“Let us deal with this matter like two professionals, then,” said the other man. “A trade.”
“You get the hard drive, you call off your men.”
“It is that simple. Now, you will come to—”
“No.” Marc spoke over him before he could begin to set out his demands. “No, you listen to me. I make the rules. I say where and when we meet.”
There was a moment of silence as Grunewald muted the call at his end, and when he came back he sounded almost amused. “As you wish. Go on.”
“Midday,” said Marc, his thoughts racing. “Come alone. It’ll be a public place. I’ll send you a location.” Before Grunewald could say more, he cut short the call and sank back, breathing hard.
“Shit. Shit shit shit.” Marc buried his face in his hands. The last thing he had ever wanted was to drag his family into this mess, but now it was happening, and he was losing control of the situation.
He desperately needed another option, but there was none. Kate was his weakness, his vulnerability, and her life was not a price he was willing to pay, not for anything.
Marc went to the empty window, walking off the nervous tingle in his limbs, and glanced out, off to the west over the hills toward the volcanic mountain rising up in the distance.
If there was even a chance he could keep a handle on this, get through it alive, then he had to think fast. He looked away from the dark slopes and began to punch in a text message.
* * *
Victor Welles sat on the far side of the conference table, idly stirring a cup of coffee with a slender spoon, and he graced Royce with a dismissive glance as the mission director entered the room.
Royce’s lips thinned as he took a place directly opposite the other man. Talia Patel sat next to him, laying her digital pad flat on the polished mahogany.
Royce took a breath and opened his mouth to say something, but whatever it was became lost in the thud of another door opening, this one at the head of the room. Sir Oliver, his expression every inch that of a scowling hound, came striding in. The deputy director trailed a thin, bespectacled man in his wake, who clutched a legal pad and a fat fountain pen in his long fingers.
Welles and the others made a cursory effort to rise in his presence, but Sir Oliver angrily waved them back to their seats. He didn’t wait for his assistant to finish assembling a cup of Earl Grey for him from the server tray by the wall; instead he launched into a savage glare that took in all of them.
“The Americans have a word for this sort of thing,” he began. “They call it a clusterfuck.”
Talia flinched at the deputy director’s choice of language. Sir Oliver rarely swore, and when he did it was the precursor to heads rolling.
“What the blazes are we doing?” he went on, eyes flashing. “One cock-up after another? This will not stand.”
“We can take something from this,” Welles ventured. “At least now we know for sure that Marc Dane is our double. We can start damage control—”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a fool, Victor,” Sir Oliver snapped back. “You’re on the bloody hook for this as much as K Section. You can start by explaining why Dane’s capture order was inexplicably replaced with a termination warrant at the last moment.”
“Yes, do tell,” said Royce. “Since when are we authorizing Five to murder our officers?”
Welles laid his hands on the table, and at the very least he had the good grace to look contrite. “There was a communications error. A kill order was issued without my knowledge.”
“That doesn’t just happen,” Royce went on. “There are safeguards in place. It’s not like accidentally ordering too many boxes of paperclips.”
Sir Oliver snapped his fingers and the man in glasses put a piece of paper on the table, a print-out of the order in question. “Someone will be for the high jump when this is sorted out, be sure of that.” He leaned forward and took a proffered cup of tea. “For now, move on. Let’s review, shall we?”
Talia swallowed and took her cue, reading from her notes. “The subject escaped custody en route to an off-site secure location and a full security alert was sent out. Surveillance teams on Dane’s family made contact and tracked him to a housing estate in South London.” She glanced at Welles, then away again. “Tactical entry was made in order to secure him, but Dane slipped the net and tracking was lost.”
“He’s out of the country by now,” added Royce. “He was gathering false identity papers when the team moved in.”
“What’s being done about that?” demanded Sir Oliver.
“We have all the materials from the flat where the forger was working. He’s dead, but we’re backtracking through what he left behind.”
