Thunder

  ~~~~~

  Highway 44, near Szarvas, Hungary

  Jack headed east, carefully ensuring he stuck rigidly to the speed limits. Not that the battered looking, filthy, old VW was capable of doing much more.

  The car had been waiting patiently, parked up as if abandoned, on the backroads leading from Göd to the Training Barn. They had passed it on foot, several times, while going backwards and forwards for training. All the time it had stood there, unused – just in case something like this happened.

  “Always have a Plan B,” Jack muttered to the dark windshield.

  It was a good job that he’d changed his mind and not caught the train into Budapest. He’d spotted this ancient but well-serviced Golf standing in front of a backstreet garage as he approached the Northern Italian border, and had taken possession of it for a reasonably small wad of Euros. He glanced round at the back seats and the bundle of blankets huddled there, feeling slightly guilty that he’d never told Nick about it. Still, it would seem that he wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.

  In front of him the unlit A-road led inexorably to Romania.

  He needed to minimise the number of border crossings.

  Romania provided better options to get them where they needed to go. Somewhere they could be safe for a while. Somewhere he had never shown to another living person. He would have to pick up a cheap motorboat when he reached the Black Sea. The Port of Constanta would be bound to have lots of small craft available.

  ~~~~~

  Constanta

  Murat Nagpal woke as sunlight oozed past the fragile, moth-eaten curtains of his room.

  He rolled off the uncomfortable mattress onto the floor, stood up and dressed quickly. It was still cold in the mornings, though not as bad as it had been in the heart of winter.

  Striding through into the living room, if it could be called that, he perched himself in front of the television. It was always on. Always tuned to one or other of the various free-to-air satellite news channels.

  His eyes widened as he watched a Romanian Anchorwoman gleefully regurgitating the latest news highlight. Something had happened in Budapest last night.

  He grabbed up the remote and searched for a way to get the sound back on.

  “What’s happening?” Sergei’s voice said from behind him.

  Nagpal frowned as he listened to the broadcaster’s report. Ebrahimi had only limited Romanian.

  “Trouble,” he answered.

  “Is it Jeyhun?”

  The young man’s thoughts and questions were always about his brother. Never about the unit. Never about the cause. Suddenly this made Nagpal very angry.

  “Your brother is gone,” he spat. “Gone to the heavens as a glorious martyr.” He turned and watched as Sergei stumbled back from him. Watched as the younger man’s face crumpled into an expression of abject sorrow. “You should celebrate. He is one of the lucky ones!”

  “In Budapest?” Ebrahimi mumbled through trembling lips.

  “He was never there,” Nagpal muttered coldly, and snatched up a cellphone. It would have to be destroyed afterwards. “Get outside. Go down to the shore and try Sikand’s mobile.”

  “Why?”

  “DO IT!” raged the terrorist leader. “Then take out the SIM and throw it into the sea.”

  “What do I tell him?” Ebrahimi was visibly shaking.

  Nagpal shook his head. “If he answers, which I doubt he will, tell him to come back here, and to be careful. Tell him we will wait for him. He will understand. If he does not answer, then see if it rings out before going to voicemail. Leave no message. Destroy the SIM card whatever happens.” He thrust out his arm and gestured with the cellphone.

