Global Strike

by Chris Ryan

  ‘There’s a salvage yard about fifty miles from here,’ Cooper said. ‘Near a small town called Wheeler. Charles and I used to stock up on supplies before hitting the retreat. We can leave the car there.’

  ‘Fine.’ Porter nodded at Bald. ‘We’ll lead the way. Follow us. We’ll switch to the truck once we’ve got rid of the motor.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Bald headed over to the Hilux and climbed into the front cab. The beat-up old pickup sputtered into life. Bald backed it up out of the drive, headlamps burning in the semi-darkness. Then Porter got behind the Civic’s wheel. He K-turned in the driveway, shunted into Drive and motored down the dirt track ahead of Bald, steering towards the entrance at the front of the retreat.

  Three minutes later they were turning back onto the main road.

  Porter said, ‘How far is the safe house from here?’

  Cooper consulted the map he’d taken from the glove box. They were going to have to navigate the old-fashioned way. Using the map apps on their phones meant activating the GPS functionality. Which could theoretically alert anyone to their location.

  ‘Two hundred and twenty miles, roughly.’

  We’ll have to watch our speed, thought Porter. The last thing they needed was to get pulled over by some jumped-up highway patrol officer. Say, an average speed of sixty miles an hour. Four hours to their destination, Porter calculated. In light traffic, they could reach the safe house by midnight.

  ‘Think Dom will be able to help us get out of the country?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s the future Chief of Six. If she can’t help us, no one can. Just get us to the safe house, and I’ll take care of the rest.’

  ‘We’ll get you there. Don’t worry about that. Then you’re going to tell us what the fuck is going on.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Forty-nine minutes later they reached the town Cooper had described. A one-road place with a petrol station, army surplus store and Days Inn motel. They passed a long line of decaying houses until Cooper directed them down a potholed back road leading towards a salvage yard set in a wide gravel lot with a chain-link fence. Porter parked the Civic in the middle row of rusted old wagons. He dumped the keys in the boot of an Oldsmobile Aurora with the side doors missing, wiped down the steering wheel and door handle, then climbed into the front of the Hilux cab alongside Bald. Street and Cooper took the back seats.

  Porter dug out his burner, opened the encrypted messaging app and dialled the number for the housekeeper. It rang four times before the person on the other end picked up.

  ‘Stillman,’ the voice said. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s your uncle and aunt,’ said Porter, using the pre-arranged code they’d been instructed to use by Vauxhall. ‘We’re on our way now. We’ve got two packages with us.’

  ‘How far away are you, fella?’

  The guy had a matey English accent. Not posh, but not Cockney either.

  ‘Three hours,’ Porter replied. ‘How do we get to the safe house?’

  ‘I’ll come and meet you, fella. Safer that way.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Head to the junction between Belcher Street and Jackson Drive. It’s a mile north of the parkway. There’s a strip mall to the right of the junction. I’ll be parked in front of the dog shelter in a white Tahoe with a licence plate ending in 86L.’

  Porter made a mental note of the directions, then gave Stillman a brief description of the truck they were driving.

  ‘Is the truck yours?’ the housekeeper asked.

  ‘Borrowed. Why?’

  Stillman clicked his tongue. ‘We’ll have to hide it in the garage. Safer that way. Don’t want anyone passing by and seeing your wheels in front of the house.’

  ‘Whatever you think needs doing.’

  He killed the call.

  Cooper said, ‘You should turn your phones off now.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘In case the FBI is watching us. Or their colleagues at the NSA.’

  ‘Why the fuck would they be doing that?’ Bald said as he turned in his seat. ‘We covered our tracks back at the retreat. They won’t have linked us to what happened there yet.’

  ‘No. But the FBI is still looking for Charles, remember? They’ll know he’s missing once the backup team gets to the cabin.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The FBI already know that Charles and I met shortly before the Russian mafia tried to abduct him. It’s logical to assume that they’ll be monitoring my communications now.’

  ‘Yours, maybe. But they don’t know about me and Porter.’

  Cooper stared at Bald with raised eyebrows. ‘Two former SAS operators, entering the country several days after a former British spy went on the run? You’re already on a list, I’d imagine.’

