by L J Morris
Carter led Sinclair to the meeting area. The only other people in the hanger were two men watching a German sitcom on the TV and two who were now closing and securing the hanger doors.
‘Have a seat, Ali. I’ll try and give you as much information as I can, as quick as I can. I’m sure you’ve got a lot of questions.’
‘Where’s Frank?’ Sinclair was beginning to worry. McGill hadn’t been in touch with her in the prison for a few weeks now and he was nowhere to be seen here. Carter seemed a little cagey, like he was keeping something from her.
‘To be honest, Ali. We don’t actually know exactly where he is.’
‘What? Is he alright?’
Carter held up a hand to calm Sinclair. He knew she would be worried. ‘He’s dropped out of sight. We can’t contact him and no one has seen him for some time.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘We think someone has blown his cover. We think he is in hiding.’
Sinclair stood, her chair fell backwards. ‘What do you mean, “you think”? How do you know he hasn’t been taken? What if he’s hurt, or worse?’
Carter pulled out a piece of paper and held it out to her. ‘This was the last message we received from him.’
Sinclair took the paper and unfolded it. Printed on it was a single line of text:
Position compromised. Send Sinclair.
‘When was this?’
‘He’s been missing for two weeks now. We tried to find him but there’s no sign.’
Sinclair knew she was the only person McGill really trusted. A message like this meant he had no confidence in the integrity of the people he was working for. She would have to be careful, it could be a warning. ‘How was he compromised?’
Carter looked at his feet, aware that Sinclair wasn’t going to like what he was about to tell her. ‘It looks like there was a breach of security. McGill was working for us, picking up intel, tracking someone down. No one was supposed to know about it but us.’
‘But someone did know about it, didn’t they?’
‘The hierarchy always know something, even if it’s not the details. We can’t keep everything secret.’
‘There’s more, though, isn’t there, Simeon? What else are you afraid to tell me?’
Carter was slowly shaking his head. ‘We can’t be 100 per cent certain, but it looks like Vadim may have found out what was going on. He might have sent some of his men after Frank.’
Sinclair’s fists clenched. Vadim had put a price on her head and now he was trying to take out Frank. She wasn’t going to stand by and let that happen. She had dreamt about coming face-to-face with the mole again, they had unfinished business. Carter wanted her to work with a police artist, to identify Vadim so he could be taken down but, in her heart, she wanted the chance to face him herself. He had caused a lot of people a great deal of pain. She wanted to see his face when he realised what was coming, that it was all over, that she was the one who’d come to get him. Sinclair realised that she had clenched her teeth just thinking about it. She looked at Carter. ‘Where was Frank when he disappeared and how do you plan to get me there?’
Carter had already put everything in place to send Sinclair after McGill. This was exactly what he’d wanted. ‘I was hoping you’d be ready to help out, Ali.’
‘Why wouldn’t I? Frank is like family to me, I’d die for him. Besides, if I didn’t help you, I’m sure I’d find myself on a plane, winging my way back to the Mexican Desert.’
Carter knew that there were people who would prefer to abandon Sinclair to her fate in Mexico, but he wasn’t one of them. ‘I would never do that to you, Ali. If you didn’t want to be involved, I would make sure you got away – anywhere you wanted. I have enough contacts to set you up with a new identity, I owe you that much, at least.’
Sinclair knew Carter wouldn’t deliberately hurt her, she was just venting her frustration. Carter wasn’t part of the establishment and Sinclair had begun to think of him as someone she could rely on. ‘I know, Simeon. It’ll just take me a while to feel safe again; to stop feeling like everyone is out to get me.’
‘I understand, Ali. I hope you can trust me fully, in time.’
Sinclair nodded and smiled. ‘Okay, Simeon. Enough bonding, what’s our plan?’
‘Well, we need you to find Frank and the information he has. Bearing in mind he doesn’t want to be found, we can’t really plan anything other than getting you to Geneva.’
‘Geneva?’
