by Ray Christie
Mark runs out towards the side of the car and spins around towards the direction of where the RPG would have been fired from. There he could see a man on the ground about twenty meters away unmoving. Twisting around and attempting to focus his dusty eyes, one eye was full of dust leaving him without stereoscopic vision. There in front of him, not even ten meters away from his position, a gun raised aimed directly at him. Mark provided the electrical connection from his brain to the muscles in his forearms and finger, quickly squeezing the trigger twice. But it was all too late.
Two bullets struck Mark, first in the mouth and the second in his eye while the next few missed and darted over his head.
Valmir had looked across to survey the area and see what happened to Dritan who began the attack, then he entered darkness never to return. His head exploded as had Dritan’s moments ago when Gordon made his second shot, this one was on target, missing slightly with the first.
Over the distance from the church spire seconds before Gordon had watched as out of nowhere one of the men parked a car and retrieved an objected from the backseat. Realising he was carrying a rocket-propelled grenade launcher Gordon made adjustments to his distance and took aim on him. The hostile had fired the RPG towards the Delta operators standing guard near the car, striking the car sending shrapnel into flesh and bone knocking the two Deltas off their feet, limbs stripped from their bodies.
Gordon’s first bullet had rocketed over the RPG operator’s head by millimetres. Firing his sniper rifle from a cold bore he overcompensated for the drop in distance from that of a hot bore. Making a subtle adjustment the next bullet was on target exploding Dritan’s big ugly head. Two headshots, but all too late, at that distance, which was worthy of world-class attention, it did not matter. He failed, his good mate lay soaking in a pool of his own blood, peering through his scope at Mark’s lifeless body he knows there is no hope of survival.
Gordon had no time to spare, he quickly gathered his belongings and dropped down to the belfry and made his way down the steps to the ground. Running out into the daylight he scanned the plaza for a car he could steal. A middle-aged lady returning from Meier’s Wurststand had placed a bag of fresh smoked Wurst sausages on the roof of her car along with her mobile phone and a coffee cup, once she retrieved her car keys from her purse Gordon snatched them ripped open the door and started the engine, her cries of help were too late, the car was planted in drive and Gordon was on his way. The coffee and sausages spilling over the cobble street while the woman was spun sidewards landing heavily in a flowerpot breaking her shoulder, screaming obscenities.
Gordon’s sniper kills covered close to two kilometres over the rooftops in one and a half seconds, by car it will take about two minutes on these streets. Gordon knows the police will show up in less than that, the noise from the train station caused by trains shunting and blowing horns may lead others to think the noise is industrial. But that is only a hope, he needs to get in, drag Mark’s body into the stolen car, take the bags he watched being loaded into the burning car and get out of town and undercover. The car wheels were screeching as he turned onto Staudingerstraße, a short burst on the accelerator then slamming on the brakes beside the burning vehicle. He quickly jumps out, knowing there was no medical help he could offer and with as much dignity as he could show he heaved the dead body into the boot of his new vehicle. Finally, he grabbed the duffle bags out of the burning wreckage, the heat from the flames burnt his thick hair while the smoke and black diesel fumes were being sucked into his lungs. Still wearing his latex gloves, he recovered the firearms from the dead Deltas and sprinted back to the car.
Driving off before the vehicle burnt out completely destroying all signs of Mark’s deoxyribonucleic acid, he could hear sirens approaching rapidly in the near distance. Taking the back streets through the mixed residential and industrial areas, he drives south using the in-car GPS for guidance, the last thing he wants is to bring any more attackers towards Jack who is arriving from the North. His driving needs to be perfect; the Germans are efficient drivers and the slightest infraction will have him pulled over. He will need a plan to change vehicles quickly, but cannot leave it tasting of death, another fire is needed. He first calls Jack to provide the news, before hanging up he asks him to reach out indirectly to inform the US embassy of their two dead men, it is the least he could do.
EIGHTEEN
Trevor had been reading the intelligence report in the carpark of a McDonalds south of Moscow, for the other intelligence officers assigned to Russian affairs desk in the MI6 building it read just like a normal killing in Russia. A mild interest was taken, spies killing spies happens more often than one would believe in such countries, the attitude and inquisitive nature from Russians lasted only a short time. The killing would have been seen by the intelligence officers in Vauxhall as a likely power grab from a confident and overachieving officer. Trevor on the underhand read every word slowly, searching for anything that could link this back to him. With an order to dismiss this as anything important he sent the senior intelligence analysts back to work on more pressing matters. Namely investigations in Vladivostok chasing Chinese gangsters seeking to infiltrate in the far east of the country and other affairs which could weaken both China and Russia. Those tasked with intelligence within Moscow would soon be transferred to other regions and anyone that began pressing into difficult subjects would be removed from their position on accusations of something Trevor would create. His problems were many and his options were limited, he called Anjeze. Despite the chance, she could prove little worth he decided to send her forward to get close to the men with the money. Putting her life in potential danger he wanted to see what the men were willing to do to protect their stash. He would move this pawn forward by sending her into the middle of their board and observe from afar. If she fails in her mission and gets captured Trevor would pretend to trade her, that would be her only worth, he could then set up something. Just one more option. From what he knows they have more locations in Switzerland, Italy and Ireland, the exact locations will be drilled out of someone very soon. The men could be anywhere now he guesses, emptying the rest of the treasures. Time to make use of a drone and a team of pilots, hunting for terror suspects will be used for the request orders. Nodding to no one, in particular, he concludes that within three days he will have them pinned down and wiped out.
