The Berlin Conspiracy (The Division Book 4)

by Angus McLean

  ‘Fuck it,’ he muttered. He spat again, turned, and continued on his way. His gut felt tender and hollow and his mouth tasted like acidic hops.

  The hotel was a standard Marriott with standard décor and standard facilities. Archer crossed the lobby, ignoring the punters in the hotel bar off to the side. He clocked a couple of familiar faces at the bar there – EJ and Rico. They were deep in conversation but spotted him as he went by.

  At a table against the wall were two more faces – Rawlins and the female agent. They both had drinks before them but appeared to be sitting in silence. Spooks were always a bit weird like that. He ignored them all and crossed to the stairs, making his way up to the fifth floor.

  He fetched himself some ice on the way to his room, secured the door and shucked off his jacket, tossing it on the plain-wrapped queen bed. He half-filled a tumbler and cracked a bottle from the mini bar. He poured a decent measure of bourbon over the ice, let it sit for a minute and watched the ice start to melt.

  He lifted the tumbler, inhaled the earthy aroma, and took a good slug. The burn in his throat was welcome, cutting through the foul-tasting acid on its way down. The tumbler was drained in no time at all, and he refilled it, not bothering with more ice this time. There was nothing in his gut to soak up the booze and he quickly got a warm buzz coursing through his veins. He stood in the pool of light thrown by a side lamp, taking his time on the second drink, shadows hanging in the darkened corners of the room like ghouls waiting to take a lost soul.

  ‘No lost souls here,’ Archer muttered grimly to himself. No, he knew what he was, alright. No doubt at all.

  But knowing didn’t mean there were no strings attached. Archer knew soldiers who could kill another man without batting an eyelid – think no more of it than choosing a pair of socks for the day – even enjoy it. Armies the world over had such warriors, cold-blooded killers who lived for more than the thrill of combat, more than the rush of beating the odds. They lived for the thrill of the kill itself. Psychopaths, maybe. But necessary.

  Archer knew he was not one of those men. No, the weight of taking another life was something he had to adjust until it sat comfortably enough for him to carry. Like a heavy pack on his back, it was always there and occasionally it caused a niggle, but he could carry it forward as he moved on.

  And so it would be again. He knew this within himself, on a level deeper than even his subconscious. It was a part of him. He had no regrets over killing the hijackers, none at all. They brought it, they ran to the fight, and they lost. That was the deal, and they knew it. He was satisfied, proud even, of his actions. Innocent lives had been saved, many of them.

  Innocent lives. Innocent people. People ill-equipped to protect themselves in a world foreign to their life of 9-5, mortgage payments, daily commutes, weekend football games and domestic chores. Sheep trying to get through their day without crossing paths with the wolves that hunted them.

  The world needed men prepared to hunt the wolves.

  Archer took a slow sip of the bourbon. It always seemed to taste better in the States. He let it sit on his tongue before easing down his throat. The drapes were open and beyond the net curtain he could see the lights of LAX, burning bright, welcoming travellers to the City of Angels. No fires there tonight, no twisted, smoking wreckage.

  His gut had settled now, his aches were easing and his mind was at ease. His earlier annoyance at his physical reaction was gone now. It was just a process that had to happen.

  He knew what he was.

  Chapter 4

  The gym was nearly deserted at five a.m. Nearly, aside from a pair of middle aged businessmen who were talking more than lifting.

  They looked up in surprise when Archer entered, and he gave them a polite nod before dropping his towel and access card beside a treadmill and stepping up. He punched in the settings he wanted, turned up the volume on his iPod and got to it. He disliked using machines but it served a purpose, and soon he was pounding along at a steady pace, his heart pumping and his muscles getting warm and loose.

  The two businessmen decided to crack on and spotted each other on a leg press as they heaved at weights Archer hadn’t lifted since he was in his teens. Fair do’s though, he figured, at least they were in there. They probably hadn’t chugged half a cow and a barrel of ale last night.

