Helldiver: The Alex Morgan Interpol Spy Thriller Series (Intrepid 4)

by Chris Allen

  ABOUT HELLDIVER: THE ALEX MORGAN INTERPOL SPY THRILLER SERIES (INTREPID 4)

  Has Morgan finally met his match?

  Alex Morgan – policeman, soldier and spy for INTREPID – commits to the toughest mission of his career, and his chances of survival are slimmer than ever.

  Sent deep into the shadows of Europe’s criminal underbelly, Morgan’s mission is to overthrow an oligarch and bring a spy in from the cold. But his target is closer than he knows.

  As old friends reemerge, it becomes clear that the very heart of Morgan’s black ops division INTREPID faces destruction, and trust, it seems, is little more than a commodity to be bought and sold.

  With INTREPID agent Elizabeth Reigns by his side once again, Morgan must stare fear in the face as his loyalty is tested to its limits.

  Helldiver sees INTERPOL’s ultra secret black ops division INTREPID brought to its knees, and it’s up to Morgan and Reigns to wrest their agency back from the brink.

  Contents

  ABOUT HELLDIVER (INTREPID 4)

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT CHRIS ALLEN

  ALSO BY CHRIS ALLEN

  COPYRIGHT

  To my Sarah and our boys, Morgan and Rhett

  Above all, we should acknowledge that the collapse of the Soviet Union was a major geopolitical disaster of the century. As for the Russian nation, it became a genuine drama. Tens of millions of our co-citizens and co-patriots found themselves outside Russian territory. Moreover, the epidemic of disintegration infected Russia itself.

  Russian President Vladimir Putin

  The Kremlin, Russia

  April 2005

  The biggest disaster of this century would be the restoration of the Soviet Union.

  Ukrainian Prime Minister Arseniy Yatsenyuk

  Washington, DC, United States

  March 2014

  PROLOGUE

  5 Airborne Brigade, Aldershot, Hampshire, United Kingdom

  1995

  Just as the rain finally stopped hammering the roof of his treasured navy blue 1968 S-Type Jaguar, Lieutenant Colonel Reginald “Nobby” Davenport of the Army Legal Services Branch turned the car right, off Alison’s Road and into the vehicle checkpoint at the entrance to Montgomery Lines, switching off the windscreen wipers and Jazz FM as he did. A young paratrooper, a “Tom,” dressed in sodden combat fatigues, maroon beret and armed with an SA80 assault rifle, emerged from the rain-soaked surrounds, directing Davenport away from the boom-gated chicane and into a search bay to the left. As Davenport pulled into the bay and shut off the engine, the soldier withdrew, taking up a position from which he could maintain coverage of the vehicle and react, if necessary, with lethal force at the first sign of trouble. Two more identically dressed and armed soldiers, equally as drenched as the first man, immediately appeared from the vicinity of the guard box. If they were feeling the bitter cold they weren’t showing it. One of them was carrying a search mirror on an extendable arm. He dropped out of sight and began the process of inspecting the underside of the car. While this was happening, the other man, a corporal, approached Davenport directly. Davenport wound the window down. Icy air filled the car instantly.

  “Good morning, sir,” the corporal began, his warm breath wrestling against the cold air. He was a Geordie. “Could I see some identification, please.” It wasn’t a request.

  Davenport produced his British Army identity card. “I expect I’m on your list for this morning. Captain Wills at Brigade Headquarters is the contact.”

  “Alright, sir. Just a moment please.” The corporal took the ID card and returned to the guard box to make the necessary calls just as a muted clunk at the back of the Jag told Davenport the search man had opened the trunk and was having a look inside. Davenport was glad to see the regiment was still taking the domestic security threat seriously. The politicians might be talking about a truce with the IRA but this wasn’t the time to be letting the guard down. Old enemies die hard and old wounds heal slowly.

  Just as the trunk slammed shut the corporal returned from the guard box holding an A5-sized pink card.

  “You’re all clear, sir. Here’s your car pass. Leave it face up on your dash while you’re here, alright, and one of the boys will collect it from you when you leave. You know your way around?”

  “I do, thank you.”

  “Right. Well, you’re good to go, sir.”

  Saluting, he returned Davenport’s ID and signaled for the boom to be raised. Davenport drove through the chicane, making a series of left and right turns through the narrow bitumen roads of the garrison lined on either side by the imposing, two- and three-story concrete bunkers that formed the headquarters and accommodation buildings for the various units of 5 Airborne Brigade. The gravity of the place and the imposing, fortress-like constructions felt familiar, almost welcoming to him. The old gray barracks, Bruneval, Arnhem and Normandy among them, had been built for purpose. The Parachute Regiment was the sharp end of British policy, foreign and domestic. It was the regiment the government turned to when all else had failed and a sledgehammer was required. It had been Davenport’s first and only choice when he’d left New Zealand to join the British Army, and coming back to Aldershot gave him a sense that he had returned home.

