Hard Cover

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Three hundred yards right.’

  I waited until I got real close to the turning before I hit the brakes again and drifted round to my right, just squeezing into the opening and missing a tree by a whisker. I felt the tail beginning to wobble before I slammed my foot down and regained control, then we were on our way again into another section of tree-lined track.

  ‘And two hundred left.’

  This time I used the handbrake. I felt the tyres beginning to lose traction but I was ready and already pulling on the wheel to steer into the turn before we got there. Just for a second I felt the left-hand wheels leave the ground before the pickup decided it didn’t want to play rollover and slammed down again, shaking my teeth.

  The lights behind me had gone, but I was sure it was only temporary. I kept my foot down hard and prayed nothing big would step out onto the track to play chicken. At this kind of speed it wouldn’t take much to knock me off-line with no way of stopping a fatal impact in the trees.

  The GAZ lights flickered behind me. The handbrake move had caught him unprepared; with no brake lights to alert him, he’d overshot the turning and been forced to reverse. But now he knew what I’d do next time and he’d be ready.

  ‘Watchman, you have two more turns before reaching an intersection with a road which will take you back to your original route.’

  ‘Got that. Waiting on your call.’

  We were on another long stretch, which put the ball firmly back in the GAZ’s favour. He was already closing on me and I figured the pickup must have been abused more than I’d figured because it was beginning to labour and feeling very sloppy.

  I now had only the vaguest idea where I was and which direction I was headed. I was completely in Lindsay’s hands, and in spite of her skills at keeping me out of trouble, we couldn’t continue this duel much longer. Either the GAZ driver would get tired of the chase and call down some help or he’d try to shunt me off the road. Neither choice was going to help me, so I was going to have to put him off his game.

  ‘Six hundred right and counting.’

  She was giving me plenty of warning now, and with her overview of the terrain she must have seen that I was fast running out of options. No turns meant I’d lose the game.

  ‘Four hundred.’

  I took my foot off the gas and allowed my speed to bleed. This was going to be a one-time trick and no repeats.

  ‘Three hundred.’

  The inside of the pickup was now ablaze with harsh light as the GAZ began to close the gap with his full beams on, and I could hear the heavy growl of the engine coming up behind me. If he was hoping to intimidate me into stopping, he was having the opposite effect; if I slowed down any more, he’d be unable to stop and would run right over me.

  ‘Two hundred – and it’s a must-turn!’

  Ouch. A right-angle turn with no alternatives. This time I couldn’t choose to keep going even if I wanted to. Good to know.

  I wondered if the GAZ driver knew it.

  I hit the accelerator again and began to pull away, catching him by surprise. But it was a momentary thing only and he soon began to catch up until he was only yards off my tail. He was also sounding the horn to add to the confusion. I figured he was probably getting mad now and saw no reason to try and stop me. That meant he’d go for a rear-end shunt and wipe me off the road.

  ‘Coming up now!’

  This time he got the full benefit of my brake lights. Up this close and focussing intensely on my rear end, it must have been like having a bright red flashlight stuck in his eye. For a second he was so close I thought this was it as the gap between us shrank to nothing. Then there was no time for thinking as the turning came up on my right. I took my foot off the brake pedal and pulled on the handbrake, and as the nose of the pickup edged into the turning, I saw the GAZ slide past my rear end and continue on down the track.

  Except there was no track for him to follow, just a solid wall of trees.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  The weather had closed in tight by the time I got the first hint of a signal from Tzorekov’s car. I was pushing hard out of a long valley dipping between mist-shrouded hills when I saw the first flicker. It looked weak at first, growing steadier as the road lifted sharply towards the peaks.

  The ground flattened out at the top and dropped slightly after a half mile on the other side, giving me a brief view of trees and a couple of small lakes, and a river snaking away in the distance.

  The nearest lake of the two was about a mile away. It had a large clearing just off the road, like a make-do parking lot, and a pontoon floating in the water about thirty yards offshore. I used the scope to check the area and saw a single vehicle sitting beneath the trees near the water. Dark green. A 4WD.

