by Gareth Flood
Jonathan’s fractured mind currently only stretched to the instinct that they had to keep moving. He thought his pursuers would assume that Julie was now helping him, so they had to stay away from anything familiar to her.
The only plan they had so far was to get out of Paris.
The buildings got smaller as they raced past the outskirts of the city.
Signs were starting to appear overhead showing distances to southern, eastern and western destinations.
‘What’s the plan boss?’ Julie asked, as she changed lanes with a jerk of the wheel.
Jonathan was looking up at the next set of signs that they were approaching at speed.
‘Well, I’m thinking we could head southwest to Brittany or south to Cannes. I’m thinking that they will be thinking that if we’ve left Paris - we will head south. Due to there being more options down there to slip out by ship.’ Jonathan said.
‘Slip out by ship?’ Julie laughed. ‘Ooh, like a spy movie! It’s all so…clandestine, right?’
‘Yup, that’s the word.’
Julie leaned towards him slightly while still looking at the road ahead.
‘Were you thinking what they were thinking that you were thinking that they think you were thinking that they were thinking?’ Julie asked with a cheeky grin.
Jonathan couldn’t help but smile. ‘Yeah, it’s all a bit like that.’ he said.
It was great having her with him. Her sense of levity in pressure situations eased his stress levels and made him think it would all be okay. It still weighed on him though that he was putting her in danger.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘you hardly know me; I’m amazed you’ve even helped me this far. I think you should drop me off at place you are okay to stop the car.’
‘Jonathan,’ she said, ‘we’ve been through this. They are after me as well now. We probably have a better chance sticking together. Two heads are better than one are they not?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Good. And if I have to spell anything else out further for you, then I’m going to kick you out this car at hundred kilometres an hour.’
Jonathan was secretly relieved, she was right. He also liked her and she wanted to stay. He was normally a shy imbecile around women but he guessed from the last exchange that she liked him too.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘Let’s make it simpler. Do you have any connections or family in Brittany?’
‘No. Went there on a school trip once when I was twelve, but nothing that would show up on records.’ Julie replied.
‘Good. Let’s head to Brittany.’
‘Viva le Bretagne!’ Julie cried, as she hammered down on the accelerator with her foot as though it was encased in a diver’s boot.
Jonathan became reflective again.
Just heading there is not much of a plan. he thought.
He decided that when they got there, he would call the Dutch Mentalist, as well as Harry Shaftsbury again. Julie was now involved and he had an uneasy thought troubling him, if these guys knocked off powerful men like Hoot Mitchell and the Vice-President of Russia – they would be thinking that little Johnny Marshall would be dead within twenty four hours - so his strategy would be to keep moving and keep to thirty second phone calls till he got to Brittany or anywhere else that would buy enough time to figure his next set of moves.
He was too distracted right now by Julie’s driving to think things through coherently.
We are getting away - that is the main thing. he thought.
So onward to Brittany, and when we get there, I will make some calls and pray those guys have some answers!
18
Moscow
Anatoly Kirkov, the recently appointed Vice President of the Russian Federation, was gazing through bulletproof glass his armoured Mercedes in satisfaction. His chauffeured car was moving slowly through the chaotic evening Moscow traffic. The police escort ahead of them was doing a good job in clearing a path through the rusted and clunked out Lada’s. It’s like Moses parting the peasants. Kirkov thought
Kirkov was pleased because everything was going well for him.
A vibrating in his jacket pocket interrupted his pleasure. It was a text message on his phone. He reached in and flipped the phone open. The message said something about tulips being the best when planted in winter.
His face quickly discoloured from creamy pleasure to violet rage.
‘Amateurs!’ he screamed at the phone.
Kirkov looked at his watch.
‘Change of plan.’ he said to the driver. ‘Take me to Oblast on Nevsky Prospekt – the back entrance. Tell the police escort to go.’
The driver nodded in acknowledgment and reached for his walkie-talkie.
Ten minutes later the car pulled up in an alley in front of a door with no openings or handles on the outside.
Kirkov leapt out of the car and banged three times on the door. A slit opened near the top of the door and a pair of eyes widened when they saw who was standing outside. A few quick clunks ensued and the door opened inward.
A burly man with a shaved head and a suit ushered Kirkov in.
‘A real pleasure to see you again so soon, especially after your promotion.’ said the man.
Kirkov shot him a look that hinted if he opened his mouth again, the next thing it would be taking in would be coal dust down a Siberian mine. The man turned white and pointed down the corridor. Kirkov strode through and began passing rooms on the left and right that were filled with beautiful women in lingerie, generally sitting on the laps of fat, middle aged men.
His gaze did not deviate as he walked towards a door at the end of the corridor.
Once he got to the door, he placed his hand on the handle and jerked it open. A rush of hot steam enveloped him and he vanished into the doorway.
Inside was a very large Banja complex, where men were having the traditional Russian sauna. Many were walking around in towels and holding venik, which were twigs of birch trees tied together with which you whipped the skin of your neighbour and yourself to bring blood to the surface. The men looked at Kirkov strangely for it was not custom to enter this place wearing clothes.
