Global Strike

by Chris Ryan

  ‘No one said it would be. But I’m sure you’ll find a way.’

  ‘Yeah, well. I’d feel a fuck of a lot better if you just stuck us on a private jet.’

  ‘That’s not an option. The feeling is we can’t do anything that implies British state knowledge of this matter. I’ve explained this already.’

  ‘I don’t give a toss.’ Rage pulsed inside Porter’s chest. ‘You told us to find your man and get him to safety. We’ve done our job. How about you start doing yours for a fucking change.’

  ‘We’re doing our best, John.’

  ‘Yeah? It doesn’t look like that from where I’m sitting.’

  ‘Our hands are tied on this one. It’s impossible to provide you with direct assistance without alerting our American friends. If they rumbled us, it would get very uncomfortable.’

  Porter sighed. There was nothing to be gained by arguing for an alternative extraction plan. Once the brains trust at MI6 had made up their minds, they were utterly inflexible.

  ‘What happens once we make it across?’

  ‘Someone will meet you on the Canadian side. You’ll be debriefed and then escorted to a private airfield for immediate extraction to London. I’ll send you a number to call once you’re on the road.’

  In the rough map of North America in his head, Porter knew that Buffalo was roughly four hundred miles from the safe house. A seven-to-eight-hour drive, depending on traffic and the route taken. Maybe another hour to cross the border and hit the RV.

  Nine hours total.

  ‘We’ll have to leave soon,’ he said.

  ‘That’s your problem. Not mine.’

  ‘What about Cooper?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Are we bringing him with us?’

  ‘I don’t think we have any other choice. It’s too dangerous to leave him in play. He’ll accompany you across the border. We’ve already notified the embassy.’

  ‘It might look suspicious. Him making a quick exit.’

  ‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take. In the meantime, I suggest you make the necessary preparations for your journey. Stillman will assist you with any requirements you may have.’

  Moorcroft clicked off. MI6 handlers weren’t big on goodbyes.

  Porter heard footsteps across the foyer. He looked up as Cooper stepped into the room, dressed in his crisp suit, mug of coffee in his right hand with the Crystal Palace badge on the side. Cooper jerked his chin at the ghost phone in Porter’s hand.‘I heard voices. Was that London?’

  ‘What are you doing up so early?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep. Too wired, I suppose.’

  ‘Where’s everyone else?’

  ‘Your friend’s asleep. So is Charles. Stillman’s in the kitchen. There’s a pot of coffee on the go.’

  Porter said, ‘I just got off the blower with Moorcroft.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Wake the others,’ Porter said. ‘Then I’ll explain. We’ve got work to do.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  They held the conference in the kitchen. Porter, Bald, Cooper, Street and Stillman were all gathered around the breakfast bar. Bald stared daggers at Porter while Stillman put on a fresh pot of coffee. Then he dished out steaming hot mugs while Porter briefed them on the plan. He left out any details Stillman didn’t need to know about.

  ‘Your handler’s right about one thing,’ Stillman said after Porter had finished. ‘Getting across the border will be the easy part.’

  Porter turned to him. ‘How well do you know it?’

  ‘Well enough. Crossed there a few times on my way up to Toronto.’

  ‘Can we expect any problems?’

  ‘As long as you look the part, you should be fine. The guards won’t check your documents too closely. They’ll ask you a few questions. Reason for your trip, where you’re staying.’

  ‘We should book somewhere on the Canadian side,’ Bald suggested. ‘Make it look legit.’

  Porter shook his head. ‘We can’t risk the paper trail.’

  ‘You could say you’re going over to the casinos,’ said Stillman. ‘Plenty of tourists head over to those resorts and come back the same evening. That wouldn’t raise any questions.’

  Porter nodded. ‘You’ll need to tell us where security is lax. Any hotspots along the border that we need to avoid.’

  ‘We’ve also got to figure out what to do about him.’ Bald gave a cursory nod at Street. ‘The Yanks will be all over us the minute they run his ID through the computer.’

  ‘We could hide him in the boot,’ said Porter.

