by Angus McLean
The Berlin Conspiracy
The Division #4
Angus McLean
Copyright 2018 Angus Mclean
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Copyright © 2018 Angus McLean
All rights reserved.
Acknowledgements
Thanks go out to all those readers who keep me inspired. Once again, huge thanks to “Tori” who does my covers and provides great advice – you rock.
To those advisors who have helped me with the technical details, and their colleagues who run to danger on behalf of us all, thank you.
Most of all, to my family. You are everything to me.
This is a work of fiction, and all errors are the responsibility of the author.
Introduction
Thank you so much for buying my book. I am excited to share my stories with you, and hope you enjoy them.
If you’d like to know about new releases and receive a free book, sign up to McLean’s Hitlist at www.writerangusmclean.com or email me at [email protected].
The Division series:
Smoke and Mirrors
Call to Arms
The Shadow Dancers
Chase Investigations series:
Old Friends
Honey Trap
Sleeping Dogs
Tangled Webs
Dirty Deeds
The Service Series:
The Service: Warlock
Nicki Cooper Mystery Series:
The Country Club Caper
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Bonus Chapters
Meet the Author
Bibliography
Chapter 1
Archer sat on his arse and wondered if anybody would survive when the plane went down.
The plane was a Boeing 777-300ER, the standard aircraft used by the national carrier on flights across the Pacific. It was a comfortable, reliable beast, pretty good on gas and could carry 396 passengers plus a full crew to a maximum of 13,560 kilometres.
None of that really mattered much to Craig Archer. Sure, it was good to be comfortable, but years in special ops had removed his need for constant comfort. Sure, among those 396 passengers – and it was a full flight today – there were bound to be at least a couple of lovelies. There were, and he’d clocked them earlier.
No, his main concern tonight was making sure the bastard didn’t go down. No innocents were going to die on his watch.
The intel had come through late from GCSB, resulting in a mad scramble in Auckland. The intel was solid, presenting a credible threat to Air New Zealand Flight 6 from Auckland to Los Angeles.
A credible threat meant one that could realistically be achieved and that there was a strong likelihood of it actually happening. Archer didn’t know where the intel had come from. There hadn’t been time for that. His focus was all about getting a team together, getting on board, and making sure no fucker took it down.
The team had been easy, once they got the green light from the Director. The green light had officially been given at 16.15hrs, by which time the team was in the international terminal of Auckland Airport, queueing at check-in. It had taken the Director more than two hours to get the sign-off from above. It took that long to convince the fish-heads that something needed to be done, and now, and to argue why his team should be deployed rather than the Police or Army.
Eventually common sense had prevailed. Division 5 of the Security Intelligence Service was staffed predominantly by former Special Forces guys, they were available now, and amazingly, they were actually at the airport already, good to go. There were going to be some mighty pissed-off operators when word of this op got out, there was no doubt about that.
Archer shifted in his seat, stretching his legs and crossing his ankles. Business Premier Class was certainly comfortable. He felt a smile cross his lips. Here he was flying first class in seat 5B, dressed in Country Road casuals, heading to LA with a Plan B in mind if the job didn’t go down. It was a long way from years in the Green Machine.
He didn’t need to look around to see the rest of the team. He knew where they were, every position imprinted on his brain, along with their plan. It was a simple plan, as far as plans went. They didn’t know who the bad guys were, or even if they were actually on board, so the brief was simple; react to any threat, take the bad guys down hard and fast, and save the plane.
He turned over the intel in his mind for the millionth time. A cell of Islamic terrorists, flying from Auckland to Los Angeles, would hijack the aircraft and demand a ransom. It was old-fashioned and not easy to pull off, but remarkably effective when successful. The oddity seemed to be the ransom demand rather than a suicide flight into a high profile target. There was always the possibility that the intel was slightly off on that point, but it didn’t change the fact that a hijack was a real and imminent threat.
Traditionally Islamic terrorists had preferred the mass casualties over monetary gain. They had no intel – or at least, none that the team was aware of – about the identity or nationality of the terrorists, nor of their affiliation. Al-Qaeda were the classic plane hijackers, so they naturally went straight to the top of the list.
Whoever the group was didn’t really matter to Archer right now. He just needed eyes on any likely candidates, regardless of their race, colour or creed.
He turned his mind to the team for a moment.
Big Brad Travis was sitting alone at the front of Premium Economy, his right leg encased in a full brace, his leg straight out in the extra room afforded by Seat 23K. Jack Travis and Susie Quinn had drawn the short straw and were further back, straddling the aisle in 43C and D.
Archer moved on to the likely candidates he had pinged earlier. It was near impossible to ID a cell – and they didn’t know how many were in the cell – among nearly 400 passengers, but he had a short list of possibles.