Even though most of the men were very powerful in Government and the underworld, they all looked away again when they saw it was Kirkov.
Kirkov was headed for a private steam room at the very back. He knew who would be sitting in there at this time of night - the head of the “Department of vanishing affairs”, a secret quasi Government unit funded by funds that did not officially exist.
Kirkov jerked open another door and was enveloped in another cloud of even hotter steam. He knew he would begin to sweat severely in about thirty seconds.
That was all the time he needed.
In the far corner of the room sat a solitary man in a towel with the top half of his torso and head barely visible through the steam. His features were not recognisable. It was like he was a dark shadow. A deep, disembodied voice came from the shadow out through the mist.
‘You have heard the news, then.’
‘Yes.’ Kirkov said with a slight hiss. ‘I order you to release…the Tatar!’
There was a gasp from the man in the corner, followed by a series of coughs as he inhaled the steam too quickly.
‘Are you sure?’ asked the deep voice, once the coughing had subsided. ‘Marshall is just an office worker. We will have him in twenty-four hours. If we release the Tatar, once it is done you cannot just pull him back - you know the carnage that can happen.’
‘Section Eight had their chance.’ Kirkov shot back. ‘Send him in. In fact, transfer five million to his Swiss account right now to show that we are serious. In the meantime I am going to get one of my people to leak some information from Demetchev’s department. Throw everyone off the scent until the loose ends are tied up, as our American friends would say. I order you - release him!’
Message delivered, Kirkov turned and disappeared from the mist in the room like a wraith whose time in the mortal worl
d was up.
*
Overnight, seemingly confidential information of a highly classified nature was emailed from a web based email account to a Bulgarian newspaper. It was leaked to the Bulgarian media as the Russian media was still tightly controlled by the Russian government and therefore lacked credibility as a source of information leaks.
Ten hours later, the Bulgarian newspaper hit the stands. Ten hours and thirty minutes later, the Bulgarian paper was being slammed down on the desk of management of all the major intelligence agencies of the world, even before the western media could print it.
All the capital cities of consequence were ablaze.
The leaked information and documents appeared to originate from within the Russian intelligence services.
They pointed, alluded and concluded, that the major suspect in the assassinations in Moscow of Hoot Mitchell, former oil company CEO and Viktor Maslov, the former Vice President of the Russian Federation, was a retired KGB officer. The suspect was an acquaintance of a disgraced oil oligarch, who had been hounded out of Russia and was now living in exile in London.
The lawyer for the oligarch, who was British and an expert in setting up hollow corporations to hide assets, had been conveniently killed in a helicopter accident the previous week.
The lawyer had claimed the day before the helicopter flight that if he died within the next two weeks “it wasn’t an accident”.
Rumour was that the lawyer was cracking under pressure and thinking about going public about some sordid dealings that involved the Oligarch and the assassinated Russian VP and Oil CEO.
This then seemed to implicate the Oligarch in the murders. An Oligarch whom Russia was currently trying to extradite but having some difficulty due to him having switched to an Israeli passport.
In the offices of Russian Intelligence, Demetchev was understandably furious - the information appearing in a newspaper looked bad on the department, as though it was leaking classified information, it reflected badly on him.
Even if the story was untrue, there were elements in it that were not. Elements and a few choice details in the story were classified and not only gave the story some credibility but also showed that Demetchev had a leak in his unit.
He was full throttle screaming at his people when the call came through that the President had summoned him.
His head sank as he reached for his coat.
Forty minutes later, in the plush surroundings of an office of state that would make a minor monarch weep with envy, the President of the Russian Federation was screaming at Demetchev.
‘This is unacceptable.’ bellowed the President. ‘You are supposed to be the best we have and you have leaks in your own department!’
This is Russia, thought Demetchev, everyone has leaks and pockets.
He dared not say it though. Kirkov was in the room again, standing behind and to the left of the President. Every once in a while, Demetchev thought he saw the ghost of a smile cross Kirkov’s face, like he was enjoying watching Demetchev being chewed up and spat out by the Big Boss.
The truth was, Kirkov was fully enjoying the scene. He knew exactly where the leak had come from because he had arranged it. Furthermore, he knew Demetchev would never suspect nor find the source.
Kirkov loved modern Russia.
‘Anatoly.’ The President yelled and turned on him. ‘I thought you were working with him on this, taking charge. What do you know of this?’
Demetchev breathed a sigh of relief in the background as the blowtorch was directed away from him for a moment.
‘Nothing of the leak. This is an unacceptable surprise to me too.’ Kirkov said.
‘Hurumph.’ snorted the President, back in the direction of Demetchev.
Bastard. Demetchev thought, He is more slippery than a greased pig.
‘I want a complete purge of your department.’ said the President, banging the table with one hand for effect and jabbing his finger towards Demetchev with the other.
‘But, but Sir. We will lose too much intelligence capability. We will have to start over again. That takes time. This will set us back months.’
