by Chris Allen
“What the fuck happened to you?” Helldiver asked.
“I was paid a visit at the hotel last night, not long after I arrived,” Morgan replied casually. “A welcoming committee of some sort; I presumed they’d been sent to warn me off by someone who doesn’t really want me on board.”
Helldiver thumped the armrest between them with his fist.
“Don’t worry,” Morgan continued. “It was directed at me, not you. If I thought it was designed for you I would have immediately recommended that you abort the trip.”
“How do you know it wasn’t a hit?”
“You don’t take someone out with a cosh unless you’re really patient and they’re really compliant,” Morgan replied. “There were two of them. They’d been told to deliver a message and they did. I sent them back with my response.”
Helldiver looked at Morgan and smiled. “Dead or alive?”
“Alive,” Morgan said. “No need to start the trip off hiding bodies.”
They fell silent for a few moments. Morgan could see that Helldiver was taking in the familiar territory. He wondered what was going through the man’s mind, not that he would ever in a million years be able to fathom the thought processes of a narcissistic megalomaniac. He wasn’t even sure if that’s what the experts would classify a person like Hedeon Zolner; it was just the way that Morgan had decided to pigeonhole him. He was curious to understand exactly what Helldiver had planned to say when he eventually confronted Latushkin and wondered if the man still felt the same way now that he was through the drunken tirade and actually on the ground on the home team’s turf. Of course, Morgan knew full well that there would be no confrontation with Latushkin. It was then that his mind returned to the next issue, which was when and how the takedown would occur. He found himself worrying again about Arena’s safety and immediately a sharp stab of guilt hit him hard as he realized that his feelings for Elizabeth Reigns had been put to one side. Jesus. This was not the time to be analyzing his feelings for these two women, both of whom were very much responsible – in some ways at least – for who he was today.
They were traveling along the M11 route south to Moscow and were about the cross the Vodnik when Morgan noticed a black UAZ Patriot SUV moving quickly into the lane ahead of them. The Bentley’s driver remained unmoved. He maintained his speed and the UAZ matched it perfectly. Helldiver was oblivious, caught up in his thoughts and the confrontation he was no doubt playing out word for word in his mind’s eye. A second UAZ Patriot overtook them, identical in every way to the one in front. Morgan noticed it now taking its place in the convoy ahead of the first one. He wondered if Rodenko had noticed when, checking to the rear of the Bentley, another vehicle appeared, this time a large truck, heavy and powerful, wedging perfectly between the Bentley and Rodenko’s Mercedes SUV behind them.
“Everything OK?” Helldiver asked, obviously sensing Morgan’s growing tension.
“It looks like we’re getting an escort,” Morgan replied calmly.
“Do you know anything about this?” Helldiver demanded of the driver in Russian.
Sitting beside the driver, Arena shifted uncomfortably and shot an accusing look across at him. The man replied in the negative, feigning a very well-practiced astonishment at the suggestion, assuring Helldiver – as far as Morgan’s sketchy Russian would allow – that he was completely unaware of what was occurring. Morgan stepped in, thanking the driver and recommending that he follow the direction of the convoy and not try anything untoward. The driver acknowledged gratefully.
“An escort does make sense, given who you are and who you’re here to see,” Morgan said.
He felt the most minute drop in speed. It was subtle, extremely so, just a few miles per hour, and was instantly matched and maintained by every vehicle in the convoy. Morgan then noted that the lorry was dropping out of sight and with it, Rodenko’s Mercedes. In their place a third UAZ Patriot appeared directly behind, identical to the two in front. The four vehicles raced along as one without any obvious anxiety from Helldiver. Morgan remained outwardly relaxed, he needed Helldiver to remain exactly as he was, comfortable that this unexpected development was actually expected. The routine traffic that had been racing past their open flank, Morgan’s side, suddenly eased and a large black limousine, a Russian made ZIL-4112, emerged predatorily from the traffic and closed in tightly on the exposed flank of the Bentley. The ZIL was new but with its ominous box-like design and blackened windows it could easily have been lifted from the streets of Soviet-era Moscow or the pages of a le Carré novel. The severity of its stark, old-world appearance and the uncertainty of the next few hours traced a cold finger of death directly down Morgan’s spine. They were boxed in.
“A further development,” Morgan said calmly and Helldiver’s attention was immediately drawn back to him. Morgan motioned with his head toward the ZIL. “It looks like General Latushkin has elected to hold your meeting outside of the city.”
Helldiver stared past Morgan at the black windows of the ZIL. It was impossible to see inside yet Helldiver seemed reasonably unperturbed, if only a little curious.
“This is just like Latushkin,” he said. “Trying to rattle my cage. He seems to have forgotten that he would not be director of the SVR if not for my father. And he has me to thank for the properties and mistresses he retains in Spain and France. Perhaps I will remind him.”
Morgan felt a second speed change, this one even more subtle than the last. Another followed just a few minutes later and then another and by now Helldiver was again quizzing the driver, who expertly maintained his nervously apologetic demeanor.