  Ebrahimi took it reluctantly from his grasp, picked up his coat and walked out, pale and silent.

  ~~~~~

  London

  Greere felt tired. Really tired. He’d been up all night and would soon have to head off across the river to meet Sentinel and provide his report. He rubbed absently at his crotch wondering whether he’d been a little hasty dumping his toy-boy. He could do with a good shagging to take his mind off of all this fucked-up mess.

  Why was it that so many people insisted on letting him down all the time? How unlucky could he be?

  Feeling miserable, he realised that displacing Sentinel was rapidly becoming a distant pipe dream. It would take something seriously dramatic to reassert his profile after all this.

  His cellphone buzzed and he snatched it up. Deuce was calling.

  “Report,” he barked.

  There was a momentary pause at the other end. “It’s Deuce,” came his subordinate’s voice.

  Greere scowled. “I know that. What’s the status?”

  Another short pause then, “They weren’t in Göd. They had been there, but had left before I arrived. It’s cleaned down. I did it. Got finished in the early hours and removed the necessary items under cover of darkness.” Greere could sense that Ellard was making a point about also having been busy all night, but he didn’t care. “There was evidence that Mercury has been injured somehow and that Tin has patched him up. They’ve gone dark.”

  “Good,” muttered Greere. “And the barn?”

  “Just finished there. Some items from the arsenal are missing, presumably the stuff they equipped themselves with for the job. Other than that it was all clean.

  “Though I’m reluctant to say it,” Ellard continued, “it would appear that Tin is not half-bad. He left a coded message at the apartment to say that the mission objective had been achieved, that Mercury was injured, and that they were going to vanish. There was very little that might be traceable, other than the laptop and rubbish from his surgery. I’ve roughly wiped both locations for prints, but there will probably be some evidence if anyone does a thorough DNA search... Oh, and all of the loose cash has gone.”

  Greere nodded. He’d expected as much. “I’ll arrange for the local holding company to be instructed to put the flat onto the rental market, and I’ll see that they schedule a deep clean, top-to-bottom, as if in preparation for new tenants.”

  “Should I start scouting for alternative premises?” asked Ellard.

  “Not now, and not from there,” Greere replied. “The asset is isolated and instructions to the holding company are simple untraceable fax documents. We can monitor it for a while.”

  “Any news on the other two? Have they moved? Do you need me to pursue them or should I return?”

  “Get back here,” said Greere. “The second active tracer is still in Constanta. We’ll continue to watch it but will not fire up the final device until we absolutely need it.”

  “Very wise, sir,” said Ellard, making Greere’s oily eyebrows spring up in surprise. “The two of them will no doubt become aware that something has happened soon enough, and will move up to a heightened state of alert.”

  “Correct,” said Greere imperiously, he didn’t need or appreciate Ellard’s counsel on the matter. “Especially as last night’s escapades are all over the regional news channels. Safely dispose of your rubbish and get to the airport. I want you back here, in the office, today.”

  “Something important for me to work on?” asked Deuce. “Do I need to prep?”

  “No,” he said coldly. “But I’d try to get some sleep on the plane if I was you. You’re going to be monitoring things, here, through the night.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The sound of undisguised dismay in Ellard’s voice made Greere feel good inside.

  Sometime soon, he decided, he’d need to pay a personal visit to Ellard’s little hidey-hole in France. It was time to see if his subordinate was squeaky-clean. Personally, Greere doubted it. A few too many objects seemed to go missing after Deuce’s missions, and Greere could guess where they just might be.

  It was always good to have a little leverage handy.

  You never knew when you might need it.

  ~~~~~

  Constanta

  Sergei Ebrahimi wandered back to t
he shoreline, then out along the long harbour wall, and stood, halfway along it, staring sightlessly out over the Black Sea. With both hands he tugged gently at his coat’s heavy collar, to guard against the chill wind blowing past him. He felt numb inside. Sick in the pit of his stomach. His younger brother was gone. Dead. His body lost in some unknown place. His body taken, and disposed of, by foreigners.

  His mind swam, full of images of Jeyhun Farhad Ebrahimi. He could see him, as a tiny boy, while they were growing up. Always smiling. Always following him around like some adoring puppy. Always wanting to do things for him. His middle name, Farhad, could be translated to mean joy and Jeyhun had always seemed to live up to it...

  How did they end up here?

  He’d tried to stop his brother from getting involved in this but his foolish, devoted, stupid, beloved brother would have none of it...

  “I go where you go,” Jeyhun had announced so proudly.

  And now he was gone forever.