‘You will do it and produce results on this case.’ The President shot back, ‘Otherwise it’s your head. Now get out of my office.’
Demetchev turned to leave with a heavy heart. Behind him, Kirkov was smiling; it was exactly what he wanted.
It could not have gone better if he had written the script himself.
19
Paris, Brittany
Jonathan eyed the greasy counter with suspicion. There was an array of Euro coins spread out over it. He eyed the unkempt Frenchman behind the counter of the store with derision.
All he wanted was change for the phone.
They were halfway to Brittany when the day began drawing to a close. It had been time to stop for a break and Jonathan had been unable to contain himself any longer in wanting to get answers.
There was a public phone outside and he was having another cultural tussle in trying to get change to use the phone. The problem had arisen when Jonathan had to apparently clear the till out of copper coins in order to make calls overseas.
The Frenchman was gesticulating wildly and swearing incoherently about the vague inconvenience this would intrude into his lifestyle. Jonathan eventually settled the matter by stuffing a twenty Euro note into his top pocket and scooping all the change off the counter and into a plastic bag.
He looked at the car outside as the crossed the parking area to the plastic phone box. Julie was already back in the car and raring to go. His admiration and feelings for her were growing by the hour as he got to know her better. She always seemed unflappable in the face of danger. In contrast, he still spent his time oscillating between anger and outright fear.
Once in the phone box, he started feeding the coins in.
The first person on his call list was the Dutch Mentalist, he would still be in the office. Jonathan got the number out of the SIM card reader and punched the numbers in.
‘Yesh?’ answered the deep Dutch voice.
‘It’s Jonathan. What have you found out? Who did the report go to?’
Jonathan had decided to dispense with formality. He no longer cared that this man was technically his boss’s boss. His boss was dead and this boss could well have been in on it. Jonathan kept looking at his watch as he spoke so as not to go over the trace limit.
‘Jonathan! Where are you?’ asked the Mentalist.
‘What did you find?’ Jonathan asked, annoyed. He was asking the questions here.
‘Nothing yet. Nobody knows who Falcus took the report to. It wasn’t an official project.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, nothing was logged.’ The Mentalist continued, ‘It was something Falcus did for someone else - off the books.’
Jonathan was stunned. Though he knew he shouldn’t be – Damn Falcus!
‘And you have nothing else to tell me?’ Jonathan asked.
‘I think you should come back and talk this through with-’
Jonathan hung up the phone.
The Mentalist was frustrating him and clearly had nothing else to offer.
He’s still living in his happy little happy Dutch land of everything being in pure two tone black and white. That doesn’t help me when I’m wading knee deep in brown. he thought. I’ve got Julie to think about as well now, I need to find out what is going on and get us out of this goddamn mess pronto!
He began feeding more coins into the phone.
It was time call Captain Pink.
The phone rang.
‘Wassup?’ came the deep American voice.
‘It’s me,’ said Jonathan, ‘have you heard or seen anything?’
‘Whoo hoo hoo hoooo! I tell you brother, I don’t know what you stirred up but it ain’t good. I asked a few questions from some senior clients of mine and only got either dumb stares or concerned stare downs. Think I may be putting myself on some secret blacklist here. Not that I care,
I’m getting sick of whining Limeys anyway. Though most of the day I was in meetings, so will ask around some more tomorrow.’
‘Well, be careful.’ Jonathan said. ‘Someone tried to kill me again today. People have been killed. The hit list may be real. If it’s getting too hot - take care of yourself first and keep your head down.’
‘Naa. These pussies don’t scare me. I’ve yet to see anyone in this building with scars on their face. They wouldn’t last two minutes on the streets of Boston. I’m probably gonna bug out of here anyhow soon back to home, soon as I get my money back that was spent on the Marshall Plan! Haw Haw!’
‘Okay. I have to go.’ Jonathan said, checking his watch to make sure he did not go over his thirty-second time limit. ‘Take care and I will call again soon.’
‘Roger Tower, Maverick has the ball.’ Pink replied.
Jonathan was shaking his head as he hung up the phone.
Ruthless assassins hiding in every cupboard and he still finds time to slip in quotes from ‘Top Gun’ – unbelievable, he thought.
The last of the coins were fed in faster than the slot machine rate of a Florida retiree with cancer in Vegas - it was the last call for the day.
‘Hello?’ answered a tentative voice.
‘Harry, it’s me. What have you found out?’
‘Jonathan. So glad you called, are you okay?’ Harry Shaftesbury asked.
‘So glad you called’? thought Jonathan.
‘Harry…are there other people listening to this call?’ Jonathan asked.
‘Uh…No, no, not all.’ Harry said.
In a semi-lit room in MI6, five agents with earpieces were gesticulating wildly at Harry with rolling disco hand movements to keep the conversation going.
‘Look, Jonathan.’ Harry said, ‘I have informed my superiors of your situation and yes - your situation is grave. They think it would be best if we can arrange some meeting point when you could “come in”, as it were. We can protect you.’
‘Have you found anything else out?’ Jonathan asked impatiently.