  ‘But if the Canadians did a routine check on the car, we’d be fucked.’

  ‘What if we smuggle him in the boot before we pass through the American side? Then get him out before we reach the Canadian checkpoint.’

  ‘That could work,’ Stillman said. ‘The checkpoints are at opposite ends of the Peace Bridge. Which is about half a mile long. If you make the journey in one of them cars with folding back seats, your friend could crawl in and out of the boot without you lads needing to pull over.’

  Cooper cleared his throat. ‘How long until we leave?’

  Porter said, ‘Two hours, at least. We’ve got to plan the route, sort out a hire car and get a change of clothes.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the clothes you’ve got on?’

  ‘When we cross that border, we need to look professional. We can’t rock up to the checkpoint looking like a bunch of tramps. The guards will definitely take an interest in us then.’

  ‘He’s gonna need some new clobber too,’ Bald added, running his eyes over Street’s bloodstained shirt and trousers.

  Stillman said, ‘There’s a Walmart at the mall in the next town over. A big twenty-four-hour store. We can pick up some threads there.’

  ‘That’ll do. As I said, we’ll need you to sort us out a hire car as well. One with folding back seats. There’s no way we can risk running that truck up to the border.’

  ‘That’s going to be a problem. The local rental place doesn’t open until later.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Ten o’clock.’

  Bald shook his head. ‘That’s too late. We need to be out of the country twenty-four hours after last night’s incident. Anything longer than that and we risk being identified.’

  Stillman said, ‘We could try Dulles. The rental desks at the airport are open twenty-four seven.’

  ‘How long will it take to get there and back?’

  ‘Half hour each way. Plus time to stop off at the Walmart. I reckon we’re looking at a ninety-minute round trip.’

  ‘We should leave now, then,’ said Bald.

  ‘I’ll need to get rid of that truck before you leave, lads. Can’t have that thing sitting in my garage.’

  ‘Have you got somewhere you can dump it?’

  ‘I know a place. There’s a wooded area three miles south of here. But I’ll need one of you lads to come with me. Drive the truck to the woods, then drive the rental back from the airport.’

  Porter knew he wasn’t in any fit state to drive. He felt as if someone had scraped out the inside of his guts. The nausea rose higher in his throat. He thought he might puke. ‘Jock will go with you. I’ll stay here and watch the others.’

  ‘How much cash have you got on your, right now?’ Stillman asked. Porter remembered the walk-around money they’d been given. They’d dropped just short of three hundred dollars at the car rental desk at the airport. Plus sixty bucks at the petrol station en route to the log cabin, on gas and sugary snacks. Which left them with around eleven hundred and fifty dollars in the walk-around fund.

  ‘A grand, or thereabouts.’

  ‘You’re gonna need at least that when you hit the border. Especially if you’re telling them you’re planning to hit the casinos.’ Stillman indicated the master bedroom. ‘There’s ten thousand in the safe. The money belongs to Six. Take as much as you need, just make sure you sign for it. They’re a bit funny about people d
ipping into the fund.’

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘Right, we’d best get moving. I’ll show you lads how to work the sensor, in case the alarm goes off.’

  Stillman left the kitchen and moved off down the hallway. Cooper intercepted Bald and Porter as they turned to follow him. ‘Anything we can do to help?’

  ‘Just sit tight,’ Bald said. ‘And sort him out.’

  He tipped his head at Street. The guy looked edgy. His right leg was bouncing up and down with nervous energy. He held onto the dossier like it was a security blanket.

  ‘What’s his problem?’ Porter asked quietly.

  ‘He’s just anxious about the plan,’ Cooper replied in a low voice, so Street wouldn’t overhear. ‘Charles doesn’t know where his head’s at.’

  ‘I don’t give a toss,’ Bald said. ‘You need to calm him down before we leave. If he’s a bag of nerves when we hit the border, the guards might get suspicious.’

  ‘He’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of it.’

  ‘Do that.’