‘That’s where he disappeared.’
The two of them sat down and Carter took a folder from a briefcase that was on one of the seats next to them. Inside the folder was the transcript of Wyatt’s phone call to the British Consulate, and some CCTV photographs that showed him with Porter. Carter pointed him out to Sinclair. ‘This guy’s name is Callum Porter. We found Wyatt by tracking him. Danny Kinsella, back in London, was able to find out who he was and where he lived. Frank went to Geneva to speak with Wyatt but, by the time Frank got there, he was dead.’
‘You think he had evidence on Vadim?’
‘We think he has evidence on the whole organisation. Big names in the upper echelons of government. People who would do anything to stay in power.’
Sinclair pointed at the photograph. ‘This guy, Porter, who is he?’
‘Wyatt’s partner. He was easier to track as he wasn’t trying to hide. Wyatt was doing everything he could to stay anonymous. Porter also happens to be the son of a high-profile senator in the US.’
Sinclair smiled. ‘Now it all makes sense. The break out, the secret military flights. He pulled some strings to arrange all this.’
‘We had to get you here without the authorities finding out what we were up to – without Vadim finding out. The senator is ex-military and his family are in the oil business. He has a considerable amount of resources and he wants his son home. Any of us would have done the same thing, if it was in our power.’
‘I don’t suppose his help extends to providing us with backup?’
‘Unfortunately, no. Once you go in, you’re on your own, as usual. I’ll go back to London and keep an eye on things there. Danny Kinsella will provide you with any intel you need and he’ll carry on trying to locate Frank.’
‘What are my terms of engagement?’
‘Just like last time: you don’t officially work for MI6. Do what you have to.’
Chapter 6
As the sun came up, Sinclair showered and dressed in the civilian clothes that had been provided for her. The uniform she had travelled in had done its job and now she was back to being ex-military. She’d slept in the small cabin in the hanger, where her new kit had been left. A selection of jeans, cargo pants, T-shirts, underwear, a hat and gloves; she was dressed like a typical backpacker making her way around Europe.
She rolled up the spare clothes and packed them into the rucksack that had also been left for her. She filled two water bottles and slid them into the bag’s elastic side netting, and placed the simple first-aid kit into the front pocket. Her fake passport and driving licence were in a ziplock plastic bag in the leg pocket of her cargo pants, along with five hundred euros and five hundred US dollars for emergencies. She had no idea where she would end up and some countries more readily accepted dollars.
Along with her passport, Danny Kinsella had set up a credit card in her false name, which was linked to one of his accounts. She slid it into a nylon wallet, with another five hundred euros, and closed the Velcro fastening. She put on a dark green waterproof jacket and slung the rucksack onto her back. She tied her hair into a ponytail and picked up the mobile phone Carter had given her; the charger was already in her bag. Looking in the mirror, she looked every inch the tourist she was trying to pass for. All she needed now, was a weapon.
She stepped out of the cabin, into the hanger. Carter had left early in the morning for London, but the four men she had seen the night before were still there. Three of them were arranging equipment from the packing cases i
nto several sets of identical kit. They were preparing for more soldiers to arrive. These men were obviously Regiment, on standby for some operation she wouldn’t be asking them about.
Sinclair walked over to the fourth soldier, a man in his mid-thirties with hair too long for regular army. He had weathered skin that suggested he’d spent some time working in the desert, and the lean, athletic physique of someone who worked hard on their fitness.
As Sinclair approached, Sergeant Mick Butler nodded to her. ‘Good morning. Sleep well?’
Sinclair put down her bag. ‘Better than I have for a long time.’
‘That’s good. Me and the boys,’ he gestured towards the other three, ‘know some of what’s gone on. Mr Carter told us what happened on your last job and how you ended up in prison. Sounds like you’ve had some serious shit.’
‘Enough to last me a lifetime. I’m never going back there, to Mexico, no matter what happens. I’d die first.’
Butler held out his hand. ‘I hope it doesn’t come to that. I’m Mick.’