  He gave it twenty minutes on the treadmill, working up a good sweat before cracking on with the free weights. Not being a nine-to-five worker with regular gym times, he didn’t have the luxury of planning out routines over a week. Instead he went for maximum effort in the minimum amount of time, working as much of his body as he could any time he could.

  The G-Shock told him he’d been at it for forty minutes by the time he got onto the rowing machine for his warm-down. Five minutes at a steady pace followed by stretching – more and more important as he got older, he had come to realise – and he was good to go. His T-shirt was drenched and his muscles were pinging, but he felt alive and ready to face the world.

  The two businessmen were long gone and the gym was silent. Archer flicked off the iPod, killing Jimmy Barnes halfway through Driving Wheels.

  He paused by the water cooler while he drained another cup, feeling his heart rate steadily coming down and his breathing getting back to normal. He refilled the cup and straightened up. It was always a bit of déjà vu being in a hotel gym, he thought. Another faceless gym in another faceless hotel, where he was just another anonymous traveller passing through; the other guests and hotel staff almost oblivious to his presence.

  Except not so much this time. The TV news he’d caught earlier was full of the hijacking, with plenty of old footage being shown of special forces in action. Comparisons were being made to the GSG9 assault in Mogadishu back in 1977, where the German unit – supported by two British SAS men – had stormed a hijacked plane on the tarmac and rescued the hostages. Archer was okay with that. The Germans had, in their usual efficient way, executed a textbook operation.

  He only hoped that the Yanks would keep the lid of secrecy on the operation and he would remain unidentified. If they wanted to take the credit – and it appeared that they did – then that was okay too. He just wanted to slip back to New Zealand and get on with the next job.

  There were no medals dished out for these sorts of things, there would no celebrations or ticker-tape parades, no exclusive interviews with women’s magazines. There would never be a “Secret Soldier Reveals All” feature on Craig Archer, that was for sure.

  The door swung open behind him and his head snapped up to the floor to ceiling mirror opposite him. He saw the reflected image of the door opening and a woman step through, pausing with the door open as she appraised him from behind.

  It was the spook from yesterday. Gone was the corporate attire and she was now clad in black Lycra tights and work-out singlet, with crisp white trainers. Her hair was pulled back in a pony-tail. She was long and lean.

  Archer turned, taking a long sip as he faced the woman.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said cordially.

  ‘Good morning yourself.’ She was softly spoken, her accent difficult to pin down. She ran an eye over his torso again. ‘Finished already?’

  Archer crooked a grin. ‘I find it’s more about quality than quantity, Miss…?’

  She ignored the inquiry and smiled, her pink tongue flicking over lips that shone with gloss.

  ‘Some guys do say that,’ she responded, a devilish glint in her eye. ‘I have to say I’m not entirely convinced.’ Her gaze ran over him again, unabashedly taking him in. ‘But I think it’s safe to say you’ve got the quantity okay.’

  Archer felt himself taken aback by her brashness, but couldn’t hide a grin anyway. ‘One does what one can,’ he said, with as much humility as he could manage.

  What was it with this woman? So cold and business-like yesterday and now here she was, giving him as blatant a come-on as he’d ever had. No harm, no foul, he figured. There was nothing wrong with making her intentio
ns clear.

  ‘Well.’ She looked, one eyebrow arched, holding the door open. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’

  Archer emptied his cup and tossed it in the trash can beside the cooler. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and reached for the door. The woman didn’t move and they ended up face to face. She was a few inches shorter than him and looked up at him. Her eyes were so light the green was almost grey. He could smell her perfume, something fruity and sweet.

  She inhaled deeply before letting go of the door.

  Archer brushed past her.

  ‘It’s Jessika,’ she said suddenly. ‘With a k.’

  Archer paused, holding her gaze.

  ‘Craig,’ he said.

  She cocked her head to the side and gave him a look. ‘I know.’

  ‘Okay then,’ he said, ‘Jessika with a k.’

  With that he left her there, but he knew as he strode down the hallway that she was watching him.