  The Touareg.

  I checked the map. If Tzorekov had finally got a location for his meeting, maybe this was the place.

  I called Lindsay and asked if she could see any buildings in the area. If there was going to be a meeting, it had to be inside somewhere. A quick bird’s-eye view would save me a lot of driving.

  ‘Got that, Watchman. Nothing in sight. It’s just a lake.’

  ‘Copy that. Thanks.’

  A pause, then: ‘Are you OK, Watchman? That last bit seemed … hairy.’

  Hairy. That was one way of describing it. ‘All in a day’s work,’ I said breezily. ‘I wouldn’t have done it without your help, though. That was impressive work. Say, did I say thank you?’

  ‘I took it as read. And you’re very welcome.’

  I sat and watched for a while, feeling the residue of adrenaline after the chase filtering out of my system. I’d seen no signs of activity after leaving the forest track, and figured the men in the GAZ had not called it in for some reason. Maybe they’d got fed up sitting by the side of the road and I was the nominated sucker to be pulled over and hazed to relieve the boredom. Once I was sure they had given up the chase, I’d pulled over and ripped off the decals just in case.

  I checked the Touareg again. I could see one man inside but it was too indistinct to tell if it was Tzorekov or Gurov.

  Then a slim figure stepped out from the trees. Gurov. He walked over to the passenger side of the Touareg and stood there, presumably talking to his boss, but didn’t seem in too much of a hurry to get back inside. Waiting for somebody, perhaps?

  I gave it another twenty minutes to see if they were going to move. Sitting here for too long was crazy. I was still concerned about the helicopter. Without the tracker, the men in the Ansat now had no way of finding the Touareg, but having seen the layout of this region, the very simplicity of the road system and lack of buildings in the area was likely to act against Tzorekov remaining invisible for ever. All the helicopter had to do was follow the more obvious roads and sooner or later they’d get lucky. The lack of moving vehicles alone meant those of us down here would stand out clearly from the sky, and if they had cameras on board, they wouldn’t need to come too low to check out any that looked good.

  And if I could see the Touareg, so would the helicopter. Surely Gurov knew that. So what the hell was he playing at?

  I got back in the pickup and drifted down the road, keeping an eye on the skyline. I was on a long, winding slope between huge swathes of conifers, and for much of the time it was like being in a sheer-sided tunnel, cutting out a lot of light and most of the horizon. Then I caught a glimpse of water through a clearing, and stopped, backing up a few yards so I had a clear view.

  Gurov was still standing by the passenger door, staring out across the lake as if he hadn’t got a care in the world. I could see the wind ruffling his hair and he might have been any city dweller out in the wilds for the day to get some fresh air in his lungs.

  But something was wrong; I could sense it from here.

  To hell with caution. I drove the rest of the way and entered the approach road to the lakeside, driving slowly. Gurov must have heard me coming but if it bothered him he didn’t show it. He was leaning against the side of the T
ouareg with his hands in his pockets. I parked beneath the trees and walked across to him. I had my hand on the Grach but something told me I wasn’t going to need it.

  He finally turned and watched me approach. He looked relaxed but it was the stance of a man who suddenly didn’t know what to do with himself.

  I had a bad feeling and glanced towards the Touareg, where I could just make out Tzorekov sitting in the passenger seat. He looked as if he was asleep.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked Gurov. ‘You know they’re still searching for you.’

  He said nothing for a moment, then straightened himself up. ‘It does not matter,’ he said softly. ‘It is over.’

  ‘What? Have you heard something?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Not that.’ He nodded towards the front of the car and drew in a deep breath. ‘Leonid is dead. A heart attack. A little more than an hour ago.’