***
Muji tries in vain to contact Dritan and Valmir. He concedes they have failed. Shaking his head and massaging his forehead he knows he must hide the news from Émilie. He needs more information from her on the other locations, with only four men left, two in London and two in Germany on their trail. He calls Émilie to set an urgent meet.
Fresh off the phone with Trevor providing him with the little news she has, or the little news she was willing to part with the last thing she wants is to have a sit down with Muji.
Trevor nonetheless had news of his own, ‘Listen, darling, time is running out, we need those men in bags,’ were his words. With the news the Paris apartment is empty Trevor provided an address in Germany, he will keep the vault and storage information to himself, once the men are dead, he and the committee will travel and do the collection together. If they are alive.
Émilie has long dismissed Trevor’s lies about these men; they were no terrorists, perhaps they could be the British versions of Edward Snowden, something murky that the British Government is trying desperately to contain. Whatever these men have done they are far too well trained, organised, and intelligent which would not be wasted on something as dumb as terrorism. The only other reason Trevor could be pushing her so much is for the Dollars, Sterling and Euros, millions of them, otherwise MI6 would use the Americans or Israelis to help out. This work was all of Trevor’s private off the book issues. Émilie holds the phone in her hand gazing at the screen, “He is playing me like a violin,” she dials a number, it is time to play her hand.
***
Knowing he cannot be seen with Mikhail;
he stands and straightens his back and flexes his shoulders; this mental strain is tightening his body. Unconsciously shaking his paranoid head, ‘there is no other way,’ Kolmogorov has run out of options. Mikhail knows his position within the political security architecture of Russia and will be cautious of any hasty requests to meet. Kolmogorov has this knot in his stomach since leaving Moscow, feeling the Kremlin is watching his every move, he feels safer in London for at least the next forty-eight hours, his only chance of survival is to get to Mikhail before they do, wipe him out and escape with what he has. Dead men cannot talk.
Hoping Trevor and René uphold their end of the deal if they let him leave and send his share then the state of Vermont is looking good to live out the rest of his days.
Kolmogorov makes the call, “Mikhail, we need to meet, I had an interesting conversation back in Moscow, they know more than I thought, I can’t tell you on this line, where are you?”
Waiting for a few moments more than he should, the risk of feeling guilty about something, he almost shouts an answer down the phone, “London, where I have always been, laying low,” pacing the floor his mind is racing.
“Cool, thought so, ok are you free tonight? we need to get together, reorganise ourselves and work out who is in London.” Kolmogorov waits for the response, he has a new burner phone pressed hard to his ear, he can even hear Mikhail’s breath as he ponders his response.
Mikhail takes his time, casually offering a meet at eight in his favourite wine bar, “The little red one.” What this meant to Kolmogorov is to meet at seven in a restaurant, the large blue one on the street he then provides. Kolmogorov knows Mikhail is cautious, wanting to meet in a busy place, knowing full well he cannot be seen with Gangsters, not now as it will only confirm what the Kremlin expect. On the other hand, Kolmogorov considers he has no option, get in and get away and make it out of the country. One chance to sever a link connecting him to this mob, perhaps in due course he can lay the blame all at the hands of Mikhail. That can wait, it is now time to recce the location and set his trap.
***
The men tucked into plates of Alsatian farm chicken, steamed cod, and parsnips, while Frank had chosen a blue lobster cooked in a baeckeoffe but barely touched it, nibbling on a Kugelhopf he was deathly silent. The table was full of coffee cups, with more ordered from the immaculately dressed waitress. Opting to take a seat indoors far away from the terrace they could observe their surroundings in all directions. Sam had hacked into the guest list checking the identities of new last-minute arrivals, he was now in the process of hacking into the surveillance cameras from this hotel in Strasbourg.
Jack knew the hotel well, he ordered Frank to ask the concierge to organise them a new hire car whilst leaving his own parked in plain view beside a hotel further down the street, he was extremely cautious of his next move. After learning from Gordon about the death of Mark he needed to come up with a plan. There will be ample time to mourn on Mark’s death later, now this will be the last meal together with Ben, Sam and Frank until this mayhem is stopped.
For now, they will put Frank in a room here in the Hôtel Régent, safe in the city until the men can draw out the hitmen and take revenge for their fallen comrade.
Ben started downloading images on their new target, “Arthur had been busy at work back in London, leaving Frank’s country home he entered the various buildings of MI6 and Whitehall and their various off-site locations, he was after hard copy files as access of deeply encrypted records of Trevor found little information to date.”
The same intel uncovered by Arthur which Trevor received linked Kolmogorov to the assassination attempt in a Moscow carpark. This provided more clues for him to assist in the unravelment of the mystery spy killers who are behind the attempted assassinations of his men.
