Assassin (John Stratton)

by Falconer, Duncan

  The hood went over his head and everything went dark. He was walked to one of the vehicles and he felt a hand on his head pushing it down as he was guided inside. Whoever it was got in the seat next to him. They remained there for several minutes in silence. Then he heard a loud bang, a familiar sound to him. Not a gunshot but close to it. A rushing sound followed, like a dull roar that grew louder. Then another sharp bang. He could smell fumes. Gasoline. A waft of extreme heat came in through a window.

  ‘Let’s go, people,’ someone shouted. It was echoed in Russian.

  The plane was on fire. Stratton was certain of it. Wheeland’s men had set it alight. He could hear the roar of the flames getting louder.

  Men climbed into the vehicle and it sank with the extra weight. The engine started and the doors were slammed shut and the vehicle lurched away. He wondered if the aircrew had been taken off or left to die on board the CAMCO plane. He couldn’t fathom why the spooks had destroyed it. He couldn’t understand any of it.

  The first step had to be declassifying the spooks. They weren’t spooks, not the Russians. As for the Americans, why destroy a commercial aircraft in their own country? There was too much he didn’t know. He couldn’t begin to even guess the answers.

  One thing was for sure. Wheeland wanted to know how he knew about the warhead. And then he wanted to do something very bad to him once he found out. That wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting.

  21

  Stratton felt a twinge of regret sitting in the Suburban. He estimated the vehicle had driven for something like forty-five minutes through clear roads or less built-up areas before it hit the stop-go rhythm of a city. The sounds outside became those of heavy traffic, vehicles of all sizes. Horns blared, engines growled or whined, and he heard distant sirens, whistles and the occasional shout. At times they went at speed while at others they moved slowly, surrounded by vehicles.

  The driver seemed anxious to get wherever they were going. Every opportunity he had to put his foot down or swerve into a gap, he appeared to do so. About two hours after leaving the airfield, Stratton felt the Suburban drop down a steep ramp and the light change, even though he was hooded. He guessed daylight had been exchanged for artificial lights and when he heard the tyres screech as they turned a corner he knew they were inside an underground car park or something like it.

  They turned several corners and drove down more steep inclines before coming to a stop, and this time the engine was turned off. The doors opened and all the passengers climbed out except the one beside him.

  There was a conversation outside. Men’s voices echoed in the concrete structure. That odd mixture of English and Russian. Stratton couldn’t get a precise bead on what they were saying. It sounded like they could be organising personnel and assigning people to different tasks. He heard a metallic clunk outside. Machinery. What sounded like a heavy door sliding open on rollers.

  Someone called out something in Russian and Stratton was hauled out of the vehicle and held against the side of it. There was another metallic sound. Bearings that needed oiling were moving. He guessed a trolley, rolled across the concrete and onto a hollow-sounding floor.

  Then he was grabbed away from the SUV and walked into the same hollow space. Metal doors closed and clunked together. There was a pause before a shunt and he felt sure they were going up. He listened to the sound of machinery and the men around him breathing. The elevator was slow. No one talked. After a minute the lift shunted to a halt and the doors opened. He was held still while the trolley was rolled out.

  ‘He goes to the floor below,’ said an American voice.

  It seemed like everyone left the elevator except the man in charge of Stratton. The doors closed and it descended for a few seconds before stopping. When the doors opened again, Stratton was led out and turned a sharp left. After thirty or so paces he was stopped and brusquely turned about.

  ‘Sit,’ the man said. It was only one word but Stratton suspected he wasn’t American.

  He bent his knees to lower himself, expecting his backside to come into contact with the seat of a chair. He kept going down until his behind rested on what felt like a rolled-up carpet. His hands behind him came into contact with a concrete wall.

  ‘Don’t move,’ the man ordered as he stepped away.