  I walked over and opened the door. Tzorekov’s skin was grey. His eyes were half-closed and he had a look of something that might have been pain etched into the tilt of his mouth. I checked the pulse in the side of his neck. He was cold.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, as Gurov joined me. He had a faraway look in his eyes and I could see he was hurting. He’d evidently been far closer to Tzorekov than any normal bodyguard, more like a son than an employee. A son who had joined in this crazy journey into Russia that his father had decided was worth a try, come what may because it was important. But having come this far, he’d seen his father die, his wish unfulfilled. No wonder he was in pain.

  ‘Did you know?’

  ‘That his heart was bad? Yes. He had been sick for some time but nobody else knew. He insisted on that. He refused to tell them, saying he had one last thing to do.’ He shrugged and added softly, ‘He wanted to come back home. That, too, was part of the sickness, and why I cannot be truly sad for him. But I am sorry he did not accomplish his mission. It was a good thing to want to do.’

  ‘What will you do now?’ I said.

  He stared at Tzorekov and shook his head. He looked thinner than ever in the morning light, his cheekbones prominent and his skin stretched tight with emotion.

  ‘I don’t know. First I must bury him.’

  ‘Here?’

  He nodded. ‘It is what he would have wanted. Once a Russian, always a Russian. This is his homeland.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I don’t know.’ He leaned into the car and lifted out Tzorekov’s body. For such a slim man it took him no more effort than if it had been a small child, and he did it with the utmost care.

  ‘Do you want my help?’

  ‘No. This is for me to do. He would have wanted that. But thank you.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Leonid was very grateful for what you have done. You have put yourself in great danger for him. For us. I thank you, also, but you should go home now.’

  I didn’t say anything, just nodded in acknowledgment.

  As he walked away into the trees bearing the body of his boss, I detected a faint rumble in the air. It could have been thunder but I doubted it. Then it became a thudding sound, distant and just about audible, interrupted only by an occasional shift in the wind, but definitely there. I turned and walked out into the open and scanned the horizon, checking the grey skies over the hills and trees. I knew sooner or later that I’d see a dark shape come into view.

  I jogged back to the pickup and retrieved the Saiga from its hiding place in the rear bodywork, and slipped in a fresh magazine. I looked for Gurov but he was out of sight.

  ‘Watchman, come in.’

  ‘Here, Lindsay. Go ahead.’

  ‘The beacon signal I saw before is approaching your location. It’s about ten miles out. It appeared out of nowhere. Sorry, I wanted to warn you sooner.’

  ‘Don’t sweat it. I’m ready for him.’

  ‘Oh.’ A slight pause while she digested the meaning, then: ‘What’s your situation?’

  ‘The deal’s off. Tzorekov’s dead.’ I relayed what Gurov had told me. She took the news without reaction, but I knew she’d be hitting buttons in the background. This was a complete game changer and everybody would have to be briefed. She probably had a feed going through to Callahan’s office and was giving him the heads up. No doubt it would throw a few heads in the State Department into a spin, but there was nothing that could be done about it.

  Some missions end like that; no winners, no losers, no medals, no gain.

  ‘Copy that. And the other man?’

  ‘He’s dealing with it.’

  ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Head for home. Are those Pathfinders out of here?’ I had no doubts that if things got very hot from here on, there would be a lot of attention being thrown this way from the various military facilities in the area. You couldn’t have a firefight even in these remote parts without somebody asking questions.

  ‘Orders confirmed; they’re on their way.’

  The distant thudding had intensified. It became louder and the sound changed as the Ansat popped up over the trees about a mile away and wheeled round towards the lake, sinking towards the water. I didn’t know how they’d found us but logic and a knowledge of the local countryside and roads must have played a part. There wasn’t so much traffic in this area that they could get too easily confused.

  ‘Gotta go,’ I told Lindsay, and cut the connection. I checked the Saiga’s magazine again out of habit. Full. Made sure the scope was firmly in place and the lens clean. Tight and clear. What I hadn’t done was checked the sights were good, but there was one good way to rectify that.

  I sighted on the helicopter. It jumped into view, the two men in the cockpit clearly visible. I scanned towards the side and rear, and a man’s face and shoulders appeared in profile at the door. He looked to be shouting and was pointing forwards, and I realized he’d been given the heads-up by the pilot.