  Bald glared at him, ‘You didn’t think to tell us that before?’ Cooper merely nodded at Porter’s burner. ‘Those phones are basically portable GPS devices. We can’t risk them giving away our location. Turn them off. Now.’

  Porter sighed and switched off his burner, holding down the power button for a few seconds. The burner display faded to a black screen. Bald took out his handset and shut it down too. Cooper and Street just sat in the back.

  ‘Neither of you have phones?’ Porter asked them.

  ‘The Russians took mine,’ Street explained.

  ‘What about you?’ Porter said, looking towards Cooper.

  ‘Mine’s dead. I forgot to charge it up last night. The battery died on the way to the cabin.’

  Porter turned in his seat and nodded at Bald. ‘Get us moving.’

  ‘About fucking time.’

  Bald kickstarted the Hilux. He navigated out of the salvage yard, then turned back onto Route 219, heading east towards the state line.

  Towards Monroe and the safe house.

  They crossed the state line two hours later. They rode the interstate east until they hit Gainesville, then veered south onto the parkway, heading in the direction of the sprawling Virginia suburbs. Street sat quietly in the back, gazing out of the side window, clutching the envelope on his lap. Cooper stared ahead, keeping his eyes on the road, helping Porter and Bald out with directions. He’d dated a woman in one of the towns some years ago, Cooper explained, back when he first moved to the US. He knew the area well. All the shortcuts.

  After ten miles they hung a left onto Belcher Street, following the directions Stillman had given them. They continued on for another mile, passing a Jiffy Lube and a local armoury. The land was low and green and suburban. Billboards flanked the road, advertising unmissable real-estate opportunities.

  Fifty metres further on, Bald hit the junction with Jackson Drive and turned into the car park in front of the modest strip mall.

  The mall was deserted. At 2346 hours, every shop was closed. The only light came from the glowing neon signs in some of the store windows, advertising dry cleaning services or discounts on electrical items. Porter spotted the dog shelter at the opposite end of the mall, next to a closed-down Guatemalan restaurant. A white Chevrolet Tahoe was parked in front of the shelter.

  ‘Virginia plates,’ said Porter. ‘Ending in 86L. That’s his car.’

  ‘What now?’ asked Bald.

  ‘We wait for him to lead us to the safe house.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s not far. I’m gasping for a fucking drink.’

  Me too, Porter thought. Me too. The voice was needling him again, prodding at the base of his skull. Getting louder and more insistent with every passing minute. Soon the voice would be irresistible. Porter knew what he’d do once they reached the safe house. Scope out the rooms. Look for the booze. Find a way of getting a drink in without his mucker noticing. Then drink, until he’d passed out and the voice went quiet again.

  Bald nosed the Hilux into a spot opposite the Tahoe. Stillman must have been alert, because he fired up the Tahoe almost as soon as Bald had shifted the pickup down into Park.

  They followed Stillman out of the car park, back onto Be
lcher Street. Motored north for half a mile until they hit Hillcrest Road, then made a left down a quiet residential street. They eased along at thirty-five miles per, rolling past quaint stone houses and tall deciduous trees, black against the stained-glass blue of the night.

  After five hundred metres Stillman hooked a right. Took them down a winding country lane that snaked past several large clapboard houses, each one built on a parcel of land the size of a football pitch. They were on the outskirts of the town now, Porter realised. Bigger homes. Cheaper, but more isolated. He could imagine would-be buyers weighing up the decision. More square foot per buck, versus the inconvenience of having to drive everywhere, and the unsettling sense of being cut off.

  They drove on for another three miles. Out of the suburbs, into the country. There were no homes out here. Just mile after mile of unlit road, winding through dark tree-lined hills.

  After another quarter of a mile they turned down a gravel path that led to a two-storey stone house, set fifty metres back from the road.

  The house was pure American backwater. Green mailbox to the left of the gravel path. Wide driveway leading to a double garage big enough to fit a couple of tanks. To the left of the property Porter could see a path leading around to the rear of the house. A hundred metres beyond, the land dipped down towards a gloomy lake, black as an oil spill.

  Stillman pulled up to the left of the driveway. He debussed, then hobbled around to the rear of the Tahoe and pointed towards the garage doors. As if to say, Park her in there.