Talia nodded. “Our spotters are currently running facial recognition sweeps on CCTV footage from airports, ferry terminals and railway stations. Interpol have been notified, flagging Dane on the terrorist watch list. We’ve cut off all possible lines of support, but for now he’s in the wind.”
“The fellow had help,” said the deputy director, measuring the words. “If not from inside this organization, then from very close at hand. This is what I find the most troubling.” Sir Oliver took a purse-lipped sip from his tea, his anger turning frosty. “Tell me about the sniper.”
Welles stiffened. “We don’t have any read on him. All we know is that a marksman in a neighboring building fired a single shot at one of the pursuing officers. The recovered round was from a 7.62 NATO bullet.”
“How far away?”
“Around four hundred meters,” he continued. “Whoever was covering Dane’s escape wasn’t much of an expert. The shot missed the tactical operative, only clipped his leg.”
“I don’t agree,” Royce replied. “There was no usable evidence left behind in the shooter’s hide. That shows a professional’s attention to detail.” He turned to Sir Oliver. “I don’t think that was a miss, sir. I think Dane’s guardian angel shot that officer exactly where they meant to.”
“And Marc…” Talia paused. “Dane had the opportunity to terminate the injured man to cover his escape and he didn’t take it. Hardly the actions of a cold-blooded killer.”
Welles shook his head. “Miss Patel, is it? With all due respect, I’m wondering if you had best remove yourself from this meeting. I have grave doubts you’re capable of proceeding in an objective manner.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How dare you. I could say the same. It’s abundantly clear you’re seeking to use these events to harm the reputation of K Section—”
“You’re doing a good enough job of that on your own—”
Sir Oliver put down his tea cup with a hard clack of china, silencing them both. “I want to make this very clear,” he began, ice forming on the words. “This agency is not an arena for games of one-upmanship. I won’t have it. You will work together to locate this rogue officer. You will recover him, he will be put to the question, and responsibility will be fully apportioned to whomever must bear it. Then this sorry episode will be buried deeper than Tartarus and that’ll be the end to it.” He looked at each of them in turn, waiting for a nod of acceptance. “If there is any other outcome, I will personally ensure that each of you spend the rest of your careers at some godforsaken listening post in the Falklands.” He stood up abruptly, brushing a fleck of lint from the lapel of his jacket as he turned back toward the door. “Now get out of my bloody sight, and do your damned jobs.”
* * *
The cable car rose into the white haze wreathing the volcanic peak, and Marc looked back, turning to watch the barren slopes below as they receded. A wide field of craggy, dark rock extended away from him in a massive fan, dotted by sparse patches of hardy lichen and the brick-red streaks of oxide dust deposits.
The basalt cone of Mount Etna was broken by the gray ribbon of the highway, curling like a snake up the southern face of the sleepy volcano, the greenery of the foothills beneath a diminishing tide. Down at the far end of the cable line, the hotels, restaurants and gift s
hops of Nicolosi Nord ski station lay in a curve overlooking the views toward the coastline. The wood-framed buildings and parked cars were toy-like and artificial against the alien landscape. If not for the signs of human activity, it could have been the surface of an asteroid captured by the cameras of a space probe.
Marc blended in with a Canadian tour group up from the cruise liners in the bay and rode with them in their coach all the way up to the nearby hotel Rifugio Sapenza, before slipping out and away. He was as certain as he could be that he wasn’t followed, and after judging the ebb and flow of each bus-load of arrivals, he waited until he could board a cable car on his own. The trip afforded him the time to recheck the Glock’s ammunition magazine. He peered at the cell phone, re-reading the terse message he had sent to Grunewald.
Bocca Nuova. Four Hours.
The mountain seemed like a good spot to meet, and despite his concerns that the day’s foul weather might turn away the tourists, there were still crowds of them all around. The volcano was always a draw, with people eager to climb the three thousand plus meters of the cinder cone towering high over the island. A public place, with only one way in or out. It was the best Marc could come up with on short notice.
