by Chris Allen
At that moment, Reigns inched the Land Rover to the right just enough to put Morgan within reaching distance of the wing’s strut. The Land Rover’s engines was howling back at the Cessna. The Cessna was crying to take to the skies. The wing strut rose and was level with Morgan. He turned his body, braced his feet against the running board for a split-second of solid purchase and leaped for the wing strut.
CHAPTER 36
Alex Morgan wrapped his arms around the wing strut just as the Cessna 206 became airborne. The addition of an extra two hundred pounds at the moment of take-off caused the Cessna to lurch to port and the pilot to overcorrect, raising the portside way too high and dipping the aircraft well to starboard. The tip of the starboard side wing came dangerously close to scraping the tarmac but the maneuver helped slide Morgan down the strut to the fuselage. He hit the paneling heavily and almost lost his already tenuous grasp on the strut. The bonus was that the slide took him beneath the eye-line of the pilot and the level of the windows. He knew that the pilot would have been madly looking for the source of the interruption to his take-off and that, in the back, Zolnerowich and his guard dog would have been grappling with Davenport. What the fuck were they up to and, more importantly, where were they planning to take the General?
The Cessna was under control again now and beginning a steady climb. Soon the lights of the houses surrounding Wisley Airfield were well beyond reach and as they rapidly ascended hundreds of feet into the air, Morgan suddenly realized he was dangling on the outside of an aircraft at night without a parachute or any real thought of how his rescue of Davenport would play out. If he’d come up with this as a solution to a training scenario when he was being considered for Intrepid, Davenport would never have taken him on. Still, here he was. He had no choice but to make it work.
The Cessna continued to climb and from what he could gather, it was ascending in a classic corkscrew, straight up, common to skydiving clubs, where the aircraft would essentially land, pick up parachutists, gain the target height above the strip, throw them all out and do it again. In this case, that wasn’t a good sign. He had to get inside.
Morgan checked his grip at the base of the strut and then, dangling for a moment, lifted his legs across to the top of the wheel cowling. When he hooked his foot around the top of the cowling’s strut and squeezed the fingers of his right hand through the portside door handle, he let go of the wing strut altogether. He slid into a sitting position on the wheel cowling, wrapping his legs around the wheel strut as tightly as humanly possible. Slowly, he changed hands so that his left was on the handle and then rechecked the safety strap across the top of the Sig Sauer on his thigh holster. Morgan rested his head for a moment, facing aft against the cold metal fuselage. He took two long, deep breaths and then yanked the door open, pushing it as wide as he could against the blast of the wind, and threw himself awkwardly inside.
Halfway through the door, Morgan copped a boot in the side of his face. He almost lost his grip but managed to wedge his right elbow in hard inside the frame of the door. As a second kick came at him, he ducked his head to floor level and got his entire body inside. The thug was upon him, not trying to fight but to get Morgan back outside the door. What ensued was little more than a clumsy schoolyard brawl, unskilled and frantic, with each man attempting to overwhelm the other within less available space than an average phonebooth, each with the sole objective of ejecting the other out of a opening less than half that of a normal door. Morgan was aware of a lot of yelling and cursing in Russian as he squirmed his way free of the half nelson that the other guy had him in.
Morgan was through with these guys. He was here for one reason and that was to recover his boss, the man who had returned to him the life’s purpose he had so badly craved for the duration of his exile. For months he’d been on the security detail of a man who had killed hundreds of innocent people without a second thought, just to sell MiGs and build his personal fortune into the astronomical billions range. He’d witnessed Helldiver and his wife living a life beyond the dreams of most of the inhabitants of the planet and indulging in excesses that Morgan found abhorrent. He’d witnessed the summary execution of the man at the hands of his clandestine masters and learned that the old ways were never really old at all: they were a constantly evolving beast that never aged, never weakened, never relented. And now these same people were striking down the man who represented the polar opposite of everything they stood for. The man who had created an agency that drew the best people from all over the world to fight on behalf of the majority of the planet’s inhabitants who could never fight for themselves. To defend the right of every individual, regardless of race, color or creed, to live their life safe from the threat of harm or fear. Right now, that man was in a crumpled heap on the floor of the Cessna, beaten into submission because he wouldn’t toe the line.
