as it surely will, we will be ready to move. No government will be able to stand the diplomatic pressure that will come to bear. They will be seen as pariahs, murderers, fueled by hatred of the west, driven to sponsoring terror throughout the Middle East and Balkans.”
“So, what’s new? They’ve been doing that for seventy years.”
“Not live on YouTube they haven’t. The world has changed.”
“And you’ll let innocent…”
“Napier, you were once a soldier. We’re at war with the Russians. We always have been. People die. A friend of mine told me this quote recently, from a great American, General Patton. He said, ‘The object of war is not to die for your country, but to make the other bastard die for his.’ We are going to make sure that happens.”
“By letting innocent people die?”
“Napier, the whole world will be screaming at Moscow to release the missile software so that they can be stopped. And they will release the code. If they don’t, then the new government will.” He leaned forward. “We are so close, Napier. It’s time for you to choose.”
“How many?”
“What?” Campbell looked blankly at the screen. “How many what?”
“How many people have to die before they release the codes and work out a way to stop the missiles. How many?”
Campbell sat back. “I’m wasting my time.”
“Got another question for you.” Napier stood up and walked towards the screen. “We got a report stating where the missiles were located. A place in Germany. We were going to bomb it but the attack was called off. Why?”
Campbell shrugged and looked down at his notes. “False information. Someone panicking.”
“Someone must have been pretty sure to load two fucking bombers and send them to drop their payload on a NATO country.”
Campbell got up. “I have no time for this. Make a choice. You are in or out. In, you keep quiet and do what you’re told. Out, and you’ll go down in history as an incompetent responsible for thousands of deaths. Your choice, make your move.”
Napier walked straight up to the screen. “Go fuck yourself.”
The screen darkened. The door opened and a man entered and disconnected the phone.
Faber stood in the doorway.
“No visitors,” said the man.
“Hey, I’m just bringing him a coffee.” He held up a paper cup.
“Okay.”
Napier sat behind the table.
Faber placed the cup on front of him.
“Sir, you need anything?”
Napier kept his voice low. “Go away.” He watched the man with the phone, standing in the doorway, trying to listen.
“Sir?” said Faber.
“Go away. I want you to go away, and be with someone who will be a witness to the fact that you were not with me in five minutes time. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Napier leaned back in the chair. “Alea iacta est.”
“Sir?”
“It’s what Julius Caesar said when he crossed the Rubicon river, and led his army into Rome. Such an act was treason. It means ‘the die is cast’.”
Faber said nothing.
“You’re a good man. Go. Now.”
Faber nodded and turned away.
Napier watched the door close and heard the key turn in the lock. He took out the phone from his pocket, held it in his hand for a moment, then chose the only number in the contact list. It was answered immediately. “Dimitri? We need to talk.”
Saitsev cut the call. He looked up to the ceiling, clasped his hands behind his back, then began to breathe slowly. He closed his eyes.
“Sir? The team is in place. They have surrounded the dacha. Security has been suppressed. They are awaiting orders.”
Saitsev didn’t answer. He let his lungs empty, then slowly sucked in air. He knew he’d remember this moment. For good or for bad. When he spoke, it was almost a whisper. “Kill them all. God will know his own.”
“Sir?”
He opened his eyes and turned to the table. “Kill them all. All the traitors. The spies, the money men, the pederasts, the gangsters and the generals. Clear the temple. Kill them all. No one in that dacha is to come out alive. No one.”
The man spoke quietly into the phone and gave the order.
Saitsev closed his eyes again. “And the cargo plane?”
“Circling just outside the area, sir. They are being questioned by Dresden airport. So far, they have not responded. They have lined up their flight path as instructed.”
“Understood.”
“Sir, that flight path is taking them away from Dresden airport. Do they have another airstrip they can use?”
Saitsev didn’t look at him. “No. They don’t. Tell the pilots to unseal their orders.”
Chapter 26
Branches whipped against his face and he brought up his arms to shield himself and charged into the road. He caught up with Kirsty as she grabbed the key of the Porsche and jumped into the driver’s seat.
“Anything?” she said.
He brought up his cell phone. “Nothing. No signal.”
“Get in.” Kirsty fired up the Porsche and had the wheels spinning before he could close the door. She wrestled the steering wheel as the car’s hood snaked from side to side, then straightened up when the tires bit into the tarmac. She floored the throttle, keeping it hard down and hauled back on the gear lever every time the engine hit the rev limiter, and each time the Porsche took a lurch forward.
Montrose held the phone in front of his face, aware of trees flashing close by his window. He glanced over at the speedometer. It registered over 200 kilometers per hour.
“Now?” Kirsty held her arms tight on the wheel.
“Not yet. They must have disabled all the cell masts. We need to get in range of…” The signal indicator flickered then showed five bars. He was just about to shout when the phone rang in his hand.
Kirsty stood on the brakes.
The phone flew out of his hand and into the footwell. Montrose was pinned against his seatbelt. Within seconds, the car had slid to a halt. He stared at the ringing phone. He looked at Kirsty.
“Answer it. I’ll call Pilgrim and get the bombers back.”
The ringing stopped. “Who the fuck was that? Nobody else has got this number.” He undid the belt and reached down.
Kirsty ignored him and dialed
her phone. “Mr. Pilgrim. Get the bombers back. Linden cancelled the bombing. He was a traitor. He’s dead.” She thumbed the loudspeaker.
“I’ll try,” said Pilgrim, “but even if they are in the air, and I assume they are, it may take ten or fifteen minutes.”
“That’s too long,” said Kirsty. “They are ready to go. They might get some, but they’re gonna need an army to shut down the whole of eastern Germany.”