  Bald gave his back to Cooper and marched down the hallway towards the front door. Porter moved after him, pain splitting his skull. Stillman lingered by the front door at the far end of the foyer. He punched a series of buttons on the keypad, demonstrating how to disable the infra-red alarm. Once they’d committed it to memory, Stillman stepped out into the pre-dawn light. Bald turned to follow him, then stopped in the doorway and abruptly rounded on his mucker.

  ‘What was all that about earlier? You were supposed to wake me up at four. That was the fucking deal.’

  Porter said, ‘I thought I’d let you sleep in.’

  Bald laughed. ‘You’re a shit liar, mate. I can smell your breath from a mile away. You’ve been on the piss.’

  ‘I had a couple of drinks, that’s all. There’s no harm in that.’

  ‘It was more than a couple. You murdered a bottle of whisky. You and the housekeeper. I heard you two chatting away downstairs.’

  Porter clenched his hands into fists at his side. ‘I didn’t see you saying no to a beer last night.’

  ‘The difference is, I can stop when I need to. You can’t. You’re an alcoholic, for fuck’s sake.’

  Porter clenched his jaws. ‘I needed a straightener. It’s no big deal.’

  ‘It is when you can’t perform. When are you gonna learn your lesson and give that shit up?’

  Another flare of anger surged up inside Porter, burning through his veins. Bald’s needling comments were really beginning to get to him. ‘Leave it off. It’s none of your business. What the fuck do you care if I have a few drinks?’

  Bald took a step closer, his features contorted into a scowl. ‘I couldn’t give a toss about you, or that knackered liver of yours. But if you don’t get yourself clean soon, you’re gonna get us both clipped.’

  ‘It won’t happen again.’

  Bald eyed him for a moment longer. ‘What about this plan Six has cooked up? Think it’ll work?’

  ‘It has to. Moorcroft’s right. There’s no other way out.’

  ‘If the FBI connects us to them murders at the retreat, we won’t stand a chance of getting across the border.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do about that. All we can do is focus on getting out as fast as we can.’

  Bald grunted. ‘I hope Tannon and Moorcroft know what they’re doing.’

  I hope so too, thought Porter.

  They left the safe house a minute later. Stillman drove off in the Tahoe, Bald trailing him in the Hilux. Porter watched them depart through the blinds in the ground-floor bedroom. The hangover had migrated to the sides of his head now. Drilling directly into his temporal lobes, pain clawing away at his temples. His stomach heaved. He stumbled into the downstairs bathroom and just about made it to the toilet before he vomited. Porter gripped the bowl, retching until he had nothing more left in his guts. He flushed and spat the acid taste out of his mouth.

  Christ, he felt like shit.

  You know what you need, the voice said.

  Another drink. Sort you out.

  He pushed the voice aside and shuffled back down the hallway to the kitchen. Cooper and Street had set themselves up in the living room, passing the time in front of the TV. Porter could hear the sound of canned laughter as he ran the faucet and guzzled down three straight glasses of cold water. He waited for the nausea to pass, fixed himself a fresh cup of coffee. Settled down in front of the laptop.

  He spent the next ninety minutes chasing down painkillers with his coffee and checking West Virginia news sites for any mention of the log cabin shootings. After a solid hour of fruitless searches, he began to think they might have got away with the murders after all.

  After the fifth cup of coffee, his appetite returned. Porter found a pack of protein bars in the pantry. He still felt rank but he forced down two of the bars. The sickness had passed but the hangover kept on niggling away at him, rapping its knuckles against the sides of his skull.

  Twenty-two minutes later, the sensor alarm shrieked.

  Porter traipsed back down the hallway. Cooper stepped out of the living room, looking on as Porter punched in the combination on the keypad next to the front door. The alarm cut out, and he opened the door as Stillman’s Tahoe eased to a halt in front of the garage. A dark-blue Chevrolet Cruze pulled in behind the Tahoe. Bald emerged from the Cruze while Stillman retrieved four large carrier bags from the back seat of the SUV.

  ‘Everything sorted?’ Porter asked as Bald and Stillman approached.

  ‘Aye,’ Bald replied. ‘It’s all taken care of.’

