by Chris Ryan
‘All these years, no one suspected you?’ Cooper wet his lips. ‘I was careful. Covered my tracks. But two of our agents in Moscow had their suspicions. I had to get rid of them.’
Porter felt a spark of rage flaring inside him. ‘Those agents who got killed in Russia. The ones your mate Street took the blame for all those years ago. That was you?’
‘I didn’t kill them. Just told my contact about the problem. They said they’d take care of it. I didn’t know what they’d do.’
‘Bullshit,’ Bald said with a scowl. ‘You signed their death warrants.’
‘They had to be stopped. They were going to report their suspicions to my boss. I was getting my life back on track. I’d cut out the drinking. Anna was pregnant with our first child. They would have destroyed me.’
This bloke sounds just like my old Rupert, thought Porter. They don’t care about the job, or doing the right thing. All they care about is covering their own arses.
‘So instead of coming clean, you let a couple of agents get executed and sold Street up the river?’
His words seemed to hit a nerve. Cooper glanced up at him, a fire burning behind his eyes.
‘Charles was the golden boy. He passed every test with flying colours, outperformed the rest of us. I respected him, but everything came easier to Charles. He came from a privileged background. Public school, Oxford, old money. Everything was handed to him on a plate. Me, I had to fight and scrap to get to where I am today. Charles was my friend, but there was part of me that resented him. I’m sorry for what happened, but in this world, you do what you can to survive.’
‘Except you screwed him over twice. Once in Moscow, then again now.’
‘I didn’t mean for him to get hurt. After he showed up with that dossier, I thought the Russians would simply want a copy of it. When they ordered me to help trap Charles, I told them I wanted no part of it. He’d suffered enough.’
‘But you went ahead with it anyway.’
‘They sent pictures to me of Anna and the boys. The implication was clear. Either I helped them snatch Charles, or they’d make my family suffer. I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘You betrayed your country,’ Porter said, anger burning in his guts. ‘Your mates.’
‘I’m not proud of what I did. But my family was at stake. My career. Everything I’d worked so hard to achieve. Anyone else would have done the same.’
‘No. You’re wrong. Most people wouldn’t have sold out their mates in the first place.’
That’s the difference between the Regiment and Vauxhall, Porter thought. The guys at Hereford don’t always get along. But there’s a bond that exists between operators that can never be broken.
I might not go out for a drink with Jock, but I’d never betray him to our enemies.
Cooper lowered his head again and fell silent. Porter closed his eyes, questions buzzing around inside his skull. He was knackered. More tired than he’d ever been in his life. He pushed it aside and looked up at the road ahead.
This isn’t over yet, Porter reminded himself. We’ve still got to get out of the country.
Find this mobster’s secret hideout. Rescue Street.
So much for a simple extraction op.
Six hours to go until they hit the border.
THIRTY-FOUR
They raced up the eastern panhandle of West Virginia and crossed into Maryland at the narrowest point of the state. Two miles, north to south. Ten minutes later they were driving through central Pennsylvania. Abandoned steel plants and paper mills jutted out like gravestones against the horizon. The effects of thirty years of automation, right there. Cooper stared out of the window, not saying a word. Bald had the radio tuned in to the news stations, checking for any reports on the bodies at the safe house. There were reports of a shooting, multiple dead bodies. But details were scant. No mention of the Russians.
Every so often Porter glanced at his watch. They had bugged out of the safe house at 0743 hours. Which meant they would reach the border crossing at around five o’clock that evening, including rest-stops. Which was ideal, from their point of view. There would be lots of traffic. Lots of commuters travelling back from work, eager to get home for the evening. Everyone in a hurry, the border guards under pressure to keep the line moving. They’d be less likely to stop and ask too many questions, Porter figured.
They stopped at a rest stop north of Altoona. Porter and Bald took it in turns to clean up in the restroom while the other kept watch over Cooper to make sure he didn’t make a run for it. They stocked up on bottled water, energy drinks and snacks to keep themselves from flagging during the rest of the journey.