There was one thing Morgan had learned about these people during the course of the operation that he would carry with him forever, and that was that they only understood the power of the old ways. They only respected the old ways and would only ever respond to the old ways. It was their live by the sword, die by the sword philosophy that delivered to Morgan, in that moment, the only real option left.
The thug was still grabbing at Morgan, trying to drag him by his feet to get him back near the flapping door. Morgan could feel the hands trying to get a firm hold around his ankles and he could hear the grunting as all the unexpected exertion was getting the better of the man. Morgan allowed the guy a second to secure his grip on Morgan’s legs and then, focusing his attention on the silhouette of the head and shoulders in front of him, he withdrew the P226 from his leg holster, thrust the barrel directly into the center of the thug’s forehead, and fired. The grip seized for a moment and then suddenly released.
Morgan kicked free of the mess and turned his attention to Zolnerowich, who was at that moment scrambling to find the gun his man had dropped.
“No, general. Unless you’d like to be shot like a dog, too, I’d recommend against it,” Morgan said. “Your journey ends here. Get out of that seat and come forward.”
Zolnerowich hesitated at first but then a look came over his face that, in the dim half-light of the cabin, seemed strangely compliant for a man with a reputation for being so familiar with death. It was as if with the flick of a switch he had acquiesced and had turned over his fate willingly to Morgan. But Morgan wasn’t buying it. Something else had prompted the change. Then there was a sudden surge in power and the engine groaned in protest. The pilot. Morgan turned quickly and saw the pilot leveling an automatic at him between the front seats. A shot was fired, followed by another and both rounds sang past Morgan as he threw himself clear.
Zolnerowich grabbed for the gun on the floor and got a hand around it. He came at Morgan, trying to aim, but the plane was being buffeted by winds and the pilot wasn’t really concentrating on flying. Morgan couldn’t shoot for fear of hitting Davenport, but Zolnerowich was old and his movements awkward and Morgan was wondering when he had last pulled a trigger himself when the gun in the old Russian’s hand exploded twice. One round hit the roof near Morgan’s head and the second winged past him and hit the body of the thug. In the confined space he felt the pressure of its trajectory as it narrowly missed his left arm. There was another explosion and then a loud groan from the pilot and the aircraft immediately nose dived. Once again the engine protested loudly. Morgan grabbed a seat to keep himself upright and Zolnerowich tumbled against him. Morgan pushed him away, trying to get to his feet, but Zolnerowich was also trying to steady himself – against Morgan. There wasn’t time for this. The aircraft was falling and would be dangerously close to an unrecoverable dive in seconds unless he was able to get to the controls.
Morgan got up on one knee and reached forward to the front seats but the old Russian grabbed his arm, attempting to pull Morgan down. Morgan realized that Zolnerowich was trying to take them all down together. The old ways. One in, all in. The old fool was crazy but
deceptively strong. He kept grabbing at Morgan, and with the Cessna now almost vertical, they had both fallen forward against the back of the front seats. Morgan was desperate. The howl of the engine underscored the urgency with which he knew he had to recover the aircraft if he and Davenport were to survive. The old Russian became crazed, as though the noise of the dying aircraft was feeding a death-frenzy within him. He clawed at Morgan, still trying to keep him from the controls. Morgan felt as though he was caught in a huge web he couldn’t get free of and, like a trapped insect, was predestined to accept his fate. He had no idea how far they’d fallen but he knew he’d parachuted from much higher altitudes and didn’t like their chances if this went on much longer. He twisted against the starboard wall of the fuselage and with both feet together, kicked Zolnerowich as hard as he could in the chest. The old man fell back against the flapping door, grappling without success for a handhold. It was now or never. Morgan pulled himself up, braced, and kicked again with everything he had. In less than a second, the door snapped open like the ejection port on a weapon as it’s fired and Zolnerowich was gone. The aircraft was starting to spin and all Morgan could see now were the lights of the houses dotted against the blackened background of Surrey.