  They were coming straight for me.

  It was time to get busy.

  I aimed at the rotors and fired twice, the rifle jumping with a satisfying jolt against my shoulder. The shots sounded horribly loud in this quiet location, the noise spinning out across the lake and echoing off the trees, making a clutch of birds in the branches behind me fly off in panic, wings beating like someone shaking a newspaper.

  I didn’t wait to see the results; I grabbed the Val and turned and ran for the trees on the other side, away from where Gurov had gone.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Jason Sewell took his seat at the head of the table and wondered what this latest call to order was all about. Deputy Secretary Alastair Davies had requested it this time, and he had an uneasy feeling in his gut. If he was correct, Davies had found out that Watchman hadn’t been called out of Russia yet and was going to try roasting the two CIA officers for not moving fast enough.

  Down the table were Tom Vale and Brian Callahan, but there was no sign of Angela Thornbury. He hadn’t wasted time asking why – he’d already heard on the grapevine that she had moved on, for reasons unspecified.

  ‘I’m sorry to call you out this early,’ Davies began. ‘I know you fellows are in the final stages of tying up an operation, but I felt you should know that the Tzorekov situation is moving towards some kind of conclusion.’

  ‘How so?’ said Sewell. He wondered how much Davies knew, if anything, of his decision to keep Watchman running for another twenty-four hours.

  ‘Well, what we know for certain is that President Putin is firmly back in Moscow and doesn’t look like going anywhere due to urgent commitments. Furthermore, I’ve been advised that Valentin Roykovski, Putin’s former driver, has just checked out of a health spa and is also back in Moscow.’

  Sewell was puzzled. If this was a roasting, Davies was taking the long way round. And how did he know of Roykovski’s movements?

  Davies read his mind. ‘Don’t worry, Jason, we’re not doubling up on your work; I had a feeling I didn’t know as much as I should so I had somebody run a check on Thornbury’s briefing notes. R
oykovski’s name popped up and we ran him past our embassy liaison in Moscow. He was Tzorekov’s planned go-between, right?’

  Sewell nodded. He’d wondered if Davies had been briefed fully on all the details from the first meeting with Thornbury, and clearly he hadn’t. ‘We had strong evidence from Tom Vale, here, that Roykovski has been acting for some time as a go-between for passing messages between Putin and Tzorekov. We suspect the president was probably being ultra-cautious about not being seen having dialogue with a man generally regarded as an outsider, for fear of undermining his own authority. He has good reason, as it turns out.’

  ‘Fair enough. So where does that leave Tzorekov? Is he likely to keep trying?’

  ‘We’re not sure. Our last take from Watchman was that Tzorekov was still counting on a meeting of some sort. He was merely waiting for a time and a place.’

  ‘Watchman’s talked with him?’ Davies looked surprised. ‘I thought he was supposed to remain at a distance. Isn’t that the way he usually operates?’

  ‘Usually, yes. But he can’t always call the tune. Sometimes he has to go in close.’

  ‘Right. Like he did with Ed Travis. I heard about that.’ He smiled. ‘No need to worry – something tells me you haven’t yet pulled Watchman out of there, am I right?’

  ‘Correct. We wanted to give it a last shot.’ Sewell held his breath, wondering if this wasn’t going to go stratospheric and call into question his ability to do his job.

  ‘Good decision. As for Tzorekov’s thinking, could he have another contact he can use?’

  ‘Not that we know of. Tom?’ He turned to bring in Tom Vale.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the MI6 man. ‘We’re as much in the dark as you. Tzorekov had faith in Roykovski being the one. If Putin has decided on another go-between to keep this thing going, we don’t have a name.’

  Just then the communications console in the centre of the room gave a discreet buzz. At a nod from Sewell, Brian Callahan reached out to take it. He listened for a moment, then said, ‘Thank you, Lindsay. Wait one.’ When he looked up, his expression was grave. ‘That was a message from Watchman. Tzorekov’s dead. He had a heart attack.’