  He drove past the site of what had once been the 2PARA Officers Mess, now just an empty space with a plaque marking the spot where a car packed with explosives had been detonated by the IRA back in 1972. The explosion killed a Catholic priest, a gardener and five women who were employed as civilian staff. Nineteen others were injured, many seriously.

  Within a few minutes he’d parked at the 3PARA Officers Mess, removed the civilian spray jacket he routinely wore over his uniform when driving, donned his beret and camouflage combat smock, and walked through the grounds of his old battalion, past the transport yard and the mortar platoon, and under the covered concourse behind the company offices. As he turned the corner to the battalion headquarters he was met by a familiar figure, apparently waiting for him.

  “Young Mr. Davenport. So we actually managed to coax you into a uniform and back down to Aldershot where all the real work’s done; although I see that damn beard’s become a permanent fixture?”

  “Good morning, sir,” Davenport replied warmly with a salute and handshake. “No entourage this morning?”

  “No. I’ve sent them all ahead to grease the wheels. Wanted a moment with you alone.” Brigadier Gordon Pymble, DSO, MBE, Commander 5 Airborne Brigade, was as tall as Davenport, although more heavily set, with gun-barrel dark brown eyes and clos
ely cropped iron-gray hair visible below the black leather band of his maroon beret. Pymble had forged his career in the Parachute Regiment and Special Air Service and had been Davenport’s commanding officer with the SAS during Desert Storm when Davenport, then commanding an SAS squadron, had been badly wounded by an Iraqi mortar, sustaining injuries that left him with shrapnel embedded deep within his right knee and eventually saw him medically retired from active service. Pymble had personally overseen the then Major Davenport’s recovery and, importantly, his continued career in the military. “We can’t afford to lose you, my boy,” he’d said then. “Far too valuable to us.” Under Pymble’s patronage, Davenport had completed an extensive physical rehabilitation process and, resurrecting a law degree he’d earned at the University of Auckland years earlier, he transitioned into Army Legal Services, maintaining his rank and seniority. He owed Pymble a debt he knew he could never repay.

  “They can wait for me a little longer.” They began to walk together, slowly.

  “Well, thank you for the invitation; I’m delighted to be back. And, yes, the beard’s permanent; as permanent as anything, I suppose, in this line of work. As I spend most of my time creeping around the corridors of the MOD and Whitehall in a suit, my director general has been kind enough to allow me this small rebellion against Army protocol. Civilianizes me somewhat – that’s my argument anyway. I’m sure somebody will make me shave it off at some point.”

  “Well, it’s damn good to see you, my boy, even if you do look like a bloody sailor. Can you come to the house for dinner this evening? I know Catherine would love to see you, and you can fill me in on your deployment to the Balkans.”

  “That’s very kind. I’d be delighted, thank you.” Davenport inclined his head toward a group of British and foreign military officers standing across the other side of the parade ground. “I see our friends are gathering already. Care to fill me in before we join them? The request you sent was rather cryptic. Something about assisting you with translating during a CFE visit?”

  “It’s a little more than that I’m afraid, Nobby,” replied the Brigadier. The two men continued slowly toward the others. “I’m sure every one of them bloody well speaks English fluently, they only pretend they don’t. No, there’s something else I need you for. This is the first of these Conventional Armed Forces in Europe visits we’ve had here at the Brigade and, of course, I’m happy to oblige; in fact, the CFE Treaty requires me to; but when I saw the list of attendees representing the Eastern Block countries, one name instantly stood out among all the others, and I knew I’d need you to verify whether or not it is the same man.”

  “Very well, sir,” replied Davenport. “Who is it?”

  “You’ll think I’m out of my mind when I tell you – Zolnerowich.”

  “Zolnerowich. Are you sure?”

  “Not a hundred percent. That’s why you’re here, my boy. In my position, I can’t pay any particular attention to him, but you can.”

  “Would he be so reckless as to turn up after all these years under his own name?”

  “Look at us,” replied Pymble. “We’re all suddenly friends now. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine, and all that rot. From what I recall of the man he’ll be relishing the opportunity to stand on British soil as an officially invited guest. Using his own name would just be the icing on the bloody cake.” Pymble paused. “Nobby, you were the closest of any of us when we tried to snatch him from Tiergarten back in eighty-five. You were one of our best Russian speakers. You watched him, studied him and listened to his voice for days during the surveillance phase of the operation. If anyone can confirm it’s him, you can.”

  By now the two men had arrived at the edge of the multinational group gathered at the northeastern end of the battalion parade ground. A young captain wearing a maroon beret and the uniform and insignia of the Australian airborne forces separated from the group and approached them. The name tag on his distinctive mustard-colored camouflage uniform read “Collins.”

  “Good morning, sir,” he said, saluting Pymble.

  “Good morning, Lewis,” replied the Brigadier. “This is Colonel Davenport from the MOD.”

  “Colonel,” Collins replied, shaking Davenport’s hand. “Good to meet you.”

  “Good to meet you, too. You’re a long way from home.”

  “Yes. I’m attached to the regiment for two years; about halfway through at the moment.”