He threw himself between the front seats and scrambled for the controls.
CHAPTER 37
It was midday, give or take, the June sun was high in the sky over London and the drive through the streets of Mayfair, along Park Lane and around behind the Palace to Belgravia, was really something – a stark contrast to the events of the past thirty-six hours. A lot had happened, including an extraordinary amount of cooperation by a number of law enforcement agencies, all ably coordinated by trusted friend and ally Sinclair Hutton, commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. In fact, it would not be an overstatement to acknowledge that the final phase of the Helldiver operation, the phase that was about to occur, could not possibly have happened without him. Numerous arrests had been made, bodies recovered and repairs made to a certain private residence all within the traditionally tranquil surrounds of Old Lane in Cobham. Not a word had made its way to the press yet and, cherishing any opportunity to have one over the clandestine services, the Metropolitan Police and the Surrey Police had pulled out all the stops to ensure that all official reporting had been placed under a restricted caveat for seventy-two hours in order to keep it off the Whitehall grapevine. Which, of course, was critical to the operation’s ultimate success.
As the car approached Eaton Square, Davenport was filled with a combination of dread and elation. He put the dread down to being a symptom of a soft heart and the elation being proof that there was still sufficient ruthlessness in him to keep him in the game a while longer yet.
“It’s very kind of you to accompany me, Mr. Masterson,” said Davenport. “I’m afraid this is likely to be rather unpleasant.”
“It’s my absolute pleasure, general. I’d do just about anything to drive this old Jag of yours around London. Including the odd confrontation, here and there. Besides, if you don’t mind me saying, this is long overdue.”
“Quite. Still, it’s important that you’re involved, given the work you’ve been doing for me on this over the past few years. Your investigations have ensured that all of these most recent developments can now be included within the legal briefs we’ve compiled. Without your work, I fear we’d still be five years away. Here it is, on the right.”
Masterson eased Davenport’s treasured navy blue 1968 S-Type Jaguar to a stop in front of a magnificent five-story terrace faced with white stucco located at the eastern end of the square near St. Peter’s Church. He got out and came around to open Davenport’s door. Following the events of Friday evening, Davenport’s face was battered and bruised, and a number of his ribs were suspected of being fractured and had been strapped by his doctor. He was walking with a cane mainly due to the general punishment he’d received but also to the difficulties he had been experiencing in breathing as a result of the broken ribs. With great tact and discretion, Masterson assisted him in getting out and standing confidently on the footpath. There was a car with plainclothes officers from Scotland Yard in the street outside the residence. Davenport strode up to the door, Masterson following protectively behind him. When he reached the door, Davenport gave it three sharp raps.
A young man in a suit who Davenport recognized as a member of the Scotland Yard Special Branch answered the door and showed them into the drawing room. Davenport sat down and Masterson hovered by the front window overlooking the street. The young policeman left them and went off to announce their arrival.
A few moments later an uncharacteristically reserved Dame Violet Ashcroft-James appeared. Davenport stood as she entered the room. Masterson paid her only cursory interest, choosing to remain at the window.
“Good afternoon, Nobby,” she said. She didn’t approach to embrace him, which had been their usual custom over the past thirty or more years during private or professional meetings. “Can I offer you anything? Or anything for this gentleman?”
Davenport declined on behalf of them both.
“Perhaps you might sit down, Violet,” he began. He wasn’t about to allow her to waste time with superficial pleasantries. Now that he was here with her, facing her and preparing to present his accusation in person, he realized that the dread he’d been feeling had vanished. Now, there was only resolve.