Sinclair shook his hand. ‘I’m Ali. Good to meet you, Mick.’
Butler took Sinclair to a trestle that had been put up next to the briefing area. Laid out in front of them were a nine millimetre semi-automatic and two magazines. ‘These are for you, Ali. I assume you’re familiar with them?’
Sinclair picked up the weapon, it was a Glock 19. Smaller than the Glock 17 and ideal for use as a concealed weapon. She picked up one of the magazines and loaded it into the grip. ‘Yeah, I’ve used these before.’ She put the pistol into her jacket.
Butler handed her the spare magazine. ‘That’s thirty rounds between the two mags. If you need more than that, you’re in more shit than a single weapon will get you out of.’
‘Thanks, Mick. With any luck, I won’t need it at all.’
‘Here’s hoping.’ They shook hands again. ‘Good luck, Ali. It looks like your transport is here. Hope to catch up with you again, when all this is over.’
Sinclair looked to where Butler had nodded. A young woman in civilian clothes was standing in the entrance to the hanger. ‘Thanks again, Mick. Hopefully I’ll see you again.’
Sinclair walked out of the hanger, climbing into the Range Rover that the young woman had arrived in. Butler watched the car drive off then slid the hanger door shut.
Chapter 7
Ali Sinclair walked out of Geneva’s Cornavin train station. Standing under the steel and glass canopy, beneath the large clock hanging above the station’s main entrance, she looked up and down the Place de Cornavin. Rows of bicycles were parked next to the glass shelters of the tram and bus stops opposite the entrance; electrical cables, which powered the trams, hung above her head, tracing the tramlines route.
The buildings she could see along the street were all of a similar size and architecture. All symmetrical and between six and eight storeys high, nothing too overstated. Each floor was a row of individual, rectangular windows with no gaps between the buildings. To her right, she could see the parasols and outside tables of a coffee shop. That would be a good place to start. She’d bought a street map from a shop in the railway station, she needed to study it and unwind a little. Her journey from Ramstein had taken four different trains and eight hours. She needed a coffee and some fresh air.
Sinclair picked one of the outside tables and placed her bag on the chair next to her. She ordered a large latte and spread out the map in front of her. She was looking for a cheap hotel and an Internet café. The waiter arrived with her coffee and Sinclair did her best ‘lost tourist’ impression. ‘Could you show me where I can get some Internet access, please. Need to mail my mum.’
The waiter pointed out a couple of cafés that were close by, and suggested some hotels she might want to check out. By the time he walked away, flashing a smile, he had also left his phone number and an invitation to go for a drink. Sinclair smiled back and, once he was out of sight, threw the phone number in the bin. The last thing she needed was some loved-up lothario following her around like a lost puppy.
Sinclair finished her coffee and headed along the road in the direction of one of the cafés. She had to try and contact McGill – she needed to know he was still alive, for her own peace of mind. The last message they had received from McGill was through an anonymous email account. McGill had logged in to the account and written the message, before saving it as a draft rather than sending it. It was a way of keeping messages a little more secure, as it couldn’t be intercepted or traced unless it was sent. To read the message, someone would need to know the account name and password. Of course, the account could be hacked but, short term, it was a simple way to communicate.
The café was on a side street next to an organic food shop. The café itself was vegan, and quite popular with the more health conscious locals and tourists who frequented the area. In one corner there were four computers that could be used free of charge by customers. Sinclair walked up to the counter and ordered an orange and apple smoothie and took a seat in front of one of the screens. She logged into the email account and checked for anything from McGill. Danny Kinsella had been posting regular cryptic messages, but McGill wasn’t going to break radio silence and give away his position. Sinclair had to send a message that McGill would know was from her, something that couldn’t be from anyone else. She looked at her map and thought for a moment before typing a message:
Plainpalais Skatepark. 16:00. Tomorrow.