  Stratton leaned back until his shoulders touched the wall. He could hear voices across the room. Two men, one of them his minder, both Russian-sounding. He didn’t know the language well, but enough to get by. The men were talking in low tones and he couldn’t understand a word. The way their voices echoed, the room sounded large and empty.

  One of them walked back towards him. ‘Stand,’ he said as he grabbed Stratton harshly by his clothing to assist him.

  The man shuffled him a few metres to one side and pushed him down again, this time onto a metal chair. The Russian attached a restraining system, the type used for transporting high-risk criminals. He secured the apparatus to Stratton’s feet and the legs of the chair, then he brought the ends of several cables together and connected them at a junction. He locked it with a key, which he removed, and gave the apparatus a firm yank to ensure it was locked.

  Stratton felt like a turkey ready for the oven. The man walked away and the soft talking resumed. Stratton racked his brains for any clue he might have missed. The only Russian connection to all of this came from Bullfrog and the former KGB general Mikhail Gatovik.

  How the hell could ex-intelligence officials like Betregard and Gatovik be working together in the business of bringing a nuclear weapon to the US, namely New York City? A combined operation? If they wanted the bomb to be secured, it would be in the hands of the military right now. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Stratton thought it was pretty safe to assume the military knew nothing about a nuclear warhead being in the US.

  Except that didn’t explain the F-22 escorts.

  But even if he ignored the fighters, he couldn’t think of any possible explanation for Betregard concealing a Pakistani nuclear weapon from the administration. He felt something nagging at the back of his mind, something Bullfrog had said.

  He needed to get away from these people.

  The elevator doors opened and someone stepped out. Whoever it was joined in the conversation with the others. They walked over to him. Stratton’s hood was pulled off none too politely.

  Jeff Wheeland stood over him, smirking.

  ‘I have to admit, Stratton, you get me nervous,’ he said. ‘You’re the kind of guy who’ll find a way out of a situation if there is one.’ Wheeland began to pat him down and check his pockets. ‘Just in case the boys missed anything,’ he said, feeling inside Stratton’s jacket pockets. ‘You going to tell me how you knew where to find the bomb?’

  ‘Tell me something first,’ Stratton said.

  ‘“What’s this all about?”’ Wheeland guessed. ‘No.’

  ‘I was going to ask why you killed Berry Chandos.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  Stratton believed him. Wheeland felt something inside one of Stratton’s trouser pockets and pulled out the coin on its chain that Chandos had given Stratton.

  ‘This is an SBS stone, right?’ he said. ‘I’ve seen one of these before. “Chandos,”’ he said, reading it. ‘Your dead buddy?’

  Stratton could only stare at him.

  Wheeland pocketed the stone. ‘You going to answer my question now?’ he said.

  Stratton flicked a look past the spook, taking advantage of his removed hood. He was in what seemed a large storage area, one practically empty. The walls looked fairly old, sixties perhaps, and in need of repair. There were construction poles and planking in one corner. Two men were standing in a narrower space outside the elevators.

  Wheeland tapped him on the side of the head aggressively. ‘You’re not going to answer me, are you? I expect you’ve figured out that you’re only alive until you tell me what I want to know.’

  Stratton looked back into Wheeland’s eyes. The new scar alm
ost reached the left one.

  ‘You know the techniques we use to extract information,’ Wheeland said. ‘I don’t expect pain will do it on its own. Not with you. I bet you enjoy pain, eh? I don’t have any drugs with me at the moment. I wasn’t expecting you. I’d dearly love to know how you knew how to find us. It strongly suggests others. I need to know who they are. I plan to send you to some specialists later on today. They’ll get it out of you.’

  ‘How did you survive the ambush?’ Stratton said.

  ‘Luck,’ Wheeland said, opening his shirt to expose another ugly wound to accompany those on his face. ‘Only two of us made it. Remember Spinter? He bought it. The bastards executed him. I was unconscious and taken for dead. Just goes to show, no matter how meticulously you plan anything, there’s always Murphy’s Law. Did you know that was the first ambush on that road for four months? And we walked right into it. And the assholes had no idea what they took. Always have a back-up plan.’