After another sixty miles, they turned off I-80 onto the state highway, following the road north through a desolate sprawl of woodland. Three miles further on, Bald pulled over into a lay-by at the side of the road, backing directly onto the wooded area. He kept the engine running while Porter climbed out and grabbed the hardware from the boot.
He took the encryption box, carried it over to the treeline and dumped it beside a narrow ditch. He returned to the boot, grabbed the stack of hard drives containing the footage from Stillman’s security cameras and lugged them over to the same spot beyond the treeline. Porter threw the drives to the ground, then stomped on them repeatedly until they were smashed to bits. Then he tossed the broken drives and the box into the ditch, covering them over with leaves and loose soil.
The chances of anyone stumbling across the electronics were slim. Even if they did, the water and physical damage would have corrupted the data. Once he was finished, Porter released the clip from the Five-Seven, buried the gun in a neighbouring ditch and chucked the clip into a bin at the side of the road. Making the last leg of the journey unarmed was a risk, but he didn’t want to waste valuable time driving around Buffalo looking for somewhere to dispose of the weapon.
Job done, he hurried back to the Cruze.
‘What’s the plan once we hit Buffalo?’ Bald asked as he steered out of the lay-by and continued north.
Porter said, ‘We’ll drop the back seats when we’re two miles out from the Yank checkpoint. Cooper can crawl through the gap into the boot. Once we’re past that side, he’ll climb back out before we hit the Canadian checkpoint, on the other side of the bridge.’
‘We won’t have much time to smuggle him back out. Stillman reckoned that bridge is less than half a mile long.’
‘There’s no choice. It’s the only way of getting him through.’
Bald cocked his head at Cooper in the rear-view mirror. ‘Why don’t we just leave this cunt in the boot until we’re past both checkpoints? Surely that’s easier.’
‘Too risky,’ Porter replied. ‘The Canadian guards might pull us over. Random vehicle search. If they found Cooper hiding in the boot, we’d be shafted. All we need to do is keep him out of sight from the Yanks.’
‘Won’t his name be on the Canadian database too?’
‘Moorcroft doesn’t think so. Says the FBI won’t have shared that int with the Canadians yet.’
Bald gripped the wheel tightly. ‘Moorcroft had better be fucking right about that,’ he said. ‘Otherwise we’re never making it across that border.’
An hour later they crossed through the Alleghenies and hit New York State. Ninety minutes to the border. Seventy miles to go.
Almost there.
Porter’s hangover began to clear somewhere north of the state line. The drilling pain in his skull settled down to a mild, dull throb. His bowels felt as if they’d been scraped out. He thought about how close he’d come to getting slotted back at the safe house. Tracksuit standing nine metres away, the muzzle staring him in the face. Only the Russian’s piss-poor aim had saved his bacon.
You got away with it this time. But you won’t get that lucky again.
At 1709 hours, they reached Buffalo. The place looked depressing. A bleak skyline of dated office blocks and crumbling civic buildings, a picture of industrial decline. Bald pulled over s
o that Porter could switch to the front passenger seat. One guy in the front of the Cruze and another in the back would look more unusual than a couple of blokes riding up front. They drove on towards the Peace Bridge, sticking to the route Stillman had laid out for them. The bridge was the main crossing point between Buffalo and Fort Erie, extending east to west across the Niagara River. The American checkpoint was located on the eastern approach, with the Canadian border on the western side of the river.
When they were two miles out from the US crossing, Bald signalled to Porter. ‘It’s time.’
Porter leaned over to the rear passenger seat and nodded at Cooper. ‘Get that backrest lowered and get in the boot. Make a fucking sound and I’ll kill you.’
Cooper twisted in his seat and operated the release button on the back seat, folding the backrest forward. He wriggled through the narrow opening into the Cruze boot. Once he was fully inside the space Porter reached over and flipped the backrest into the upright position so that it clicked into place, concealing Cooper from view.
‘Ready, mucker,’ he said to Bald.
They turned off the Niagara Thruway, taking the exit for the Peace Bridge and Fort Erie. Ahead of them was the US side of the border crossing. The first of two obstacles.