  The garage door on the right whirred open as Bald steered towards it. He stowed the Hilux inside, killed the engine. Then the four occupants stepped out and exited the garage.

  Stillman was waiting for them beside the Tahoe. His appearance matched the picture Six had given them. Medium height, medium build, widow’s peak. The guy wore a dark short-sleeved shirt one size too big, maybe in an attempt to cover his beer gut. Loose grey trousers, pair of tattered sneakers. Porter caught a whiff of Stillman’s gin-breath as he pumped the guy’s hand. He recognised the glazed look of a fellow drinker.

  ‘Name’s Peter,’ he said. ‘Everyone calls me Pete. At your service.’

  His accent had been harder to place on the phone, but in the flesh Porter detected a definite South London gruffness. The guy was bubbling with excitement. This was obviously a big thrill for Stillman, Porter figured. An MI6-sponsored safe house, out in the middle of Virginia, he wouldn’t have many guests. They were probably the first guests Stillman had hosted in months.

  ‘This is your gaff?’ Bald asked as he glanced around the isolated plot. Woodland flanked both sides of the house. There wasn’t another house in sight.

  Stillman nodded. ‘It’s mine, but Six helped with the additional security features and so on. Anything you fellas need while you’re here, anything at all, you just let me know. You need something fixed or sorted, I’m your man.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Porter replied flatly.

  He’d stayed in enough safe houses in his time and he knew Stillman’s game. The guy was trying to ingratiate himself with his new guests, to get them to lower their guard and perhaps share some Six gossip with him. As a housekeeper, he would be kept out of the loop on all but the most basic operational details.

  Stillman glanced briefly at Street. ‘You lads had a long journey?’

  ‘Something like that, mate,’ Porter said in a polite but firm tone, indicating to their host that they wouldn’t be revealing anything about their mission.

  ‘Anyone follow you? Anything I need to know about?’

  ‘No, mate. It’s all gravy. Let’s just get inside, yeah?’

  ‘No worries. This way, lads. I’ll give you the grand tour.’

  ‘Can’t fucking wait,’ Bald muttered under his breath.

  Stillman set off in the direction of the front door. A sudden wave of exhaustion hit Porter just then. It had been more than twenty-four hours since they’d flown out of London, but it felt more like a month. They’d covered a lot of ground. DC, then the log cabin. Now a safe house in the middle of the Virginia sticks. He was running on fumes.

  I need calories, he thought, and some kip. A drink would be nice as well.

  But more than anything, I need some fucking answers.

  Cooper turned to follow the housekeeper across the front drive. Porter placed a hand on the agent’s shoulder before he could move away. He looked Cooper hard in the eye. ‘We’re here now. When are you gonna tell us what’s going on with this dossier?’

  ‘Soon,’ Cooper replied. ‘We need to reach out to Vauxhall first. Tell them what’s happened. Then I’ll explain everything.’

  ‘You’d better,’ Bald warned. ‘I’ve had enough of being messed around by you and your mates.’

  Cooper shrugged off Porter’s hand and walked Street over to the front door. Stillman was chatting away to them, slurring his words. Bald sighed and shook his head.

  ‘Just our bloody luck. We’re in the middle of nowhere, stuck with this chatty prick for fuck knows how long. Six had better hurry up and sort something out for us.’

  ‘Dom will take care of it,’ Porter responded. ‘She won’t let us down.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Bald said. ‘Because unless she’s got a plan up her sleeve, we’re well and truly fucked.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Stillman led them inside the safe house. The entrance opened out into a spacious foyer with a tiled floor and wood-panelled walls lined with landscape paintings. A winding staircase in the middle of the room led up to the first-floor landing. Past the stairs the hallway continued down towards the kitchen.

  An alarm inside the foyer made a pulsating wail. Stillman punched in a four-digit code on a keypad on the wall to the right of the front door, disabling the alarm.

  ‘Infra-red beam sensors,’ he said. ‘There’s one at the front of the drive. Any object over three foot tall crosses the beams, the alarm goes off.’

  ‘What about the back?’ asked Bald.