She signed it, GI Barbie. It was a name the US Marines had used for her when she worked with them in Afghanistan. A comment on the mixture of her good looks, blonde hair, and skills as a soldier. She hated it, but only someone who’d served with her would know anyone called her it. Frank would know. She saved the message and logged off.
The map that the smiling waiter had marked up for her showed there were a handful of small hotels in the area. Sinclair was looking for one that was big enough to allow her some anonymity but small enough to be cheap; large enough to have some security but not be bristling with CCTV and security guards. She circled one a few streets away. Grabbing her bag and slinging it over her back, she thanked the man behind the counter and set off to look for a room.
* * *
The hotel that Sinclair chose was low-cost, compared to the rest of Geneva, but not the cheapest. It was part of a chain – the kind where the rooms look identical no matter which part of the world you’re in. The room she was in was quite basic – bed, shower, TV, kettle – but it was more than she needed. The years she’d spent in the squalor of the prison had taught her to get by without any of life’s luxuries. Maybe, when this was over, she would treat herself to a five-star holiday or a spa weekend.
She positioned a chair next to the window so she could watch the goings-on in the street below. She took photographs of any cars and their passengers that stayed for more than a few minutes. The cheaper hotel opposite was the one the waiter had suggested; if anyone had seen them talking and gone to him for information, he would send them there.
Most of the vehicles that stopped outside the two hotels were taxis, but now and again a plain car would pull up and she would photograph it. She doubted it would tell her anything, but she would rather be safe than sorry.
She looked at her watch, it was midnight. She needed to lie down, tomorrow was going to be a long day. She dragged the chair to the other side of the room and jammed it under the door handle. If anyone came in, she would at least get a warning. She kicked off her boots, placed her gun beside her on the bedside table and lay down.
It was already daylight when Sinclair opened her eyes, she hadn’t slept that late for years. It had taken her a long time to fall asleep. Although she was exhausted, her body was still on Mexican time. She would adjust in a few days but, right now, it suited her. She preferred to be awake late, that was when most of the shit happened.
She showered and dressed before packing her bag and getting ready to leave. She wanted to check on the meeting location before she met with McGi
ll. The earlier she got there, the harder it would be for someone to watch her and stay unnoticed. Anyone arriving after her and hanging around would be easy for her to spot.
Before she left her room she looked out of the window and checked the street in front of the hotel. A car pulled up opposite and parked for a few minutes, it looked familiar. She picked up her phone and scrolled through the photographs: it was the third vehicle she’d taken a picture of the previous night. It didn’t necessarily mean the car was looking for her, maybe she was being paranoid, but it wasn’t a chance she wanted to take. Her paranoia had kept her alive in situations like this before.
Sinclair grabbed her bag and, after pausing to listen at the door, left her room. The hotel’s fire escape ran down the back of the building, with doors on each floor. Unlike a lot of bigger hotels, the fire doors weren’t alarmed – one of the reasons she had gone for the cheaper end of the market. She pushed the door open and descended the metal fire escape, down to the hotel car park.
At the back of the hotel there was a small garden, between the building she had come from and another hotel that backed on to it. Sinclair made her way through the trees and climbed the low wall that separated the two buildings. She entered the back of the other hotel, made her way through reception, and exited from the front entrance as if she were a guest there. She hailed a taxi and headed for the meeting.
Chapter 8
McGill had been checking the email account every day for the last two weeks, looking for contact from Sinclair. He didn’t trust anyone else and didn’t reply to any messages, even when someone had masqueraded as Sinclair. McGill was confident he would know it was Ali’s actual message when it arrived.
Each morning he would visit a different Internet café and log on to the mail server through a VPN, so his location couldn’t be tracked. Every day a new message appeared in the draft mail folder from someone claiming to be in his team, and every day he ignored it. He had no way of knowing who it was really from. Someone high up had leaked information and blown his cover, he was taking no chances. If he had to cut all ties and disappear, he would. That morning when he’d logged on yet another email had been drafted, but this one was different. Only one person would sign a message, GI Barbie.