The road veered round to the right, past a cluster of lorries awaiting inspection in a parking bay. Teams of customs officers and sniffer dogs were diligently searching through the contents of each vehicle while the drivers looked on. A handful of armed agents patrolled the area on foot but none of them gave the Cruze a second glance. They seemed more concerned about what was coming into the country than anything going the other way.
The road straightened out, past a duty-free shop, and suddenly they were crossing the Peace Bridge.
One obstacle down, thought Porter.
One to go.
Bald jerked his head at the back seats as they joined the flow of traffic rolling west towards the Canadian checkpoint. ‘Get him out of there. Hurry, mate.’
Porter reached around and flipped the release button on the back seat, tugging the backrest forward. Cooper struggled through the gap between the boot and the rear passenger seats, crawling out legs first. A glance over his shoulder told Porter that they were less than four hundred metres from the Canadian side now. They had twenty seconds to get Cooper out and close up the opening.
Porter grabbed Cooper by his shirt, yanking him through the opening. The guy tumbled out and rolled off the seat, tumbling into the rear passenger footwell and striking his head against the back of Bald’s seat. He crawled forward, slammed the backrest into the upright position and buckled himself in with mere seconds to spare.
‘Moment of truth,’ Bald muttered. He eased off the gas as they headed towards the Canadian checkpoint.
Ahead of them was a sea of blacktop with lanes on either side of a central building, with a maple leaf flag fluttering from a brass pole out front. Signs in front of the sentry huts read: Stop! Arret! Bald nosed the Cruze into one of the lanes marked AUTO on the right side of the main building. ‘Let’s hope this works,’ he said.
Porter turned to Cooper. ‘Got your ID?’
‘Driver’s licence.’ Cooper patted his breast pocket. ‘In my wallet.’
‘When the border guard asks for it, hand it over. Keep your mouth shut and leave the talking to us.’
‘What if they start asking me questions?’
‘Give them straight, simple answers. If they ask you what we’re doing in Canada, we’re three guys on a holiday trip who are going over to lay down a few quid at the casinos.’
Cooper nodded his understanding. They inched further along the queue. Porter counted four vehicles ahead of them. Three crossover SUVs, and a Toyota Camry. The Camry had stopped next to the sentry hut. The border guard stepped out of his hut, a plump guy wearing a pair of Ray-Bans and a baseball cap. He stood beside the Camry, speaking to the driver through the lowered window. His body language wasn’t threatening, but it wasn’t friendly either.
The Camry trundled off. The first of three SUVs rolled forward.
‘What happens if they stop us?’ Porter asked.
‘We’ll have to floor it. Smash through the barrier. No other option.’
‘They’d shoot us before we could get away.’
‘Stillman reckoned the guards are only packing nine-millis. We’d be gone before they could brass us up.’
‘We’d still have to deal with the cops,’ Porter said. ‘Soon as we crash through that barrier, we’ll have every fucker in the area after us.’
‘Better than the alternative. I don’t know about you, mate, but I’m not spending the rest of my life rotting in a Yank prison.’
They edged forward. Two SUVs remained before their turn at the sentry. Ray-Ban didn’t spend long on each vehicle. It was a well-rehearsed performance. A quick glance at each passenger’s ID document, seven or eight seconds spent cross-checking their names against the computer. Which was linked to the Canadian criminal database. Then the step out of the shack, the returning of the documents, a word or two to the onward travellers, and the wave at the next vehicle, motioning for them to approach.
The third SUV stopped in front of the hut.
‘We’re next in line,’ Bald said.
Porter thought, Either we make it through to Canada, or we’re going to be in the papers tomorrow.
Bald dug out his passport from the go-bag containing their personal items in the front seat. He handed the other passport to Porter. Cooper flipped open his wallet and plucked out his driver’s licence.
The driver of the SUV ahead of them fanned his ID at Ray-Ban. The guard casually inspected the document, stepped into his hut. Popped back out again, handed the licence over to the driver. Nodded at the guy. The SUV moved off towards the toll booths, a hundred and fifty metres due west of the checkpoint. Then Ray-Ban turned towards the Cruze and waved them over.