  Stillman held up the carrier bags. They were Walmart-branded, stuffed with clothes. ‘Shirts and trousers. Hope they fit.’

  ‘As long as they don’t make us look like a pair of cunts, they’ll do fine.’

  Bald said, ‘Any news from West Virginia?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘Maybe we’re in the clear. Our luck could be changing.’

  Bald pulled a look as if Porter had told him a crap joke. ‘The way things have gone for us lately, I wouldn’t count on it.’

  ‘How long until we leave?’

  The question came from Cooper. The guy had been frowning at his watch, Porter had observed. ‘Half an hour or so. Once we’ve changed and sorted out the route to Buffalo, we’ll get going.’

  Cooper stole a glance at the alarm keypad. ‘That reminds me,’ he said, addressing Stillman. ‘It might be nothing, but I heard the comms equipment downstairs making a strange noise earlier.’

  Stillman let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Bastard thing’s probably on the blink again. I’ll take a look at it.’

  ‘What were you doing down in the basement?’ Bald asked Cooper.

  ‘Looking for my Zippo. I thought I might have left it down there.’

  They split up. Porter, Bald and Street headed for the stairs, each carrying a shopping bag. Stillman disappeared into the basement while Cooper made for the kitchen to check again on the news sites.

  A folded cotton towel was laid out on the unused double bed in Porter’s room, with a set of travel-size toiletries arranged on the bedside table. Hospitality, MI6-style. He emptied the contents of the shopping bag, stripped off and stuffed the dirty clothes into the empty bag. Then he took a brief, scalding shower in the en-suite bathroom, the water stabbing at him as it washed away the blood and the dirt. He brushed his teeth, shaved, deodorised and stepped out of the bathroom feeling borderline human again. Not great. But better than an hour ago.

  After he’d applied a new dressing to his wound, Porter tore open the clothes package and dressed. The shirt was a long-sleeved white Oxford with a front breast pocket. It was snug around the neck and an inch short on the arms, but otherwise fitted okay. The trousers were what Americans referred to as dress pants. Long and shapeless and functional. But comfortable, with a lot of spare real estate to fill out.

  When he’d finished dressing, he inspected himself in the mirror. He
looked reasonably smart, without being too formal. Like a holidaymaker heading for a night at the casino.

  At seven-thirty, Porter left the guest room and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

  He found Bald and Cooper gathered around the breakfast bar. They were staring at the laptop screen, scrolling through news reports. Bald had another cup of coffee on the go. Cooper periodically glanced at his watch. The guy looked agitated. Perhaps he’s just desperate to get out of here, thought Porter.

  That makes two of us.

  He said, ‘Where are the others?’

  Bald said, ‘Stillman’s in the basement, testing the comms kit.’

  ‘Street?’

  ‘Getting changed.’ He added: ‘You all need to see this.’

  The three of them crowded around the breakfast bar, Porter leaning in for a closer look at the laptop screen. The browser was open at a local news site. Half the page was populated by banner ads for fashion labels and discount furniture stores. Porter mentally screened it out as his eyes drifted to the header at the top of the page. It carried the name of a regional newspaper.

  Charleston Herald. West Virginia’s Leading News Source Since 1962!

  Below the header was a breaking news story about a shooting in Lewis County, W.Va. Porter felt a growing sense of dread as he skimmed through the article.

  He finished reading.

  The pounding in his head worsened.

  ‘Shit,’ he said.

  They’ve found the bodies.

  ‘The police are calling it a gangland shooting,’ Bald said. ‘They’re portraying the rednecks as some sort of local criminal element, possibly involved in the crystal meth trade.’

  ‘Why would they put out a statement so soon? Even the cops don’t usually jump to conclusions that quick.’ ‘The FBI must have figured out what went down. They’ve put out this bullshit cover story to make it look as if they’ve drawn a line under the case.’

  Porter tried to hide his alarm. ‘You think they’ve rumbled us? If that’s the case, why haven’t they got our mugs all over the news?’

  ‘They might not know who’s behind the attack. But their backup team would have rocked up hours ago. They would have had enough time to form a rough idea of what happened, put out the gangland story.’