by Eddy Shah
He worked his way northwards, back the way he had come. They wouldn't be expecting that. Very soon he had retraced his steps and was back at the wooden chalet.
He kept clear of the sanded clearing and the alarm beams and by-passed all the inhabited areas. He could hear people shouting in the distance and knew that they had gone chasing in the opposite direction.
The helicopter coughed, sneezed and wound up when he was only two hundred metres from the airfield. He had reached the open area of the tank trails when the helicopter's lights blazed on and it started to lift into the sky. Adam was trapped in the open and he sprinted towards a deep tank track as the aircraft swung towards him, nose low as it gathered speed. He threw himself, face down, into the two-foot-deep trench and lay still. Within seconds the whole trench was lit up. He tightened his grip on the sub machine gun, waited for the helicopter to slow and swing towards him. But it passed by, the crew too involved with the early flight of their craft and not expecting to find any intruders this close to the runway. It gathered speed and raced towards the built-up complexes.
When he was certain it was out of range, Adam rose from the trench and made his way towards the hangars, taking care in case there were any further helicopters being readied. There was nothing to alarm him, no activity in the building at the end or near the hangars. He presumed those who had been on duty there had all gone in the helicopter to help the others.
The hangar doors on the first building had been opened to bring out the helicopter. Checking all was clear, he went in. There was little point in going further. The two twin engined aeroplanes were trapped behind the Citation Jet. It had been a fanciful idea, flying out of there, and he laughed at his own foolishness. Jenny Dale's lessons would have to be used another day.
He quickly ran over to the next hangar. The big door was still shut. He eased himself in through the side door. No-one there. He surveyed the Jeeps. The keys were in them.
He went to the side door and checked outside, still no obvious movement.
He re-entered the hangar and searched for the switch to slide the double doors open electrically. He found it on the far side, punched the red button and watched the big metal doors start to open.
He climbed into the Jeep and turned the key. The vehicle was slow to start, coughing with a metallic grind as the fuel refused to fire. He cursed, pumped the accelerator, hoping not to flood the engine, and turned her over again. The Jeep fired up and he slipped it into gear, released the clutch and edged it forward. The doors had opened wide as he reached them.
'Achtung! Wie gehts?' shouted a voice from the darkness. Adam looked up and saw a storm trooper running towards him, waving his hand. When the German realised that Adam was not one of his colleagues, he stopped and reached for the revolver in his belted holster.
At fifteen metres distance, he was no match for the Browning. The 9mm slug cut through his neck before he had unholstered his pistol.
Shit, Marcus. Now it starts. Now it fucking starts.
Adam felt the blackness race through him as he saw the storm trooper fall. He switched on the lights and drove down the tank paths towards the front gate. They wouldn't expect him to be in a vehicle.
The blackness was still with him, the depression of a life taken. Why the fuck am I here, Marcus? Why's it always me in the shit?
Hope you're okay, Billie. Five minutes. No more. Please do as I told you.
He saw the first group of storm troopers in the forest to his left. They were moving towards the perimeter wall. One of the men waved in his direction and he waved back, kept his head down and hurtled on down the track.
The helicopter was now working an area to the left, near the chalet, its strong searchlight playing through the trees. A group broke cover in front of him, but his headlights were on full beam and blinded them, protected him as he drove past. One of the men tried to jump on board, but couldn't make it as the Jeep was travelling too fast. Adam heard him curse and the others laugh at his misfortune.
The track he had chosen turned into the forest. He would rather have stayed in the open, where they weren't searching for him, but he had to return to the gatehouse. It was his best way out.
He had to slow down, there were too many men crossing the road in the forest in front of him. They had torches, heavy weapons slung over their shoulders. But somehow he got through. Nobody shone a torch at him, nobody recognised the stranger in their midst.
His headlights picked out Curly Top in the black uniform. He stood in the middle of the road, his arm outstretched in a signal for the Jeep to stop.
Bastard's tired of walking, Marcus. Can't stop now.
Adam slowed to a crawl, as if stopping for him. The bright headlights confused Curly Top, who now held his hands up to shield his eyes. He waved to Adam to turn off the lights.
Adam grinned, his blackness gone as danger touched him.
He gunned the engine when he only had a few metres to go, felt the Jeep claw at the hard ground and hurtle forward.
Curly Top dived out of the way, grabbing at his revolver as Adam drove past.
Go, Marcus. Go. Go.
He was clear before the storm troopers could react. They may have been well trained, but they weren't match fit. Before the first shots rang out, Adam had turned the shallow bend and was shielded by the safety of the trees.
He drove for his life, knew that Curly Top would be screaming into that radio he carried over his shoulder, screaming for his storm troopers to find and stop the Jeep. He decided not to abandon it, not to go on foot. He'd be at the gatehouse within two minutes. Maybe he could just crash his way through.
He saw the searchlight before he heard the helicopter. The roar of the Jeep's high revving engine had drowned the turbine's sound.