  “Lewis is currently commanding Patrols Company with 3PARA and he’s drawn the short straw to host the visit this morning,” Pymble said. “Are we all set?”

  “Yes, sir. Although, we’re in the hands of the translators unfortunately, but I suspect most of these guys understand exactly what we’re saying anyway.” Collins guided Pymble and Davenport back toward the group, adding, “I’ll make the introductions.”

  The group totaled about thirty, a half-and-half mix of British and Russian officers and senior non-commissioned officers. Via the translators, Collins began the circuit of introductions, then Pymble gave a few words of welcome, acknowledging the importance of the CFE Treaty. Once the Brigadier was finished, Collins resumed the hosting role, explaining the visit schedule: “… which will include a demonstration by the reconnaissance platoon and snipers, a demolition presentation by the pioneers, and the deployment of the battalion tactical headquarters by the signals platoon within a combat operations scenario …”

  As the briefing continued, Davenport took the opportunity to blend into the background, his eyes subtly searching the group for the man introduced just moments ago as Colonel Zolnerowich. He seemed to have disappeared. No, there: wearing the uniform and embellishments of a colonel in the Motor Rifle Division, complete with a papakha fur hat. This was definitely Zolnerowich. Colonel Igor Sergei Zolnerowich. Uniforms don’t hide much when you’re used to them, he thought. It’s a person’s presence and physicality that’s telling when everyone is in olive drab or camouflage: the set of the shoulders, the crest of the brow, the profile, gait and general demeanor. When you know someone well enough, all of those elements transcend the anonymity of the uniform. He was just as Davenport remembered him, average height, although a little thicker set than ten years ago, with the same light brown hair, large ears and cold, lifeless eyes. Even his wearing of the papakha was telling. Davenport knew enough about the Russian Army, pre- and post-Cold War, to know that the iconic fur hats had recently been banned by President Yeltsin. They were seen by the new Russian leadership as a symbol of elitism among the most senior ranks of the old guard. So, Zolnerowich saw himself as above the decrees of his commander-in-chief. Interesting but not uncharacteristic.

  During the late 1970s and early 80s, Zolnerowich had emerged on the radar of Western intelligence agencies as a KGB problem solver, making a name for himself as istrebitel’ predatelei, “the killer of defectors”. He was responsible for the murders of a Czech deputy minister during a trade delegation visit to Helsinki, a Polish bio-weapons engineer in Paris, and a string of others, all of whom had either defected or who had reached out to the West and were in the process of making the final move, including a pilot who’d absconded with a MiG and made it safely to Aalborg in Denmark. Zolnerowich had a knack for appearing just as everything seemed to be all clear. He became known to Western intelligence agencies for ensuring that the murder of every defector was witnessed – a wife, a husband, a mistress or colleague – while doing nothing to mask his identity. At the time Davenport first heard of him, Zolnerowich was wanted for the murder of Major Piotr Adamczyk, a Polish Army officer who had spied for NATO for almost a decade. In April 1983, when Adamczyk was sold out and the KGB began to close in, the decision was made to extract him. An urgent plan was cobbled together, MI6 took point and the extraction went, relatively, like clockwork. And then everything unraveled. No sooner had they managed to bundle Adamczyk safely across the border into West Berlin than Zolnerowich appeared. He shot Adamczyk between the eyes, along with the MI6 officer who had extracted him, and per
manently maimed the West German agent who’d established the safe house – thereby leaving his witness. It was a major embarrassment for the West.

  Two years later, MI6 reported that Zolnerowich had once again been identified operating within the British sector of West Berlin. It was the first confirmed sighting of him since ’83 and the opportunity to capture him was too good to miss. With no notice, as was so often the case, Davenport’s team was scrambled from Hereford to Tiergarten. The operation to capture and interrogate Zolnerowich was to have been a major coup for the West.

  Davenport involuntarily shuddered against the bite of a cold wind, maintaining his composure despite the sudden resurgence of bitter memories. He looked casually around at the gathered group of former adversaries. Now everyone was suddenly expected to be on the same bloody team, smiling, shaking hands, even sharing secrets – to a point. After almost fifty years of facing off against each other, the paranoia and lies, a dozen dirty little wars, countless deaths and the world constantly on the brink of Armageddon, it was all just swept away. But how long could it last? Political leaders could stand their militaries down and talk of peace, but for those who’d been on the frontlines for decades, it was a lot harder to forgive and forget. Davenport realized his jaw was clenched tight, just as his fists were within the pockets of his combat smock. He let the air escape through his nostrils and resumed his quiet study of the enemy. The old enemy. He noted that, like him, Zolnerowich was also hanging back, under the radar, standing behind the Russian delegation. Davenport decided to make his move, edging discreetly around the perimeter of the group, eventually coming to stand close behind the Russian’s left shoulder.

  “I see you’ve come prepared for the cold, colonel,” said Davenport in Russian. He indicated the papakha.

  Zolnerowich glanced lazily at him, his face expressionless. The black eyes blinked once, capturing an image, assessing it, filing it. “You took your time coming over,” he replied in English.