  Sergei couldn’t face being cooped up with Nagpal at the moment. London had been shocking enough, but his leader’s callous reaction to the possibility that both Jeyhun and Azat had been killed was, at best, terrifying. It was as if the man had no soul. Nagpal had, as far as Sergei was aware, known Sikand for years. The man had been Nagpal’s closest, perhaps only, friend.

  When Sergei’s attempted call to Sikand’s mobile had gone straight to the standard operator voicemail announcement, Sergei had suspected the worst. When he got back to the grimy apartment, Nagpal had confirmed his suspicion.

  “There are four reported fatalities in Budapest,” Nagpal had pronounced calmly. “Three local gangsters, as they call them.” Pictures of three faces were splashed over the television screen. “These men were our local contacts. They must have been compromised. There is no word of your brother. We must assume that he never got there.”

  Sergei had stared, speechless.

  “They are heroes. They have transcended into glorious afterlife having sacrificed themselves selflessly in pursuit of our holy cause.” Nagpal made it sound so positive, so confident, so certain. “There are no pictures of the fourth victim.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t Sikand?” Sergei had ventured.

  “Perhaps,” Nagpal had muttered.

  Sergei Ebrahimi shivered to himself, not entirely because of the cold breeze, and continued to stare sightlessly over the scudding dark wave-tops.

  ~~~~~

  Five hundred metres behind Ebrahimi’s disconsolate back, on the other side of Constanta’s massive dockside, Jack sauntered along: oblivious to his target’s proximity. He was following another man toward a pier crammed with small craft of all shapes, sizes, colours and ages.

  “Is a good one,” the port official expounded enthusiastically. “You will like.”

  The Sales Agent’s English wasn’t brilliant but Jack didn’t really care. He’d parked the car in the shade, at a discrete distance outside of the docks, quickly razored his long hair down to stubble, stuck on a hat and a big pair of sunglasses, and then walked in from there. Nick remained in deep, drug-induced sleep inside the vehicle.

  The border crossing had been easier than he’d hoped. Short declarations of angry frustration at his purported workmate’s inability to stay sober, with appropriate gesticulations and perfectly forged passports – each with a hefty wad of first Forint, then Leu, tucked inside – had seen him trundling off again after barely a few minutes of negotiation. It had helped that he’d picked such a quiet crossing point, and such an early hour in the morning. Both sets of guards had looked frustrated at being disturbed by his inconvenient arrival, and more than happy to see the back of him.

  He was pleased.

  A search of the car would likely have turned messy.

  Especially if they’d discovered the compartment under the back seats and across which his buddy remained comatose.

  He glanced out over the docks to the distant sea wall. A few fishermen stood in the bright sunlight.

  “Far too cold for fishing,” he mumbled to himself.

  “What you say?” said his guide.

  “Nothing,” said Jack. “Where’s the barge?”

  The Romanian looked confused.

  “Boat?” Jack simplified.

  The Romanian brightened up again. “Yes, yes! Here....” He gesticulated into the distance. “Has cabin. Goodly bed inside.”

  A tired looking hulk of algae-riddled white fibreglass, with a tiny wheelhouse and a slight list to the right, sat amongst the myriad of moored vessels. Jack wasn’t convinced that he did indeed ‘like’ but it would probably serve his purposes.

  “Needs pump out,” explained the salesman.

  “Needs a lot more than a bloody pump out,” replied Jack and started haggling.

  Part Four: Restoration

  A Beach, a Bitch and Another Bike

  Skala Kallonis

  I wake up feeling groggy. My head aches badly and I feel sore all over. If my senses weren’t numbed I guess I’d be in agony.

  I have no idea where I am.

  Through bleary eyes I can make out a small bedroom with plain, whitewashed, rough concrete walls. There’s a sizeable old wardrobe along one wall. It looks like it was handmade at some point in the last century, and its duck-egg blue gloss paint is fading and peeling away from its many, naturally distressed, ill-fitting joints and edges.

  There’s a small bedside table which seems similarly antique. On it is a tall thick glass of clear water so I gently ease myself onto my side and take a long drink from it. As I finish the last drops I suddenly hope I was right to assume it was there for me to consume...

  The floor is stone tiled, with a handful of nondescript rugs scattered around the bedsides, and I notice that it feels warm in here – and not just because of the clean sheets and coarse wool blankets that I find I am cocooned beneath...

  Lifting the sheets I can see I am naked, but this is not as alarming as the dark black, blue and red-purple mottling that appears to cover every inch of my skin. Well, every inch that isn’t bound in clean cotton bandages. The largest of these is, of course, wrapped around my upper thigh.

  I can vaguely remember fragments from the last few days. For a while I was lying in the back of a small car. My legs couldn’t stretch out. Then I think I was in some sort of caravan or train or something. It seemed to roll and pitch gently. Given this obscure movement, I think it must have been a train but I can’t be sure. I don’t remember much else. I don’t even remember dreaming.

  Jack must’ve dropped me off somewhere. Clearly, wherever I am, they’re looking after me and, given that the bedroom door is standing wide open, I’m not incarcerated in some prison.

  He must’ve left.

  I wouldn’t blame him...

  I misled him. Betrayed his trust with my deception. Trust is critical in any relationship, let alone a life or death one, and once it’s been broken...

  I try to sit myself up in the bed but it hurts too much, and my head starts to spin again, so I collapse back onto soft pillows.

  My rustling noises have attracted attention from outside and I can hear what sounds like a pair of boots being hurriedly pulled off and dropped onto tiled flooring.

  Someone is approaching the open doorway. I can see a large dark shadow sprinting across the distant stoneware toward me.

  “Nick?” asks a familiar voice.

  “Jack?” I croak.