  ‘Hetta,’ Stratton said.

  ‘Not my idea, but it turned out to be a good one. How’d you get on with her?’

  ‘She’s a bundle of fun.’

  Wheeland smiled. ‘Yeah. They don’t come any colder than that one. Was Kandahar her idea or yours?’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘That one doesn’t talk to me. She talks to God and no one else. Probably the only person I’ve ever met who truly scares the hell out of me, and it’s a woman. I think. I can’t even fantasise about screwing her and she’s got a look I would otherwise kill for.’

  Maybe she outranked Wheeland, Stratton thought. But then, why would she be doing the hard graft? Did she work for the Russians? If the rewards for this venture weren’t about patriotism, it was for something else, most likely money. But she didn’t seem the type to be driven by wealth.

  ‘What’s your cut of this?’ Stratton said, hoping Wheeland might shed some light on it.

  The American chuckled. ‘What’s the point in finding out the mystery, Stratton? I’m going to put you back under your little hood now. I’ve warned the men about you. That you have a reputation for causing problems. They’re all professional and would love a chance to see how good you are. But even so, they won’t want to take a single chance. That’s why you’re all tied up nice and secure. And if you even look like you’re going to cause trouble, they’ll kill you. But if you’re a good boy someone will come and collect you later on and you’ll be taken to our interrogation centre near the Potomac, where you’ll eventually tell us anything we ask you. And then it’s bye-bye.’

  Wheeland placed the hood back over Stratton’s head and walked away. Stratton gave the chains a firm yank again. They felt solid.

  He sat there for what felt like an age. He heard the elevator arrive several times and the doors open and close. It sounded like one of the men would leave for a while or perhaps they were exchanging duties. He heard no other sounds from inside or outside. He felt he had lost track of time. It could have been around four or five hours since the CAMCO cargo flight landed, but maybe it was less than that.

  The opportunity to escape would have to come on his move to the interrogation centre. After that he doubted there’d be any other chances. CIA interrogation centres had a habit of being secure places. If he remained chained up the way he was, he didn’t have any hope. From what he’d seen, these men weren’t amateurs.

  Stratton felt a niggle of despondency. It was only to be expected. He brought it under control. There was nothing to be gained by feeling that way. He’d been in tighter situations. Positive thinking was always the best approach. If nothing else, it put the mind in the frame to react correctly if an opportunity did arise.

  The elevator doors opened again. This time he heard no voices. This time there was a muffled thud as if someone had dropped something. Then sounds of human exertion. Stratton strained to listen, but it all went completely silent. Then a gentle padding of feet. Coming towards him.

  Whoever it was took hold of his hood and yanked it off.

  Stratton looked up into a face he knew so well but had never expected to see again.

  ‘Berry?’ he muttered, unsure his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

  ‘How are you, my boy?’ his old boss said softly, a tight smile on his face. ‘Bet you never thought you’d see me again.’

  Stratton could only look at him.

  ‘Don’t look so startled,’ Chandos said.

  He inspected the chains and cables securing Stratton and tugged on them. ‘How are we going to get this off?’

  Stratton put a myriad of thoughts to one side. ‘There’s a key,’ he said.

  They both looked towards the elevator at the figure lying on the floor. Chandos went over to the man and after a short search found something and returned to Stratton. The key fitted neatly into the slot. He turned it and the clip fell open.

  ‘You’re supposed to be dead,’ Stratton said, shrugging off the restraints.

  ‘Misinformation is such an effective tool.’

  ‘How’d you get here?’

  ‘Through Cuba, up to Miami and then to New York.’

  ‘I meant, how’d you know I was here?’

  ‘You still have my stone on you, don’t you?’

  Stratton was about to reach into his trouser pocket when he stopped, remembering Wheeland had taken it. ‘No.’