Then the box was tightened and the convoy eased onto the hard shoulder in unison, preparing to leave the highway.
CHAPTER 29
The convoy pulled away from the highway and turned down a narrow gravel road between a silent honor guard of crumbling gray buildings. Already the sun was withdrawing behind the heavy rainclouds, which had been threatening earlier and were now settling in, lending an eerie darkness to the scene. With every crackle of the rocks beneath the tires, the road channeled them farther away from the busy highway. The road seemed endlessly long, a feeling exacerbated by the slow progress they were making. As each building passed from view, Morgan couldn’t help but feel that a succession of impenetrable gates was being slammed shut behind them, permanently. The sense of foreboding that oozed from the staged drama of this power play by the new director of the SVR was not lost on him. These guys had been doing this a long time; they knew how to unnerve people. Morgan wondered for a moment about Masterson and made a mental note to grill him some more on his days of operating solo behind the Iron Curtain.
Their funeral procession finally broke free of the old buildings and drove on through fields of dry tussock and stone for four or five more miles before cresting a hill and descending into an abandoned shell that had once been a warehouse, with rotting concrete walls twenty feet high and a roof that was now nothing more than a latticework of collapsed steel trusses and rusted sheets of corrugated iron that had, over many years, fallen autumnally like huge leaves to the ground.
Now Helldiver was showing serious concern, and Morgan could sense that Arena was equally anxious. She was rigid and silent in the front seat and had not engaged once during the drive from the airport, busying herself instead with her cellphone, emailing and occasionally making calls regarding Helldiver’s imminent arrival at the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski. Morgan had tried to catch her eye in the wing mirror on their side of the car a number of times but to no avail. All he wanted to do was reach between the seats and squeeze her hand. All she had to do was hold on a little bit longer.
The convoy formed a rough circle, the Bentley in the center, and stopped. The Bentley’s driver shut down the engine and got out without a word. The ZIL eased up alongside and stopped with the finality of a blade being embedded to the hilt in soft flesh. A dozen men climbed out of the Patriots, removed automatics from beneath their suit coats and took up position
s around the limousine.
“Everybody just stay cool,” Morgan said.
One of the men from the Patriot crew opened the rear passenger door of the ZIL and a man emerged. He was tall, lean, bald and middle aged and dressed in a dark suit. He moved unhurriedly as he approached the Bentley.
“This is not Latushkin,” said Helldiver, his voice barely audible. The bravado of flying into Moscow to lay down the law to his masters had all but evaporated.
When the man was within ten feet of the Bentley he made a gesture and all of their doors were opened. The men who had opened them all moved as unhurriedly as the first man, who was obviously in charge.
Helldiver took the lead, removing himself from the Bentley to stand facing the man in charge. There was less than five feet between them. Morgan and Arena got out on the far side of the car and were directed at gunpoint to stay there.
“Where’s Latushkin?” Helldiver asked and, with a hint too much arrogance added, “I don’t know you.”
“Latushkin has been retired,” the man replied. “I am his successor.”
“Where is my security detail?” Helldiver asked. Morgan thought the question was clumsy, almost clutching at straws.
“They have been retired, too. As will you, very soon.”
“Perhaps you’d like to explain to me exactly what is going on? Latushkin and I had an arrangement. We had agreed to meet today to sort things out. If he is out and you are in then I expect that you will be aware of this arrangement. Yes?”
“No, I have no knowledge of any arrangement and what’s more, I have no particular interest in one. You demand a great deal for a man in your position. I recommend that you modify your behavior around me. I am significantly less tolerant than Comrade General Latushkin. Now, did you or did you not receive directive number Mike Juliet Victor two nine exactly one week ago today, ordering you to cease and desist any further action in regard to this operation you were running with Latushkin? And did you then ignore that order and arrange the beheading of a third-party foreign official while on US soil?” The man’s voice was full of threat and menace. “Did you proceed to implement a subsequent and unnecessary attack on a civilian aircraft, which was to have been brought down two days ago?”
“I will be more than happy to discuss all your questions directly with Latushkin.”
Morgan knew that wouldn’t go down well at all. Helldiver was making this very primal and very difficult, very rapidly.
“My father and I are personal friends of the president, whom I believe you report directly to. Perhaps you should check again before you end up on the other side of this conversation. My father—”
The other man gave a short, sharp, braying laugh. Then he was silent again. The forced smile faded away to dust.
“You simply do not understand … Helldiver.” There was condescension in his voice. This man was in no way emotionally invested in the conversation; he was holding all the cards and toying with the billionaire. “Your father fled France this morning. You and he have considered yourselves beyond our reach for many years. You were wrong to think that way but he knew how far he could push before our patience would snap. And that is why we are here, Mr. Helldiver. Our patience has run its course. Comrade General Latushkin accepted his fate and died honorably. Your father, however – well, he has run away to save his own skin.”
The man held out his hand and one of the Patriot men walked over and placed a gun in it. Arena’s hand came up to her mouth as she let out a muffled gasp that only Morgan could hear.
“Your father understands the old ways.”
