She swallowed and wondered if she wasn’t now imagining things.
888. The numbers glowed in the poor light.
Then she heard the car engine.
In this part of the city she was pretty certain that 4X4 Mercedes of the type she had seen used by the FSB simply did not exist. The vehicles were highly tuned as a matter of course, with reinforced glass and panels, and she could pick out one of their engines quite easily in a quiet location such as this. The only cars she had seen here so far had been standard road models, small and mostly in poor condition and badly maintained.
But not this one.
It appeared at the end of the street, slowed and stopped, one indicator winking. A gleaming black M-Class vehicle with tinted windows and heavy duty tyres. She knew there would be at least four men inside, all armed.
She stepped back into deeper shadow, her stomach going cold. Somehow they had found her. Worrying about how was a problem for later, if ever. Right now she had to warn the others. Warn Clare.
She began to dial the number, panic for a moment making her forget whose phone she was ringing – Clare’s or Tate’s?
Her own phone started ringing, and she jumped.
At that moment a man stepped out of the Mercedes down the street. She shrank back against the wall, shielding the light from her mobile behind her, and scrabbled at the keyboard to shut it off.
She managed to hit the ‘off’ key and the ringing ceased. But it was too late. The man by the Mercedes had swung round and was looking towards her. She recognised the stance: that of a hunter sniffing the wind. Then he turned and muttered something to the others in the car.
The doors opened and three more men stepped out. One had a gun in his hand, the street lighting glinting off the barrel. The others would be similarly armed.
They weren’t here to take her back, then.
She dropped the bag of groceries and started running.
FIFTY-TWO
Harry stared down at his mobile. He’d rung Katya to find out where she was. It had been ringing out, then stopped in mid-ring. It could only mean one thing: she was in trouble.
He started moving across the parkland towards the streets where Katya had seen the store. She must have seen something. Or somebody. But why kill the phone without answering? It could only mean she wasn’t in a position to pick up. He used the trees for cover, jogging through an area heavy with bushes into a clearing with a bench and a picnic table. A single light threw a pale glow over a play pit full of sand and a makeshift see-saw. A child’s football lay punctured to one side, and a coil of rope, abandoned until another child found a use for them.
A small car clattered by on the other side of the next line of trees, beyond some bushes, its muffler stuttering and throaty. He slowed and drew his gun. He was close to the road and guessed the store must be nearby.
A man’s voice called out in the dark, unintelligible. Another answered, then came the sound of footsteps receding. They were light, fast. Running.
A woman.
As Harry ducked through the trees he caught the hum of a car engine coming closer. It sounded powerful, high-performance, unlike the rust-bucket he’d heard moments before. Then came the crunch of tyres on gravel. Whatever it was, it was heavy.
The man shouted again. This time Harry understood the word.
‘Skoree!’ Hurry.
Russian.
Damn. How the hell had they found this place? But the answer was obvious: Richoux. He was the only person who knew where the safe house was located. He must have talked. Pushing the thought away, he focussed on the sound of running feet. It had to be Katya they were after. If so, he had to intervene somehow, to give her a chance to get away.
As he brushed aside a hanging clump of foliage, he saw a black Mercedes 4X4 standing in the street in front of him, the engine ticking over. The front passenger door was hanging open, and he could see the driver holding a radio or phone to his mouth. There was a burst of conversation and static. There were no passengers, though. They must have decamped to go after Katya.
Then a man stepped out from behind the 4X4 and scanned the parkland. He was strongly built and dressed in jeans and a nylon jacket. He had a gun down by his side in one hand, a radio in the other. He was coordinating the search.
His head swivelled away, eyes brushing across where Harry was standing, checking the scenery for movement, his job to watch for interference and direct his colleagues. There was no reaction for a split second, and Harry thought the man had missed him.
Then his head snapped round again.
The gun came up and the man went into a crouch, instincts and training driving him.
Harry responded in the same fashion. He dropped away to his right knee and moved sideways all in one movement, allowing his body to roll. He felt grass beneath him, smelled the musky aroma of dead foliage; heard a shot and felt the air shift as the bullet snapped past his head. Then he was coming up again, this time with his gun held in front of him, the butt cupped in his left hand, a move he had practised many times before. The barrel centred on the Russian, and stopped. The man stared in disbelief at having missed, his mouth open as he tried to bring his gun across to centre on the target.
Harry absorbed the scene automatically, running the details through his head. The man was standing against the 4X4; a solid body mass; nowhere for the bullet to go afterwards; no pedestrians in danger. No options but to shoot.
He squeezed the trigger twice.
The Walther sounded horribly loud, the gunshots echoing all around him and battering the air. He wondered how good the local cops were at responding to late-night gunfire. Not great, he hoped; they needed time to get clear and away.
The Russian was slammed back against the 4X4, dropping his weapon. For a second he hung there, scrabbling with his feet to stay upright. Then the massive shock invaded his system, overpowering his muscles and co-ordination, and he slid sideways and hit the ground.