  ‘Same deal, fella. Alarm covering the footpath. Got security cameras overlooking the front and rear of the property as well. Take it from me, no one can get within fifty metres of this place without me knowing about it.’

  They followed Stillman as he moved down the hallway, pointing out the various rooms as he went. Dining room and master bedroom off to the left. Living room to the right, with another door leading into the ground-floor study. Three guest bedrooms upstairs, two en-suites and a third separate bathroom.

  They reached the kitchen at the rear of the ground floor. The décor was vintage American diner. Fifties-style round table and chairs, black-and-white floor tiles. Breakfast bar to the left with a pair of swivel barstools. A Wurlitzer jukebox had pride of place to the right. French doors at the back faced out towards the tree-lined garden. There was a wooden pool deck the size of a tennis court, with a path leading down from the deck around the side of the house.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess,’ Stillman said. ‘Didn’t have much time to prepare. Six only gave me a few hours’ notice. Called me right out of the blue.’

  Porter glanced over at the breakfast bar. Amid an assortment of dirty glasses and takeaway cartons he counted four half-empty bottles of Beefeater gin and Wild Turkey bourbon. The voice in his head made a mental note of them.

  You’ll be wanting some of that later.

  ‘Still, it’s good to have some company,’ the housekeeper went on. ‘Gets a bit lonely out here, you know. Ever since my Gemma died.’

  ‘Gemma?’ Porter repeated.

  Stillman nodded again. ‘My missus. She passed away seven years ago. Three years to the day after we bought this place, believe it or not. Not the same without her, you know?’

  ‘Sure,’ Porter said, feigning interest.

  He wasn’t really listening. Porter was already sizing up the defences with his keen operator’s eye. The obvious weak points were the sliding French doors at the back of the safe house, along with the multiple windows i
n the rooms either side of the foyer. A lot of potential entry points to cover, if someone managed to breach the perimeter. Any assaulting team might just as easily attack from the rear of the property as the front.

  ‘What about guns?’ Bald asked.

  Stillman grinned. ‘In the strong room. This way, fellas.’

  They followed him back down the hallway. Stillman turned right at the staircase and led them through the bedroom, towards a heavy-duty security door on the right side of the king-size bed, painted the same colour as the surrounding walls to help it blend into the scenery. The door was open, Porter noticed.

  ‘Everything’s in here,’ Stillman explained.

  Porter was familiar with the setup. Strong rooms were a big hit with rural homeowners. Anyone who was paranoid about home intruders, or who needed somewhere bigger to store their valuables than your average home safe. A room-within-a-room, constructed out of rectangular breeze blocks, reinforced with steel rods. To withstand a barrage of enemy fire. Put down a sustained burst from a heavy machine gun on a standard brick wall and it would crumble apart. But the rods held the breeze blocks together, like meshes on a fishing net. No bullet could pass through that structure. In addition the walls were lined with galvanised sheet metal, and the door was fitted with a high-security multi-point locking system, along with a pair of hinge bolts for an extra layer of protection. No one could break into that thing.

  Keys clanged on a chain as Stillman unlocked the strong room door. He yanked the brass handle and ushered Bald and Porter inside. The room wasn’t big enough for all of them so Cooper and Street elected to hang back in the bedroom.

  Inside the strong room, Porter spied a large gun safe against the far wall, the approximate size of a Smeg fridge. Stillman punched in the entry code on the electronic lock and there was a loud beep, followed by the clanking of moving metal parts as the bolts released.

  Inside the safe was a stash of sleek-looking guns.

  Several rifles were arranged vertically in the main storage compartment, like snooker cues on a rack. Porter counted a pair of Colt AR-15 semi-automatic rifles, plus three Smith & Wesson M&P15s and a Mossberg 500 Tactical pump-action shotgun. A collection of rail attachments and scopes gathered dust on the top shelf above the weapons. Spare clips and boxes of ammo on the smaller shelves to the right. Half a dozen handguns were stored in nylon pouches on the inside of the safe door, Porter ID’d three of them from the logos stamped down the side of the grips. Two FN Five-Seven pistols, named after the 5.7x28mm round they were chambered for, plus a Glock 17 semi-automatic. Three revolvers in the pouches below, plus several multi-tools, Gerber combat knives and Armex flashlights.