  ~~~~~

  Constanta

  Murat Nagpal’s eyes narrowed as a grainy image appeared on the TV screen in front of him.

  Sikand...

  Somehow the news stations had finally got their hands on a photo from the Hungarian Police Boat. It was dark and poor resolution but most definitely his compatriot.

  He stared angrily into the unseeing eyes of his friend.

  “How did they find you?” he muttered to himself. “How?”

  Even here, on the BBC World Service, the consensus remained that four of the six people killed in Bud
apest had been caught up in a gangland shoot out. The British had, only recently, confirmed that this man – Azat Sikand – had also been involved in the Victoria bombing. Their press were gleefully celebrating his untimely demise.

  ‘Breaking News: Evil Terrorist Confirmed Dead After Gangland Shootings In Hungary,’ spouted the white-on-red capitalised strap-line at the bottom of the screen.

  ~~~~~

  Skala Kallonis

  I can feel cold tears trickling down my cheeks, but have no idea why they’re there. I haven’t cried for a very long time.

  Jack stands by the bedside looking uncomfortable, like he’s not sure what to do. “It must be the drugs,” he mumbles. “I’ve had you sedated for the last few days. Seemed to be best. You must be in a lot of pain.”

  “Can’t feel much,” I remind him.

  “It must still hurt though?” he asks.

  I nod. The infuriating tears continue. “You were supposed to leave me. You should have left me... I deceived you.”

  Jack sits down on the edge of the bed and I notice he’s wearing a baggy, once black, now faded-grey, Guns ’N Roses tee-shirt and a pair of tatty looking khaki combat trousers which have been roughly cut down into three-quarter length shorts. The many pockets of the onetime combats are bulging with a random collection of household tools. His bare legs poke out from them and, beneath the leggy thatch of almost blonde hair, his skin is shaded pink as if from recent sunshine. He’s looking straight at me, jade eyes full of their familiar determination.

  “I am not going to leave you,” he says forcefully.

  ~~~~~

  Constanta

  Sergei opened the outer door to the apartment, stepped in, and closed it again. “It’s me,” he called out quietly.

  No answer.

  He stepped forward carefully toward the door to the main living area and pushed it gently open.