  ***

  It wasn’t until the next day that he saw her again, and by then she had transformed back into her business attire and it was all formalities again with not a hint of the earlier flirtatiousness.

  Archer had spent the intervening time drifting around the hotel under virtual house arrest. There were a couple of CIA guys on stag, doing a pretty good job of blending into the background, but wherever he went, there they were. The gym, the restaurant, the bar, the pool. He wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d even wired up his room, but despite his best efforts he failed to find any sign of a hidden camera or audio device.

  Ingoe came and went and they managed another meal together, but that was it. By the end of the second day Archer was getting serious cabin fever, and was about ready to break out past the guards when Ingoe collared him for a drink.

  They took stools at the bar downstairs and ordered from the rail-thin barman with slicked back hair. His skin was so sallow it was almost translucent.

  ‘Jameson’s on the rocks,’ Ingoe told him.

  The barman nodded and looked to Archer. He reminded Archer of a vampire with his pale complexion and black eyes.

  ‘JD and cola thanks,’ he said.

  The vampire nodded again and drifted away.

  ‘So what’s the go?’ Archer said, turning to his colleague.

  Ingoe rubbed his face. He looked tired and Archer noticed that he had more grey creeping into his fair hair than he’d seen previously. He wondered how old the former RSM was. Somewhere close to either side of fifty, maybe. It was hard to tell – he’d lived a lot, however long it was for.

  ‘We’re not getting much from our friends,’ he said. ‘But they have confirmed what we already knew about these peoples’ origins.’

  They paused while the vampire delivered their drinks. He didn’t speak. Once he had drifted off again, Ingoe continued.

  ‘Motivation?’ Archer inquired.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Affiliations?’

  ‘Zip.’

  Archer took a sip of his drink. It was weaker than he would have liked, but that seemed standard for hotel bars.

  ‘End game?’

  Ingoe savoured his Jameson’s for a long moment before answering.

  ‘Not a hundy,’ he said quietly, ‘but something spectacular.’

  Archer gave a slow nod. ‘Not ransom then?’

  ‘No. Int seems to have been off on that.’

  A “spectacular” was a reference to a major incident, on the scale of the 9/11 or 7/7 attacks. It was something intended to cause significant death and destruction, widespread panic and garner massive attention for “the cause”, whatever cause it happened to be.

  Currently it was Islamic fundamentalists; in the past it had been others. Timothy McVeigh in Oklahoma was a recent classic with a different ideology.

  ‘LAX?’ he suggested quietly.

  Ingoe gave a sombre nod. ‘Seems to be the common thought.’

  ‘And we’re sure they’re Syrians on NZ docs?’

  ‘Yup.’ Ingoe took a small sip, barely wetting his lips.

  ‘Kinda puts the ball in our court then,’ Archer said, feeling his pulse give a kick as he sensed a mission in the offing. Attacks like that couldn’t be let go; looking weak made governments more vulnerable. The conspirators would have to be tracked down and dealt with appropriately.

  Ingoe eyed him over the rim of his tumbler. He gave nothing away.

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ Archer prodded. ‘We were attacked as much as our friends, and if they’re our residents…’

  Ingoe put the tumbler down on a coaster already marked with wet rings.

  ‘Maybe,’ he allowed.

  Archer’s sense of frustration was growing. He was itching to crack on and do it, but there seemed to be a real sense of reluctance coming from Ingoe, a sense he was not used to. He bit his tongue and fought to stay quiet. He took a hefty draft instead, the alcohol burning down his throat and into his gut. His cheeks felt hot and he couldn’t look Ingoe in the eye.

  ‘Oi.’ Ingoe’s voice was a whisper. ‘Look at me.’

  Archer reluctantly turned back to him, his face still burning.

  ‘We’re hoping to get something off the ground,’ Ingoe said in a voice that was barely audible, ‘but it seems our friends are already kicking into something they’re keeping to themselves. If we knew what it was then maybe we could help. But if they block us out, like they tend to do, then we’re gunna be the wallflowers at the school dance – ready and willing but left out in the cold.’