He swung left to right, back again, careered across the road, in and out of the trees. In front and to each side, people were shooting at him, but they all missed. He unswung the machine gun and sprayed the bullets into the trees, sending his hunters scattering for cover. He heard the machine gun fire from the helicopter, but it was difficult for the pilot to manoeuvre in such a tight space, even more difficult for the machine gunner to take aim. The bullets from the helicopter were wild and causing more trouble to its own troops than to Adam.
As he raced and bumped down the track, the helicopter suddenly lifted and flew forward, leaving him on his own.
He's heading for the gatehouse, Marcus. He's going to wait for me.
He pushed the accelerator to the floor and went flat out down the track, more off the ground than on it. When he rounded the final bend, he saw the helicopter hovering in the middle of the road, no more than five feet off the ground and some twenty metres from the gates.
The gates were closed.
There were a few guards scattered to the side of the road, all armed, no more than six or seven as far as Adam could make out. Curly Top hadn't had enough time to get more people to the gatehouse.
Adam saw the machine gunner hanging out of the open door of the Jet Ranger, he didn't wait, just aimed his Heckler and Koch MP5K at the helicopter, one handed, and opened fire. He saw the machine gunner panic, and open fire blindly at the Jeep. He smashed the windscreen with one bullet and Adam felt a sliver of glass cut into his cheek, but he did little other damage.
Adam kept firing in short bursts and drove straight at the helicopter.
The pilot, realising that the Jeep was going to ram him, applied the cyclic and tried to lift clear. But the front of the vehicle caught the undercarriage and sent the helicopter shuddering sideways. The pilot, frantically trying to lift clear, felt his craft tilt and knew the big rotors were going to hit the gatehouse before they actually did.
The rotors slashed through the roof of the building, as if through a doll's house. The Jet Ranger arced upwards, a big prehistoric teradactyl lurching blindly in its death throes. Then it crashed to the ground, just crashed and died, no explosions, no flames reaching to the sky. It just flipped over and died in nothingne
ss.
Adam had slammed the Jeep to a stop before the helicopter was on its back. He took the grenade from his pocket, unleashed the pin and threw it at the base of the double gates.
Nobody was shooting, they were all watching the helicopter in its death throes.
He swung round and drove away from the gate. He saw some of the storm troopers turn their attention to him and he sprayed them with his MP5K.
German bullets for German flesh, Marcus.
Then the grenade exploded, tore the doors apart some two metres, enough for a man to get through, but not the Jeep. He wrenched the wheel round and rammed the gate, the bullets now ripping into the air around him. The jeep slammed into the gates some more, but still not enough to drive through.
Adam was thrown forward, up and over the shattered windscreen and onto the bonnet. He kept rolling, still hanging onto his weapons, and fell over the front of the Jeep and onto the pavement outside. Somebody was yelling and the bullets suddenly stopped. As Adam looked back through the split in the gates, he saw Curly Top, saw the evil hatred in his eyes.
Keep going. Just 'cos they've stopped shooting doesn't mean they're not going to come after you.
He turned and started to run down the road, southwards, into Dresden.
The Audi Quattro honked from across the road. 'Here. Over here!' she shouted through the open window.
Shit, Marcus. She shouldn't be here.
There was little traffic on the road and he ran across to her, ran round to the passenger side and jumped in.
'I said no more than five minutes,' he shouted.
The words hurt her. 'But you needed me. Look at your face.'
He'd forgotten the glass that cut his cheek. 'It's okay. I said five minutes.'
'But you needed...'
'Five means five. If it was more, then I was in trouble. Shit, I didn't want you back. Let's go. Where's your tail?'
'I lost him,' she said proudly.
'Come on, get going.'
'Where?'
'Just go. Come on.'
She pulled away. As she moved away from the pavement, a black BMW slowed down and drew abreast of them. Adam remembered the BMW that had pulled out of the complex when he walked past earlier. She hadn't lost her tail, they'd had two following her.
Before Adam could react with his weapons, the passenger in the BMW, a young blond skinhead, set light to a glass bottle half filled with petrol with a piece of rag stuffed in the top, and hurled the Molotov cocktail into the Quattro through Billie's open window.
The bottle shattered in the back of the car, the petrol saturating and sticking to the upholstery. As the fumes spread, they were ignited by the flaming rag and exploded. Some of the petrol stuck to the back of Billie's hair and caught fire.
She was already screaming, desperately trying to steer the car away from the BMW, where the passenger was attempting to light another Molotov cocktail. Adam leant over and wrapped his arm round the back of her head, protected her from the flames and blocked out any further damage to her. With his other arm he wrenched the wheel to the right, forced the Audi up onto the pavement and against the wall. The car jerked to a sharp stop. The engine was still screaming.
'Take your foot off the accelerator!' Adam shouted. 'Come on, come on. Get out.'
He leant over and pushed the door open, shoved her out as the engine died. The BMW had come to a stop and the passenger was climbing out, his Molotov cocktail now lit and ready.
With the flames engulfing the roof of the Audi, Adam lay across the two front seats, aimed the machine gun and shot the bomber dead. The skinhead fell backwards into the BMW and the bomb exploded in the car, spewing its liquid of flaming death.