  ‘Bugger. I was looking forward to saying I told you I’d have it back one day.’

  ‘So how did you find me?’

  ‘The stone’s a transponder. Just enough juice for one ping every six hours. Lasts two weeks. You can access the tracking manager on any internet connection. I knew you were here three hours ago.’

  Stratton noticed the injuries on Chandos’s face. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Ah. There was a price to pay to make my escape, fortunately not a big one. I couldn’t just hide. I needed to convince the assassin that I was dead. Come on, we have to get going.’

  They went to the elevator.

  ‘Perhaps we should take the stairs,’ Chandos said. ‘We’ve been lucky so far. I think there are a lot more where he came from.’

  ‘Wait,’ Stratton said. ‘What are your plans?’

  ‘What do you mean?

  ‘What are we doing now?’

  ‘Getting out of here, of course.’

  ‘Then where?’

  ‘Home. Back to the UK.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Get on with our lives. I came here for you, not just because I got you into this in the first place. You’re my friend. You’d do the same for me.’

  ‘You and Bullfrog had it all wrong.’

  ‘And thankfully so,’ Chandos said. ‘But do we have to talk about it right now?’

  ‘You were wrong, but something else is happening. Just not what you suspected.’

  ‘Fine.’ Chandos was sounding exasperated. ‘I’m looking forward to discussing it on the plane home while we do our best to drink the bloody thing dry.’

  He started to head for the emergency exit but Stratton held him. ‘The bomb’s here,’ Stratton said.

  A look of confusion crossed Chandos’s face. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean it’s here. In this building.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I got it here from Afghanistan. It was brought here by Betregard’s people. I don’t know why.’

  Stratton went to the emergency exit door.

  ‘Whatever it is you’re thinking, I’m pretty sure it isn’t a good idea,’ Chandos said. ‘Not on our own. We should go and get help.’

  ‘And tell them what? We think there’s an atomic bomb in the building. And how do I know? Why, because I just happened to be the one who smuggled it into the country from Afghanistan.’

  Chandos thought about it a moment. ‘Yes, I see. But neither can we just politely ask these people to explain whatever it is they’re up to.’

  Stratton tested the emergency door to see if it was unlocked. It wasn’t.
‘Let’s go back to basics and start with a recce. Then take it from there.’

  Chandos didn’t like it at all but as he watched Stratton open the door, he knew he had little choice.

  Stratton stepped inside a dark stairwell that zigzagged down for a dozen or more floors. He looked up but all he could see was a single stairway leading to the next and possibly top floor. The landing was blocked by a wall and a metal door. He went back through the door to the comatose man on the floor, grabbed him under the arms and dragged him through the door. Chandos stepped inside the stairwell and let the door close behind them. Stratton dumped the body in a corner and walked up the steps to take a look at the door. It looked solid, near enough impenetrable.

  ‘How’re we going to get upstairs?’ Chandos said in a low voice behind him.

  Stratton went back down the stairs, out the door and returned a moment later with one of the construction poles, an extendable one. Chandos watched as he went up the steps to the metal door and positioned the pole horizontally, one end facing the wall and the other against the door, just above the lock. He began to unscrew the support and the arm extended, jamming tightly between door and wall. He kept turning the joint around and around and the door and frame flexed slightly. Chandos lent a hand and finally the door frame started to crack. With each turn of the screw the pressure on the lock increased until, with a sudden bang, the lock broke and the door flew open. Stratton caught the scaffold as it fell.

  They both stood still for a moment, listening, but there was nothing, so Stratton put the scaffold on the lower landing and the two men stepped through the doorway and up a half-flight of stairs into complete darkness. At the top, they came to another door and nothing else. The fire door was heavy and sealed around its edges. Stratton turned the handle slowly. As it reached the full extent of its turn, Stratton pulled it towards him ever so easily. When he did, they heard a distant, muffled voice.