Top of the list was a pair of seemingly-studious Pakistani males travelling together. They were back in Economy somewhere, with their shifty eyes and nervous dispositions. There was a fat Middle Eastern man, possibly Iraqi, sitting in Economy with his nose in a travel magazine. Something about him seemed off, and Archer had signalled him to Jack Travis back at the boarding gate.
Up in Archer’s own sect
ion were a couple of well-heeled Arabs, apparently husband and wife, who were both engrossed in paperbacks. He had them pegged as Iraqis as well, but all they seemed to care about was getting comfortable and reading a few pages. Regardless, he had no doubt they would get a hard time from the Immigration agents at LAX.
Archer closed his eyes for a moment, part of him wishing he could just get some shut-eye. It had been a busy time lately, with several flights to the UK and Europe over the last few months for jobs. He had not long been back from a mission in France, involving a retired DGSE operative who had been involved in the Rainbow Warrior bombing back in ’85. A debrief, a training refresher, and then straight off to this job.
No rest for the wicked, he thought wryly.
The first sign of trouble was four hours out from LA. Archer had got up and taken a walk, used the toilet at the front of the aircraft, just behind the flight deck, and carried on to do a loop down to the galley at the rear of Business Premier to stretch his legs. He paused there for a few minutes, chatting quietly to a flight attendant named Erika while she fetched him a bottle of water.
She was maybe late twenties, slim and toned with immaculate make-up and golden hair pinned up tightly. She had an engaging white smile and twinkling green eyes. She steadfastly batted off his inquiry about how long she had on the ground in LA, and smiled politely when he asked which hotel the crew were staying at.
Pointedly checking her watch, she suggested he may like to return to his seat, and busied herself checking a list of who-knew-what. Feeling suitably rebuffed, Archer took his bottle of water and began to turn away.
As he did so, the curtain between Business and Economy opened and a passenger slipped in, passing behind Erika as he headed towards the front of the aircraft.
Archer’s head snapped round, pinged the guy as one of the Pakistani boys he’d noticed earlier, and sensed movement behind him at the same time. He whirled, seeing the back of a second person going past the other side of the galley.
The second Pakistani boy, surely.
Archer put his bottle aside and grabbed Erika by the arm as he drew his weapon. Her eyes went like saucers as she saw the gun.
‘Special Forces,’ he hissed, ‘get on the PA now, announce “Six-two, six-two.” Do it now.’
He spun on his heel just as the curtain behind her opened again and big Brad Travis burst through. His leg brace was gone and he had his weapon in his hand.
Their eyes met and an unspoken message passed between them.
Archer moved fast. He took the left aisle, Brad stayed on the right.
Ahead of them were the two figures, and Archer realised he was right – it was the two Pakistani boys. The books were gone but they were both still in their ill-fitting jackets. They were moving up the aisle with purpose, the flight deck only metres away. All around them in the dim light, passengers slumbered. Some with mouths open, some with eye masks, all of them oblivious.
Or maybe not all of them.
Archer spotted the well-heeled Iraqi couple, wide awake, paperbacks lowered now, watching. His eyes met the man’s face, and the man’s eyes narrowed.
Archer kept the Sig in his hand, a compact P228 that he favoured, tucked against his hip. The chamber was loaded, the safety off, the magazine carrying another eleven Glaser safety slugs. His left elbow touched at the ASP extendable baton on his hip, the touch a comforting reminder that it was there should it be needed.
The man ahead of him reached the end of the aisle and glanced to his associate over to the right. He spotted Brad following behind and opened his mouth to call a warning.
At the same time, the PA sounded with Erika’s voice. ‘Six-two,’ she said calmly, ‘six-two.’
The man’s head snapped that way, hesitant, and he clocked Archer closing in on him. His eyes widened with surprise. The other man on the right looked towards Archer as well, his right hand going beneath his suit jacket.
There was no doubt now.
Archer closed on the first man. He was a smallish build, mid-twenties, with curly black hair and a short beard. His shirt was white, his suit a dark blue, no tie.
‘Security!’ Archer barked, levelling the Sig at the guy’s chest, ‘hands up!’
The guy ignored him and brought his right hand round in a sweeping slash. In his hand was what looked like a white plastic knife of some sort. It arced towards Archer’s face as the man started to shout something in Arabic.
Brad closed up on his own target, smashing the butt of the Sig down on the guy’s temple and dropping him to his knees. The guy still managed to draw a weapon from beneath his jacket. Brad saw the pistol, grabbed the guy’s hair and wrenched his head straight up, jabbed the barrel of his Sig against the guy’s neck and fired.