With that the man raised his hand, leveled the gun and fired. The bullet struck Helldiver in the center of the forehead. It happened so quickly he had no time to plead or bargain. The spray of blood and debris exploded across the pot-holed concrete floor and the body crumpled, dropping from sight on the other side of the Bentley. The man took two paces forward, emptied two more rounds into the body and handed the warm gun back to its owner.
“And sometimes the old ways are best,” he said to Morgan and Arena. Then he got back into the ZIL and the big car drove away.
The driver of the Bentley appeared and gestured for them both to get back into the car. They did. He got behind the wheel and handed Morgan an envelope. Then he started the car and they rolled silently away.
CHAPTER 30
London, England
Reginald Davenport sat back into the welcoming arms of his sofa. His tie and cuff links were finally off for the day and his shoes weren’t far behind. It had been a hell of a week but his agents had brought to an end a reprehensible endeavor and thwarted at the eleventh hour what could have been another disaster in the air. Not to mention the numerous other Intrepid operations going on around the world, but the Helldiver operation had been the most significant in recent months. Yet, there was still a nagging sense of anti-climax sitting uncomfortably in the pit of his gut. Something like unfinished business, but what was it? He massaged his temples and allowed his head to rest against the cushion he’d placed behind it. He was awaiting word from headquarters on the latest out of Moscow. Sheridan was in contact with Morgan and the two were compiling their report, which would come through as soon as it was done. In the meantime the operational headlines would have to do. Details would be good, but Davenport understood better than anybody that field agents weren’t always able to sit around writing reports on laptops. All he’d heard so far was that Helldiver had been executed and Zolnerowich had fled.
Zolnerowich had fled. That was the issue sticking in his craw. He was dismayed – after everything he’d thrown at this operation, that particular piece of news was extremely disappointing. Of course, there was great solace in the knowledge that the attacks against civil airlines had been stopped and the recruiter, Salazar, and his accomplices had also been rounded up.
But the unresolved issue about where he had hoped the operation would lead them had yet to be resolved and was the cause of his greatest frustration. He knew they were on the right track; forty-plus years of service in his very particular operating environment had told him so. Global history, in this case at least, had become intrinsically linked to his personal history and it was his familiarity with certain individuals and their respective modus operandi that had piqued his interest and driven him to set Intrepid on such a potentially perilous course. He had thrown himself at the challenge of pulling together so many disparate threads. Deceiving Morgan into believing he was on an indefinite leave of absence while carefully arranging for him to be infiltrated into the Helldiver machine was only a part of it. One never knew where the majority of effort would be required in these long-term undercover operations involving so many different players and angles all over the world. His identification of Arena Halls as a valuable asset had proven a wise decision. Having her placed within Europol to prepare her for being seconded to the Zolner global empire had resulted in invaluable intelligence, which can only ever be achieved by selecting the right person for the job. Halls had been the right choice from the outset. Her ability to demonstrate her inestimable value to Zolner had seen her rise through the ranks of his corporate machinery until she became a trusted insider. The fact that she was never subsumed into the non-public-facing side of the business had not curtailed the extent of the information that she was able to send through via Masterson. It was her information that had eventually led to Morgan’s involvement. But it had taken almost two years to achieve.
Davenport knew he could never have conceived of an alliance with the Russians in order to bring down Helldiver. Their willingness to participate was indicative of their concerns over Zolnerowich and his son – monsters of their own creation. Yet, despite all of the conspiracy theories, some of which had come very close to the truth, the general populace would really never know what the apparently isolated issue of civil aircraft falling from the skies had to do with global politics and the aspirations of individuals. Individuals who could influence the future of entire generations �
� and ultimately the world. Headlines heralding the new Cold War were as routine now as past headlines concerning the extremists. The Russians had achieved their objective: the West had become distracted once again by the Middle East and the shadow of the old Soviet Union had been resurrected. An Iron Curtain could very well, once again, descend across Europe.
Davenport couldn’t help being reminded of the way things had been during his time with the Special Air Service and his introduction to the world of clandestine operations. Never knowing who to trust was the central theme of the time, and he dreaded a return to those uncertainties, although he knew deep down that absolute trust was a quality very hard earned indeed, and the importance and inherent fragility of its value would always be exploited by those motivated by self-interest.
In danger of being overwhelmed by the scale of it all, Davenport shut down those thoughts and contemplated what he might do for dinner. He wasn’t inclined toward the prospect of remaining at home, something about the ongoing nature of the operation had unsettled him and so he would be better off out; either at a restaurant – where the bustle of people enjoying their meals and good company would be a welcome distraction, or there was always his club – but that would inevitably turn to shop talk and that wouldn’t be helpful. Perhaps he might call one of his sons and see what they were up to.
His phone rang.
“Hello, V,” he answered. “How are things across the river?”
“Very well thank you, Nobby,” Violet Ashcroft-James, the Chief of MI6, replied. “And how are things with you, well I hope?”
“Oh, all of the usual nonsense, I’m afraid. And to what do I owe this delightful surprise?”