The men all look on intently as Ben speaks softly once again.
“Looks like Arthur has made a connection on some of the members of this death team. Deep in the archives of Whitehall images, he found an old surveillance photograph of Kolmogorov Trediakovsky Glavnoye razvedyvatel'noye upravleniye - Officer of the GRU, René Descartes Direction Générale De La Sécurité Extérieure – Officer of the DGSE, and one thinner looking Trevor Lloyd Cromwell – Officer of Military Intelligence, Section Six. Dated 1998, Location Vienna.
“Let me see that,” Jack gets up from the table as does Sam to get a clear look at the screen.
The men stare in silence as they weigh the connections of these officers and link up the dots to the secretive black operations they have been working on.
“Bloody hell, Frank these boys were meeting up on your watch, Vienna of all places, Spy city,” Jack looks playfully at the old man despite the situation.
“Nothing to do with me, you think these are the actors that hit you guys in London?”
Sam shakes his head, “Obviously not these guys, but they could very well know about every hit we carried out, with the French and Russians involved that opens up a world of intelligence, counter-intelligence and leaks which would shine a bright light on every move we made.”
“It was lucky we cleared out the Strasbourg vault this morning. We need to move that money fast, stick it somewhere until we sort this mess out,” Ben clicks through other images sent to him by Arthur as Sam and Jack watch on. Some of these surveillance photographs show the men either partnered up or with others. Some of them had red cross drawn on the faces with the word killed, murdered, drowned or some other term written on the side column.
“Someone must have been on to something, then the operation got closed down, however by the looks of it these photos must have been saved or relocated out of Trevor’s reach,” Sam looks closely at the faces signalling with his fingers for Ben to magnify the images.
Jack walks over to the floor to ceiling arched window, looking at all the diners out on the terrace he scans and aims to remember each and every face of those around the water before returning to the table to speak.
“This mess is down to those guys on the screen, those three, plus the French girl and this Anjeze figure. We need to find these women, who are they and what can they tell us. Ask Arthur to locate them, Frank get busy also. It is time we are on the front foot.”
“Copy that, I’ll send him a message, I will also get him to move around our investments and relocate our finances if they know some of our storage locations it is only a matter of time until they find our online accounts.” Ben gets busy typing while Jack checks the window once more then makes his way outside to continue his counter-surveillance in the street.
Trained by the SAS the men all had equal input to the plans coupled with strong leadership skills, all additions to and corrections on plans were listened to and acted upon. Sam decided that Frank should stay in his room, using room service under his cover name, Mr Schweighöfer, until told otherwise. From there he can access the online world with this new information and assist Arthur in finding out more about these five people and their whereabouts.
“Ok, I’ll head back to my room gentlemen, don’t leave me in the dark too long,” Frank leaves the room taking a new phone and SIM card from Sam as he walks past.
A moment of silence surrounds the remaining men before the sounds of a lady singing La Foule from the outside restaurant stirs the two men in action. With newer photographs of the French and Russian spies now firmly implanted in their heads the laptops are snapped shut and with a sense of determination Ben and Sam head out of the old seventeenth Century former mill to hook up again with Jack.
Out on the cobbled Rue des Moulins Jack is looking over a black BMW provided by the hotel, signed for under Franks new identity. “Ben you drive,” Jack uttered as he climbs inside, his body tired and his mind racing, he wanted to piece all this together. Without hesitation Ben and Sam jump in and make adjustments to their seats and mirrors, then they take off sharply through the narrow streets. Their route was lined with half-timbered houses and bridges sweeping over canals that snake their way between and under
the buildings, they continued past open-topped riverboats designed to allow the tourists' uninterrupted vantage points to photograph the beautifully preserved city. The men had no time to admire, instead, they plugged their earpieces firmly in place and checked, loaded, and secured their handguns into a quick access location. From their seats, they scan the slow-moving traffic and building doors, windows, side streets and alleys as they make their way to meet up with and assist Gordon with his situation.
***
London, England
In London it is ten minutes to six, a lone figure stands in the cold grey street outside a large blue painted wall of a half-full restaurant. Mikhail is undercover protecting himself and his cigar from the downpour of rain. A small and unwelcome stream has evolved and is passing by him on the footpath. Washing cigarette butts and other waste down the drains towards the River Thames, discarded from the pedestrians tramping down Old Compton Street in Soho. Slowly finishing his San Cristobal, sucking in the last of the floral and cocoa tones he briefly wonders if this will be his last. With some last-minute checks on the street, he asks God to watch over him and heads inside out of the rain to meet Kolmogorov.
Inside and closing the door he looks around to find a bar full of both tourists and locals, and what looks like a mostly gay crowd, walking through the bodies ignoring the stares and greetings he surveys the venue from end to end looking for Kolmogorov. Starting to feel as if he has got the wrong place, he is suddenly approached by a member of the bar staff. A young man in his twenties with old-style tattoo’s running down each forearm, a number of piercings and one side of his head shaved with an unrecognisable tattoo in place of hair, “Are you, Mikhail? you look like the geezer in my photograph!”