There is no safer backdrop for a loose shot than the surrounds of the flight deck, with its bomb- and bullet-proof walls. The .357 SIG Glaser slug blasted through the guy’s neck, the projectile fragmenting immediately upon entry and unloading its content of #12 birdshot into the man’s neck.
The neck literally blew apart, spraying blood across the wall, the sound of the shot horrendously loud in the confined space.
Archer’s target wasn’t as close when he fired, but the effect was no less fatal. The single round blasted into the man’s chest from a metre away, dead centre over the heart, the barrel spurting orange flame.
The Glaser punched into the chest cavity, fragmented and ripped the man’s heart to shreds with birdshot. He was dead before he hit the floor, his white shirt now saturated with blood and bearing a large hole. There was no exit wound at the back, the entire projectile having done its job inside the body.
People were stirring, someone screamed, someone else leaped up and went for Brad.
‘Look out!’ shouted Archer.
It was the Iraqi woman, the wife of the well-heeled man. She charged at Brad, shrieking, her hands flapping in the air hysterically. He sized her up, held his gun away from her, and jabbed her fair in the face with a left fist the size of a Christmas ham.
She went down like a sack of spuds, out cold, and he caught her before she touched the carpet. He straightened up again, scanning the cabin, backing up to the flight deck door. His job was to protect the pilots at all costs.
Archer quickly frisked the man he’d killed, finding no further weapons on him. No explosives, no trigger. He left the knife in the man’s hand and scanned the passengers around him. Terrified eyes stared back at him. Hands went up in the air.
‘Everybody, heads down,’ he barked, ‘hands on your heads, heads between your knees! Don’t look up! Don’t look up!’
There was immediate compliance, even the Iraqi husband complying and leaving his unconscious wife to her own devices. Seeing the fear in the man’s face and the hysterical reaction of the wife, Archer was reasonably confident they were no threat.
He moved fast to the galley. Erika was gone.
He threw the curtain open and moved into the next cabin. Down the back he could see Travis wrestling with a woman, both with their arms windmilling as they wrestled for something in the woman’s hand.
Archer moved that way, the Sig up and his eyes scanning. He heard a flight attendant’s voice over the PA again, not as calm as Erika had been but remarkably in control.
‘Heads down please everyone, assume the crash position with your head between your knees.’
He half expected a polite “Air New Zealand thanks for you for your co-operation,” but she was doing well enough without it. Another flight attendant, a shaven-headed guy, was in the other aisle, moving towards the front and speaking to passengers, quiet and calm as he tried to reassure them that everything was under control.
Archer moved forward, halfway down the Premium Economy aisle before he saw the door to the toilet ahead open and someone stumble out. It was Erika, her hands grabbing at the arm around her throat, a man holding her from behind with a pistol to her head. Her eyes were wide open, fixed on Archer.
The man holding her was scr
eaming madly in Farsi, so fast Archer had no clue what he was saying, although his intentions were clear.
The PA sounded again, overriding the confusion around them.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Nelson speaking,’ a man said coolly. ‘Please remain in your seats while we deal with an issue on board. Do not panic and do not interfere. Please remain seated and we will have this matter dealt with as soon as we can.’
From beyond Erika and the man, Archer heard a shot followed by hysterical screaming and another shot. He saw passengers turning in their seats to look behind them.
The man in front of him was still bellowing like a madman, sweat pouring off his face and dripping into Erika’s hair. The hammer was back on the pistol in his hand. Archer recognised it as an old Browning, not in great nick.
He levelled the Sig at the guy’s head, straight between his eyes, at the same time speaking low and confident.
‘Erika, on two, you drop. On two, you drop.’
He saw the recognition in her eyes as she absorbed the instruction. The Sig was steady in his grip.
‘One,’ he said calmly, ‘two.’
Erika seemed to push back against the terrorist holding her, twisting as she tried to break free and drop to the ground. The man was too strong for her to get free and he yanked at her, both of them pirouetting like a couple of drunks on a dance floor. The man was still screaming and Archer could hear other voices around him, but his complete focus was on the terrorist.
As Erika twisted to her right, it allowed Archer a side profile of the man. He fired without hesitation.
The Glaser blasted into the man’s back ribs and the shot blew his insides apart. Blood sprayed, Erika screamed and fell, and the man fell back against the toilet door. The door folded inwards beneath his weight and he collapsed backwards onto the toilet, dropping the Walther to the floor. His eyes were open and he was still breathing.
The blood dribbling from his mouth indicated that his state was about to change.
Archer reached in, snatched him by the hair and jerked him out onto the floor, face down. He quickly frisked him for weapons, finding a knife in his pocket. He pinned the guy to the floor with a knee on his back, scanning down the aisle ahead of him.