Etna’s crown was all but invisible, shrouded in clouds, but every now and then a glimpse of the stark black summit showed though, the edges of the great crater silhouetted by shards of sky. The cable car lurched as it rode over the last support tower and creaked to a walking pace, the doors sliding back. Marc didn’t wait for the operator to wave him out and bounced down on to the platform.
Outside in the damp, chilly afternoon, ragged patches of snow peppered the black moonscape around the cable car terminus, and a dirt track led away into the mists. Bulky Unimog trucks in white and red liveries waited for each new clump of tourists, and Marc joined the back of another group, watching their faces for anyone who seemed less interested in the sights and more in him. Engine grumbling, the high-sided 4x4 set off, swaying as an indifferent driver threaded them back and forth along the last few hundred meters of the lava fields before the peak proper.
From there, it was a footpath where an equally disinterested tour guide led the sightseers on a walking circuit around the edge of Bocca Nuova, the so-called “new crater” formed in the last set of eruptions over a decade ago.
The mists cut visibility down to less than a hundred meters. As they approached the roped-off cordon around the fissures in the rock, the haze closed in even further, thickening for a few moments before the wind drew it away again. Ahead Marc glimpsed the steaming pits of fumarole vents, the steep sides stained dull yellow with tracks of sulfur deposits. To the eastern edge, a sheer drop fell into the Valle del Bove, revealing more flashes of blue sky between the shifting walls of fog.
He halted by a rocky outcrop near the beginning of the rough path, one hand slipping into the cavernous pouch of the hoodie where his pistol was resting.
Three figures emerged out of the mist, and one of them gave a languid nod as he caught sight of Marc’s face. “Here we go,” he said, in a flat, characterless American accent.
The man who spoke had a long, gaunt face and the kind of economy of movement that Marc associated with soldiers. The second, a muscular Latino guy who stood off to the side with a glower from under a ski hat, said nothing. But something about him triggered a flash of recall. Marc was sure he had been one of those shooting at him on board the Jade. The third man had a Germanic cast to his features and a shock of stark blond hair. Like his compatriots, he wore a black ski jacket of military cut, bulky enough to cover the bulge of any concealed firearm. He gave a bleak smile.
“Mister Dane. You actually came.” He drew a ten euro note from a pocket and handed it to the blank-faced American. “I had my doubts, even as my colleague Mister Teape thought otherwise.”
Marc felt hot and cold all at once, the chill of the altitude and the icy sweat on his brow warring with the warmth of the fleece hoodie. “I told you to come alone.”
“I chose not to.” Grunewald opened his gloved hands. “Cruz?” He glanced at the Latino man. “Show him.”
The man reached into a pocket and pulled out a smartphone. He dithered over it a moment, tapping at icons, then held it so Marc could see the images it was displaying.
The picture was remarkably crisp. It was a video feed, captured by someone holding a camera and panning it around the interior of a panel van. The viewpoint showed three men, all in dark clothes, with their faces concealed behind ski masks. They ignored the camera watching them, busy with the loading of the silenced pistols in their hands. One of the men had a crowbar lying across his lap.
“Thirty seconds,” said Grunewald. “From the moment I say go to the moment they’re inside your sister’s house. A minute after that, maybe two, for the kills.” He took the smartphone from Cruz and pretended to use it to take a snapshot of Marc as another gaggle of tourists walked past them. “I make one call, and…”
Marc licked his lips. “You can’t do that.”
“You know how to stop it,” said the mercenary. He held out his hand.
“No,” Marc shook his head, and smiled tightly. “I mean you can’t. You can’t call your men on that.” He pointed at the air. “No cell phone coverage up here, no signals. Nice video there, shame it’s not live.”
Grunewald’s insouciant manner slipped, just a little. “Of course. Quite correct. And you would know that, wouldn’t you? Being a techno-geek.” He sounded out the words, scornful of him. “So that means you know what this is, too.” He snapped his fingers and Teape produced a block of gray and yellow molded plastic, handing it to him. It resembled the old brick-sized mobile telephones of the 1980s, with a stubby tube for an antenna.