Adam crawled out of the Audi, grabbed Billie and ran with her before the petrol tanks exploded.
The BMW went first, its roof torn open by the flames and blast as if by a giant unseen can opener.
The Audi Quattro blew its doors and windows out twelve seconds later.
As Adam dragged Billie to her feet, he saw Curly Top in front of him. He wasn't alone. They were surrounded by storm troopers.
He went for the machine gun, but someone kicked him hard in the back of the head. He resisted the pain, tried to bring the weapon to bear.
Another sharp blow hit him between his shoulder blades.
No pain, Marcus. Kill the pain.
He willed himself forward and upwards.
Another blow on the side of the head. Then another.
The bastards were kicking him.
Like a fucking dog.
He twisted to shield himself, tried to pull himself round and use that big machine gun he had carried for so long.
But they didn't let up, kept at him. In the stomach, the shoulders, more kicks to the head.
He managed to keep the pain at bay, but only because, unconscious, he was forced to let himself go.
Just before he passed out he heard Billie screaming his name.
Adam. Adam
Help her, Marcus. Help her till I come back.
Ch. 67
CIA HQ
Langley
Virginia.
'You're absolutely certain about this?'
'Yes, sir.'
The DDA sat back and waited for the Exec Director to continue. The news he had just imparted had had the effect he expected. His superior was baffled, unsure of the validity and import of what he had just been told.
'How the hell did you find out?' the Exec Director asked suspiciously. There was bad blood between the two men, something he had himself nurtured. Divide and rule had always been his style.
'I decided to run a check on all personnel involved in this matter.'
'All personnel?' questioned the Exec Director.
'Up to the level of Deputy Directors.' There was no way the DDA was going to run a check on his superior.
'Why?'
'This thing's taken so many damn twists and turns...that I just believe we should question every angle. I also ran a check on my own records, I should add. There could've been something there, someone I'd met in the past that might open another door.'
'Wasn't your door you opened,' cut back the Exec Director sharply.
'I can only report what we found. We just threw all the names into a big data base and sat back to see what the computer threw up.'
The Exec Director rose from his desk and crossed to the window, stared out on the cold, snow filled landscape that filtered down to Langley. He didn't speak for nearly a minute; the DDA sat quietly, knowing this was not the time to interrupt his thoughts.
'Was a time when we played these games and enjoyed it. We knew who our fucking enemies were,' reminisced the Exec Director. 'Now we're all on the same side. Trouble is...' he went on, coming back to his desk, '...you don't know whose side you're on, including your own. I tell you, pork and sardines just don't mix on the same plate.' He sat down. 'How close were they?'
'The Englishman or the Russian?'
'All three.'
'They just all happened to be in Washington at the same time. Guess they mixed in the same diplomatic circles, got to know each other. That's not unusual. Even in the cloak and dagger community. A good source of information.'
'They ever communicate now?'
The DDA shrugged. 'A few letters, cards. Nothing unusual. The DDI's met Coy a couple of times. As would be expected. They worked closely during Desert Storm. This visit to Coy in London was logged as gathering information on Nicholson.'
'Did he discover anything?'
'We've had no report, sir.'
'I can live with Coy. But the Russian worries me. Shit, Rostov's the number two in the KGB. They say he's going to be the next Director.'
'They were friends a long time ago. Rostov was only a military attache...'
'Fuck the title. He was a spy. They all were.'
'Our people knew that. They still had friendships. There's nothing to suggest any different.'
'I hope not.' The Exec Director paused
for a good twenty seconds before continuing. 'Did they share any women, anything like that?'
'No. Nothing like that.'
'Happened in England. That scandal in the Sixties. War Minister, John Profumo. He was porking this hooker who was also in bed with a Russian spy.'
'Ivanov.'
'That's the guy. Brought the whole damn government down. These things happen.'
'I don't think that's the case here. They just went out for dinner, that sort of thing.'
'Chase it, anyway. I'd hate for it to rebound from another direction.'
The DDA knew he meant from above. The Exec Director was no different from the rest of them. They all spent time covering their asses. 'I'll keep an eye on it, sir.'
'The German police come up with anything on Bonnie and Clyde?'
'Not a smell.'
'I guess we got Nicholson's picture from the Brits?'
'If we did, then no-one's admitting to it. They've been on to us. Want to know if we released it.'
'How the hell would we...? Coy. Is that where it came from?'
'You'll have to ask the DDI.'
'That'll have to wait. His first responsibility's looking after this Berlin trip. Let's just hope the German cops get hold of Bonny and Clyde before they cause any more trouble. Shit, I'd like to know what the hell they're up to. I really would.'
So would the rest of us, reflected the DDA. So would the rest of us.
Ch . 68
The Main House.
Dresdener Heidi
Dresden
Germany.
The pain brought him out of his unconsciousness. It was a sharp pain, on his left side and below his ribs.
It wasn't long before that pain merged with the others that covered his body.
Adam lay still, his eyes closed, not wanting to alert whoever was in the room. He listened intently, heard nothing immediate, only the muffled sound of a radio or television from another room.