Harry turned and ran. He wouldn’t get a better chance. Staying on the grass, he used the trees to give himself cover from the street and the driver of the 4X4, who was shouting for backup. Dodging through the bushes, he kept the street within sight, wondering how far away Katya was now. She was young and fit, and would cover the ground quickly. But the men following, if the 4X4 had been full, would split up, reducing her chances of escape in an area that was wide open with few hiding places on the streets, unless she was lucky enough to find an open door.
He hit an open space and saw a junction in the street ahead, and fifty yards further on, a bulky figure trotting along, hugging an apartment block. The man was carrying a gun.
Harry whistled. The man didn’t hear him at first, so he whistled again, and ran for the trees on the far side of the open space. It put him in a shooting gallery, and the man didn’t waste time in responding. He turned and fired twice, then again. But the shots didn’t come near, the man’s aim spoiled by his body twisting.
Harry hit the trees and carried on through. The gunman would no doubt expect him to stay still, using the cover to wait for pursuit and pick off anyone who followed. But that wasn’t the game plan. He angled towards the street and burst out of the trees, and saw the gunman crouched in the angle of the building, waiting to take a shot. But he was looking slightly off, his gun following his line of sight.
Harry fired once, aiming low. He didn’t expect to hit the man, but to scare him. It worked. The man shouted and jumped as the wall beside him erupted into fragments with the force of the bullet, then turned and scurried back in the direction he’d come from.
Katya was running along a wide street, her footsteps echoing off the nearest building, her breathing coming louder as her energy levels diminished. Somehow her instincts had deserted her, and she had made a wrong turn. Now she was in a wide space, almost a boulevard between two large apartment blocks with no obvious cover. If she didn’t get off this street soon, they would catch her. Or simply use her as target practice and shoot her down.
She saw an opening in the building on her right. It looked like an access way for maintenance vehicles to get into the heart of the building, where rubbish was dumped down chutes for collection. But when she turned into it, she saw it was a tunnel running through the building to the other side. Maybe there was a doorway down there, somewhere she could hide until they gave up and moved on.
She ran into the gloom. There were only a couple of dim lights on the wall to show the way, and she slowed her pace to avoid obstacles. At the end of the tunnel she could see a boulevard just like the one she had left. It wasn’t much better than where she had come from, but it was a chance; perhaps the only one she had.
Then, with just twenty yards to go, a man stepped around the corner and into the light.
It was Bronyev.
FIFTY-THREE
Katya gave a cry of despair. This wasn’t supposed to end this way! All that training, all the set-piece exercises at the academy, the live firing, all the scenarios they had gone through over and over again to speed up reactions to events like this.
She skidded to a halt, bringing up her gun, her breath catching harshly in her throat as she tried to swallow against the dryness. She felt exhausted, as much by fear as by the running, a counter to the adrenalin rush earlier when she had first seen the men arrive.
She stared at Bronyev, wondering what he was doing here. Deep down, though, she knew there could be only one reason: he knew her better than anyone else, and had been ordered to being her back. She desperately didn’t want to shoot a close colleague, a man who had trained in exactly the same way as her and with the same beliefs; but right now she was faced with no choice. If he tried to stop her, she would have to shoot. There was too much to lose otherwise.
‘Wait!’ Bronyev was holding his hands out from his sides, his voice low and urgent. ‘I’m not here to stop you, Katya.’ He looked, in spite of the situation, relaxed and in control, yet wary. And she realised that he hadn’t got his gun out.
‘Why not?’ she asked, gulping air. The gun felt slippery with sweat in her hand, its slim shape like a toy. ‘It’s your job. You have to do it.’
‘Yours, too. Or had you forgotten?’ He was breathing visibly too, although whether from the chase or nerves, she couldn’t tell.
‘Was,’ she replied, and sagged against the nearest wall. ‘The job changed, you know? Things changed.’ That made her sound idiotic. She couldn’t explain and didn’t have time. He probably wouldn’t understand, anyway. He was infinitely more of a product of the system than she was.
‘Like the English woman?’
Katya felt herself go cold. He knew?
‘What do you mean?’ An automatic form of denial. It was all she could think of to say.
‘Come off it, Katya. Sorry – I suppose I should call you lieutenant. But I’m not a fool. I heard the rumours about your . . .’ He paused and waved a vague hand.
‘Indiscretion? It’s all right, you can say it.’ She risked a glance over her shoulder. If the other men showed up now, she was dead.
‘Yes, that. And that’s all they are for the most part – rumours. Not to me, though. I have a sister who’s gay, you see, so I know. But I couldn’t care less. There are some up the ladder who think you’ll get it out of your system one day and . . . well, get your focus back. Daft, I know.’ He shrugged and looked embarrassed at the absurdity of it.
Katya nearly laughed. God in heaven, what a bunch of dinosaurs! Could they really be that stupid? Did they think she was possessed of a fever? Didn’t they know this was the twenty-first century? That there were actually gays in modern Russia, just like the rest of the world?
‘It’s not entirely their fault,’ said Bronyev sympathetically. ‘They actually want to believe we’re all perfect citizens, fitting the world they’ve created for us.’
‘There’s no such thing,’ Katya snapped. ‘Any fool knows that. Don’t they ever look around them?’
‘Outside the FSO, probably not. You’re right. But they want us to be perfect, that’s my point. Makes them look good.’