The phone rang in Montrose’s hand. He pressed the loudspeaker button.
A voice came over the line. “Linden? Are you there?”
Montrose looked at Kirsty and grinned. “Linden? Oh, man,” he said, “have I got bad news for you. You must be Linden’s new boss, Mr. Director. The man who was going to top up his pension fund.”
The voice became shrill. “Where is Linden?”
“He’s in the cellars, with half his fucking head missing.”
There was silence on the line. “Who…?”
They heard the rotors of an approaching helicopter and Kirsty got out of the car and stared down the road.
Montrose shoved open his door as a dark blue helicopter flew low over their heads, following the road towards Rhiandorf. “He said he was going to take a little trip with you. Guess now you’re on your own.”
“Montrose?”
“Yeah. Let me guess. You’re another member of my fan club.”
Kirsty nudged him with her elbow and pointed to the sky. From the east, a cargo plane descended slowly, and below it two parachutes drifted towards the ground.
“You are the luckiest man alive, Montrose. But it won’t last forever. I have directed my men to bring me your head. Literally, your head on my desk. It’s only a matter of time. There is nowhere in the world you can hide.”
“Whatever. I’m going to make one phone call and you and your crummy warehouses will be blown to shit.”
Kirsty watched the parachutes drift below the tree line and out of sight. The cargo plane slipped lower in the sky.
“Too late, Montrose. By that time I’ll be far away from here.”
“You think so? That’s some strategy, asshole. They’ll find the missiles. They are going to close this whole country down, every road, every…”
“Who cares, you idiot! It only needs one missile to get out of here! And they are just about to leave. Really, I’m surrounded by imbeciles and amateurs. Strategy, you say? I have forgotten more about strategy that you will ever know.”
Kirsty nudged Montrose and pointed to the cargo plane, then traced her finger through the sky and down the road to Rhiandorf. “He can’t see it. He’s below the tree line.”
“I think I’ll have your severed head delivered to me in an ice bucket,” said the Director. “Then I’ll probably feed it to a stray dog. Anyway, I must go, I have work to do.”
“I’ll find you.”
“You will die before you get anywhere near me…”
“I know where you are now.” There was silence on the line. “I can hear a helicopter approaching through your phone. The one that just flew over our heads.”
Kirsty stood with her mouth open, watching the cargo plane as it came lower. “That’s Russian. Oh, my God. The wheels aren’t down.”
Montrose said nothing as it approached. It would be over their heads in seconds. He felt the phone slip in his hand and grabbed it tight. “Oh, man,” he said. “You are so unbelievably fucked. And you can’t see it.”
“I have no more time for this nonsense. Goodbye, Montrose. We have to bring this operation to a conclusion, but it really has worked out rather well. Yours, on the other hand, has been a complete failure.”
“Oh, yeah?” The roar of the cargo plane echoed around the forest. “I forgot. You’re the master planner.” The sound of the helicopter came down the line, its rotors slowing to a halt.
Kirsty pointed to the Porsche. “Get in!”
The Director laughed. “Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt. Do you know who said that? Sun Tzu, in The Art of War, written over two and a half thousand years ago. I would recommend you study the classics, Montrose, but it’s a bit late for you.”
The cargo plane’s screaming engines came closer and Montrose shouted into the phone. “Yeah? Well I got one for you. Mike Tyson. Everyone has a plan ‘till they get punched in the mouth. Look up, asshole.” He ran for the car, slamming the door shut as Kirsty hit the accelerator. He could hear the Director’s screams just before they were drowned out by the noise of the jet engines, and a fireball blew past their windows, the shockwave slamming into the back of the car.
Kirsty held on tight, twisting the wheel to keep the Porsche in a straight line. A thick black cloud engulfed them before they emerged onto a clear stretch of road. She kept her foot down until the shadow filling her rear-view mirror faded away. She pulled the Porsche into the side and got out.
Montrose stood beside her. The forest was on fire and flames climbed high above the trees.
“I hope they’re safe,” she said.
He turned towards her.
“The bodies. The people. The soldiers and the children.”
“Yeah. I hope so.” He walked back to the Porsche. “We should go.”
“I know.”
She got in the car and pulled the door closed, then sat very still, her hands gripping the wheel. She stared into the distance.
Montrose got in beside her. “Which way? North to Poland? South to Bohemia?”
She reached over to the rear parcel shelf and grabbed the sunglasses, handed him a pair then slipped hers on. “Connor, have you ever seen The Blues Brothers?”
“The movie? John Belushi? Yeah.”
She flexed her fingers on the wheel. “It’s seven hundred miles to Monaco. We’ve got two fake credit cards, two fake IDs, three thousand Euros in cash, an eighty-year-old automatic weapon with three magazines and the quietest assassination pistol ever made.”
Montrose could hear the roar of the forest burning behind him. He pulled the door closed.
“And there’s a club full of pedophiles ready to reopen for business. I need a very sharp knife, four pounds of plastic explosive and a big bag of ball bearings.”
He nodded. “Amazon?”
“No,” said Kirsty. “Priti.”
Montrose pushed on his sunglasses and pointed down the road. “Hit it.”
The Silk Road
Mark Leggatt
© Mark Leggatt 2018
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.
Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Fledgling Press Ltd,
1 Milton Road West,
Edinburgh,
EH15 1LA
Published by:
Fledgling Press Ltd,
1 Milton Road West,
Edinburgh,
EH15 1LA
www.fledglingpress.co.uk
Print ISBN 9781912280117
eBook ISBN 9781912280124
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