Marc’s heart sank. “A sat-com.”
That earned him a look that was indulgent, almost pitying. Grunewald weighed it in his hand. “This does get a signal, Mister Dane,” he said. “Your clever little tactic to cut off our communications failed to account for that.”
“This ain’t our first rodeo,” said Cruz, offering the comment with a sneer. “Not so smart now, ese?”
“No,” Marc admitted, his gut tightening.
Grunewald gestured with the satellite phone, pointing with the antenna. “So. The threat still remains. If my operators don’t hear from me, they’ll go in anyway.”
Marc sniffed in the cold air. “If I give you what you want, I have no guarantee that you’re not just going to kill them anyway.”
The other man’s expression shifted. He actually seemed offended. “What do you think I am, Mister Dane? A common thug?” He came closer, his tone hardening. “I am a professional. I don’t condone needless collateral damage. Terminating civilians out of spite is for criminals.” Grunewald folded his arms. “We both want the same thing. We both want my men in London to turn around and go home.” He shook his head. “The murder of a police officer and his wife and child, in such a heavily populated area? Do you have any idea of the risk factor of such a sanction? The gentlemen I work for don’t want such attention. But you’ve driven them to these ends. You’ve forced me to risk my team.” The man paused. “I will give the order if I must. But wouldn’t it be better for everyone to sleep soundly tonight?”
Marc felt numb inside as he reached into the folds of his hoodie and withdrew Novakovich’s hard drive.
Teape was on him in a moment, snatching the device from his hands and peering at its surface. “Looks secure,” he reported. “I don’t think he opened the casing.”
“Tried,” Marc admitted. “Couldn’t get in. Old school heavyweight encryption, thick as boiler plate.”
Teape took the smartphone from Cruz and used a thin cable to connect the two devices. After a long moment, the phone trilled. “It’s the genuine article.”
“How difficult was that?” Grunewald raised the sat-phone to his ear and pressed a speed-dial button.
The square grip of the Glock pistol was clenched in Marc’s hand, and his finger rested o
n the trigger guard. Marc resolved that the mercenary would be the first to take a bullet if he did anything other than keep his word.
It was almost a shock when that was exactly what he did. “It’s me,” he said. “Condition abort. I repeat, condition abort. Fall back to extraction.” He cut the call and studied the look on Marc’s face. “What did you expect? I told you they would live. Your family don’t need to pay for your mistakes.” He gave the other man a quick look. “Cruz, take his weapon.”
Marc reacted, but he was too slow to stop the swarthy man from shoving him back into the rocky outcrop. Cruz had a curved karambit blade protruding from his fist, which had come from nowhere. He pressed it into Marc’s side, hard against his belly but out of sight from any passing gazes. “Don’t be stupid,” muttered the man, palming the Glock quickly and cleanly. None of the civilians milling around had noticed anything.
“You got what you want,” Marc said. “We’re done here.”
The pitying look returned. “Not so,” Grunewald replied. “This is the end of the line for you, I’m afraid.”
“We had a deal—”
Grunewald raised a hand to silence him. “Which I honored. But nothing we spoke about pertained to you getting off this mountain alive.” He shook his head, as if he was a parent disappointed by an errant child, and turned away, walking back down the slope.
Cruz’s knife jabbed Marc through his clothing. “Walk,” said the man, nodding toward the pathway leading up to the steaming crater. “You wanna see the top, don’t you?”
FOURTEEN
The mist rolled up over the lip of the fissure in a ghostly wave, bringing with it the acrid tang of sulfur. Marc could make out the cold weather coats of the tourists filing along the edge of the crater. He could hear them talking, snapping photographs. None of them were remotely aware that a murder was about to take place.
Cruz shoved him in the small of the back with his balled fist, the wicked arc of the mercenary’s karambit concealed there, ready to slash open Dane’s back at a moment’s notice. “Keep walking,” he growled, white exhales of breath wreathing his face. “To the edge.”
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