‘Christ, what are you, Bronyev – a closet sociologist? That’s worse than being gay!’
He smiled. ‘Just trying to make my way, that’s all. And to help you.’
‘So why this chat? Are you telling me you’re sympathetic?’
‘Why not? Like I said, my sister’s gay – and she’d never forgive me if I told her I’d stood in your way or tried to bring you in.’ He cleared his throat, and Katya thought he looked a little sad. ‘I love my sister, you see. I look out for her. I know how tough it is for her every day, everywhere she goes. We live in a very unforgiving place, you know that?’ He looked around, checking the space behind him. ‘Thing is, saying that makes me less than perfect, too, in their eyes. Join the club, huh?’
She stared at him, wondering if he wasn’t simply trying to string her along, to get her to drop her guard. But he merely looked back, waiting. Then she knew he was speaking the truth. And wondered how she’d never realised before. No wonder he had never come onto her, never tried to share down-time with her on assignments when their charges were tucked up safely in their hotels or embassies, or handed over to the care of another team. Not once had he made an improper remark or stepped over the line the way so many other men did, their intentions thinly coated in coarse humour. Somehow she had got used to that, being part of the barrack room system, knowing from early on that to respond in a negative fashion every time would mark her out for ever more ugly treatment as word got around that she could be easily wound up.
‘All because of your sister?’
‘Yes. Our parents freaked out when she told them. It was ugly for a while. But they’ve been wonderful ever since.’ He shrugged. ‘Not that they can talk about it much. It’s fine by me, but tough for them, I suppose.’
She felt as if she were in a dream. First thinking Bronyev was a threat, then finding out he wasn’t. Now realising he’d known all along. And said nothing.
‘So what do we do now?’
‘We do nothing. You get out of here. I, of course, like a diligent FSO officer, will scour the city for my deviant colleague who I wish wasn’t leaving because . . . well, because.’ He sighed and waved a hand. ‘Of course, I won’t find her, and they’ll send another team out to look for you. I’ll get a roasting for not watching you more carefully and realising what a threat you were, but in the end what can they do?’ He looked sad once more. ‘You realise you’ll never be able to come back, don’t you?’
‘I know.’ It was something that hadn’t been voiced before; something she hadn’t even thought about. The simple enormity of hearing it now hit her like a sledgehammer. But she knew instantly that it was the right thing – the only thing – to do. Anyway, unlike Bronyev, she had no family. ‘Thank you for the warning, by the way.’
He grinned. ‘Hey – no biggie, as the Americans would say. See, I knew the numbers would come in useful some day.’
‘But not for this.’
‘No, not for this. Just you be careful and don’t get brought back in chains. I’d hate to have to stand up in court and speak out against you.’ He nodded at the street behind her. ‘I’m going to walk past you and out the other side. You go the other way.’
‘All right. Are you sure?’
‘Of course. I’ll look back when I get to the end.’ He swallowed. ‘Don’t be here when I do.’
She smiled and felt a flood of emotion, and wanted to throw her arms around him. But she knew that would be fatal. He was telling her to go. Before he changed his mind.
‘Will you be OK?’
‘Me? Hell, yes, I expect so. Once the fuss is over I’ll probably get promoted.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘I never told you who my father is.’
‘No. Does it make a difference?’
‘His name is Dmitry Alexandrovich Bronyev, General Lieutenant of the Land Army Eastern Command. Only a handful of people know that. And that’s how I’d like to keep it. Now you
know, so don’t let me down. He’d be really pissed if this got out.’
She felt as if her head was in a spin. She’d never made the connection of the names before; in any case, scions of top army officers weren’t supposed to become bodyguards, willing to throw themselves in front of their charges at the first hint of danger. No wonder Bronyev was better than a normal recruit; with a father like his, he’d have been absorbing and absorbed in the military life ever since he was old enough to open his eyes.
‘I won’t tell anyone.’
There was nothing more to say. She watched as he approached her, and as he walked by, lifted a hand in a brief salute.
Then he was gone, and she walked quickly away in the opposite direction, her footsteps echoing his.
FIFTY-FOUR
Harry jogged back into cover and waited for Katya to appear, squatting to get a view of the ground below the level of the hanging foliage. He was looking for movement where there shouldn’t be any. It was pointless going any further in search of her; she could have gone in any direction and he would have to trust her to get back to the apartment somehow. All he could do was watch for the men to return this way.
Once he was certain of being alone, he rang Rik.
‘Jesus, was that you?’ the younger man said. ‘It sounded like a war zone out there. You could have called me to help.’
‘No point. It would have given them another target. But they’re now one down and smarting, so they’ll be back.’
‘How do you think they found us?’
‘Richoux, is my bet. Them turning up here is no coincidence.’
‘Unless Katya’s carrying another tag.’
‘If so, they’d have found us earlier. But if she shows up, check her out.’
‘Will do. What do we do now?’
‘Stay put but be ready to move. There was only one car, but I doubt that will last.’
‘Got it. I suppose you didn’t manage to find Starbucks while you were out, did you? I could kill for an Americano.’
Execution (A Harry Tate Thriller) Page 25