‘We’re up,’ Bald said.
He lightly tapped the gas, rolled forward a dozen or so metres and then stopped. Behind them a long line of cars had formed, twelve deep. A glance at his left and right told Porter that the other lanes were equally busy. There was no turning back now.
We’re boxed in.
Bald buzzed down his window. Ray-Ban scanned the three faces inside the Cruze from behind his shades. Switched his attention to Bald. His face gave nothing away. He had the same humourless demeanour as border guards the world over.
‘How are you today, sir?’ he asked tonelessly.
‘Fine, thanks.’
Bald had been through this situation plenty of times. He knew what to do. Play it straight. Don’t be over-friendly, or the guards will get suspicious. Keep it neutral.
‘See some ID, please.’
‘Aye,’ said Bald.
Porter and Cooper handed him their documents. Bald passed them to the guard, along with his own passport. The guy studied them each for a long moment, checking them against the faces in the car. He didn’t hand them back. Not immediately.
‘Where are you guys from?’ he asked Bald.
‘England, mate. We’re on holiday.’
‘Reason for your trip?’
‘We’re heading over to the Lakeview Casino.’
‘You or your buddies staying the night?’
Bald shook his head. ‘We’ll be coming back later. Just a few drinks and bets on the old roulette wheel.’
‘Bringing anything into the country, sir? Guns? Knives?’
‘No, mate,’ Bald replied. ‘Nothing like that.’
The guard stared at him again with the same rigid expression. Then he glanced at Cooper and Porter in the back seats. Noted the cuts on Porter’s hands and face before turning his gaze back to Bald.
‘You guys look a little worse for wear.’
‘We’ve been paintballing, mate. Got a bit scrappy, like.’
‘Paintball?’ Ray-Ban’s expression cracked a little at the edges. ‘In New York? I thought they only use real guns over
there.’
Bald laughed. ‘Me too.’
Ray-Ban took a step back from the window and retreated to the hut, still holding onto their passports and Cooper’s driver’s licence. He scanned the documents, tapped a few keys on the computer.
Porter expected the guard to return their IDs and wish them a safe journey. But he didn’t do that. Instead, he picked up the phone. Spoke a few words into the receiver while he squinted at something on his computer screen.
‘Shit,’ Bald muttered. ‘They’re on to us. We should have kept that twat in the boot. I fucking knew it.’
‘We don’t know that,’ Porter whispered. ‘Stay cool.’
The three of them sat rigid inside the Cruze as the seconds ticked by. Bald rested his right foot over the gas pedal, ready to mash the accelerator if the guard suddenly ordered them out of the car.
Fifteen seconds passed. Porter glanced over at the hut. Ray-Ban was still holding the receiver. The guard was doing most of the talking. The voice on the other end of the phone didn’t say much. Questions were being asked, presumably. Information being cross-checked.
Ray-Ban kept staring at the Cruze.
He hung up the phone.
Stepped back out of the shack.
For a cold moment Porter feared their names had been flagged up on the computer system. We’re done for, he thought. We’re gonna have to make a run for it.
Bald’s right foot hovered over the gas pedal. Preparing to floor it.
Then the guard was handing over their documents and nodding at them. ‘You’re free to go. Have a good evening.’
There was no smile. Border hospitality didn’t extend that far. Porter didn’t care. A wave of relief flooded through him as Bald hit the gas and drove on towards the toll booths. He pulled up at the nearest free booth, slipped the operator a ten-dollar bill and got seven singles in change.
The exit barrier lifted.
Bald arrowed the Cruze through.
We’re in.
They continued west along Queen Elizabeth Way. At some point in the next day or so, the NSA would pick up on the fact that a man by the name of Terence Cooper had crossed the Peace Bridge into Canada at 1734 hours, accompanied by two UK nationals. That information would be passed on to the FBI, who would in turn notify the Canadian authorities. Arrest warrants would be swiftly issued for all three men.