  Well at least that meant the Director wanted to play, Archer figured. It was a start, if nothing else.

  ‘The boss is hitting them up direct,’ Ingoe continued, ‘but your guess is as good as mine how that will go. All we need is a starting point.’

  Archer nodded, ignoring his drink now, his focus entirely on the task at hand.

  ‘So you want me to get back to Auckland and start digging into the backgrounds of these dudes?’ he asked.

  Ingoe gave a curt shake of the head. ‘No, we’ve got plenty of people on that. You need to stick around here. I don’t want to muck around having to bring you back over here when and if something does actually kick off.’

  ‘So I’m back to solitary confinement,’ Archer growled.

  ‘Maybe not solitary.’ Ingoe cracked a small grin. ‘Maybe you could make friends with our friends, see if anything’s forthcoming on a more…informal basis.’

  Archer cocked an eyebrow, not sure if he was reading that correctly. Ingoe gave him a look that told him he was.

  ‘Roger that,’ Archer muttered, ‘message received.’

  He reached for his glass and took a slug. It was almost like pure cola now, watered down with melted ice. It didn’t matter; his mind was turning over, and he knew exactly where he was going to start.

  As if by an act of God, the CIA woman chose that moment to enter the bar with Rawlins in tow. She had ditched the jacket and her arms were bare under a cream blouse. Her breasts were straining at the fabric and her hair was tousled.

  Yes, Archer decided, he knew exactly where he was going to start. It was time for what the politicos called a special relationship.

  Chapter 5

  It had taken a one minute conversation with a maid and twenty bucks for Archer to get Jessika’s room number.

  Another hundred to the vampire/barman gave him a chilled bottle of three-year-old Dom Perignon, which he was pretty sure wasn’t going through the till. It didn’t matter to Archer. The bottle was accompanied by a bucket of ice and two glasses, with no further questions asked.

  The corridor was deserted when Archer tapped on the door. She answered within a few seconds, cautiously opening the door on the security chain.

  ‘Why, hello there.’

  Archer gave his best attempt at a charming smile and lifted the ice bucket for her to see.

  ‘Can I interest you in a drink between friends?’

  She closed the door to unhook the chain before reopening it. She was dres
sed in a slinky, silver gown that reached her mid-thighs. Her hair tumbled loose to her shoulders.

  ‘And to what do I owe this honour?’ she asked. ‘It’s not every day I get a visit from a strange man bearing champagne.’

  Archer shrugged modestly. ‘I like to think I’m not the average man,’ he replied, ‘and there’s no point in being strangers, is there?’

  She looked him up and down. ‘You’d better come in then.’

  He kicked the door closed behind him as she crossed the room to turn the TV down. He noticed she had a larger suite than his, nicely furnished, and the lights were lowered. He also noticed the sway of her hips under the short gown. He liked that better than the suite.

  He placed the bucket and glasses on the sideboard, while she busied herself tidying up some papers on the table. She quickly closed down a laptop and shoved everything into a laptop bag, which she zipped up and put on the floor.

  ‘So you’ve been a busy boy,’ Jessika said, lowering herself into an armchair. Her gown rode up as she sat, crossing her legs and tucking it between her thighs.

  Archer noticed her thighs were toned and lean. He popped the cork without losing anything, and began to pour the first glass.

  ‘I’m at a loose end here,’ he replied, ‘and what better way to spend an evening than sharing bubbles with a beautiful woman?’

  She smiled and her eyes twinkled. She accepted the glass he handed her. ‘Well in that case, Mr Archer, make yourself comfortable.’

  He poured himself a glass and settled the bottle back into the ice. He shucked off his jacket and tossed it over the back of the other chair, before clinking glasses with her. They each took a sip before she reached for the phone. Archer took a seat and waited while she dialled a single number. She watched him while she spoke.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘can I have a cheese platter sent up thanks…as soon as possible…for two. Caviar? No, I can’t stand the stuff, but thank you.’