“Very well. Although, I’m not accustomed to being told what to do in my own home. Perhaps you might cut to the chase. As you no doubt already know, I have been made aware of the allegations made against me. Allegations, I might add, that came from you. Am I right?”
“Yes, that’s right. And that’s why I’m here.”
“Well, I don’t see what difference it makes. The damage has been done and my career is in ruins. It’s only a matter of time before the tabloids get wind of it.”
“I appreciate that you are holding your ground and, at some point in the near future when you are called to officially answer for your crimes, you will no doubt profess your innocence. That, of course, is your right. So, rather than playing any silly games and behaving like a petulant schoolgirl, perhaps you’ll allow me to say what I’ve come to say and then I’ll leave.”
Ashcroft-James sat forward in her chair, legs crossed at the ankles, her raven hair brushed back and held with a clip. Her face was cold and devoid of humor. She knew the score and would remain silent, knowing that anything she said could potentially harm her. Davenport didn’t intend to share any new details with her, he just wanted her to hear it all directly from him. He had provided all the evidence he and Masterson had collected directly to Commissioner Hutton earlier that morning, having also met with the Prime Minister and the Minister of Defence on the previous evening and provided a detailed briefing. The decision had been made. Her appointment had been immediately suspended, pending a full and thorough investigation. She had been placed under house arrest and all of her access to external communication sources had been barred.
“Are you familiar with the gentleman behind me? His name is Masterson.”
“Yes, of course, I know of Mr. Masterson by reputation, but I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure. How do you do?”
Davenport didn’t see how Masterson responded. It was probably little more than a perfunctory nod. Ashcroft-James returned her attention to Davenport.
“I am aware of the type of work Mr. Masterson does. In fact, I believe he’s even been engaged by my own service on occasion. But why is he in my house?”
“For some time I’ve suspected your involvement in certain activities which I believe compromise your responsibilities as chief of the Secret Intelligence Service. There were a number of issues, minor at first, that made me curious. I don’t intend to bore you with them all now but they will be made available to you in due course to review with your legal team. It was your actions at the time of the Malfijiri civil war that were the catalyst for my interest. To that end, I engaged Mr. Masterso
n to assist me in piecing together the information as I saw it. I needed an objective and experienced eye to take the suspicion and find within it the kernel of fact that would hopefully lead to evidence. Your eagerness to derail Abraham Johnson’s operation in Malfajiri on behalf of Renegade, for example, was not what I would have expected from the chief of SIS. So eager were you to ensure that his plan could not continue that when the efforts of your own agency failed, you came to me, hat in hand, under the premise that you had an agent who had gone rogue. I said at the time that I had the distinct impression that my organization was being used to help you clean out some MI6 deadwood. What I did not realize was that you were manipulating the facts in order to bring down a competitor. This Renegade Group really has had the lion’s share of aspirants. When I realized that two of our most senior civil servants were both vying for appointment to its ranks, I had no hesitation but to begin gathering my evidence. And that’s precisely when I brought in Mr. Masterson and the reason he is standing here in your house today.”
“This really is quite tiresome. Do you have anything more to say?”
“I’m almost done. I’ve had my eye on Renegade for some time now, thanks to you and Johnson. And, with Mr. Masterson’s assistance, I was able to identify this Helldiver character as one of its principal combatants. The fact that he was the son of Zolnerowich only served to strengthen my resolve to target him as the entry point for my people to finally unravel the Hydra that is, or rather was, Renegade. Of course, I had no idea that Zolnerowich was still alive and none of us could ever have conceived the operation Helldiver was in the midst of when we began to put our plan into effect. Our infiltration of his organization commenced over two years ago and we very quietly, very patiently, cultivated our asset until that asset reached the most senior ranks of his inner circle. That is how we learned about the attacks upon the airlines and ultimately, the connection of Renegade back to the old enemy, Mother Russia.