Assassin (John Stratton)

by Falconer, Duncan

  Two years before his visit to Afghanistan to get the codes, he had been assigned to Henry Betregard’s office as a consultant analyst. Wheeland had never heard of Betregard prior to joining his personnel staff, but Betregard had heard of Wheeland, on paper at least. Betregard had done his homework when selecting personnel. During Wheeland’s fifteen years in the service of the CIA, he’d proved himself to be intelligent and highly resourceful in the field, but there were also several question marks about his integrity. No substantial evidence suggested he might be corruptible, yet inferences had been made by more than one previous department head who thought they’d detected signs.

  As for Wheeland, when Betregard asked him if he was interested in doing something of great personal profit that wasn’t in the interest of the flag he’d served for so long, he wasn’t entirely surprised. He’d formed his own suspicions about Betregard’s out-of-office activities after only a couple of months in the man’s employ. The same degree of questionable integrity could be applied to everyone else who worked for Betregard. They were all up for a little extracurricular activity.

  Wheeland’s cut of the day’s heist, for the part he’d played in the planning and execution of the operation, was going to be a cool thirty million dollars. As soon as the gold was carried by the sky crane helicopters onto the vessel in the bay, his money would be dropped into his account. He didn’t even have to wait until the ship sailed to Russia, where the gold would be melted down. Betregard had even given him a six-figure deposit for his work so far. The plan was perfect down to every detail. The shell company that had been set up to purchase the weapons and equipment and rent the small fleet of crane and support helicopters would disappear, its owners untraceable. Even if the FBI suspected any of those involved, proving it was going to be impossible. None of the men would talk if captured. There was a fortune waiting for any who were unlucky enough to be imprisoned. They had all been specially selected. Each would happily kill friend and foe to achieve his goals.

  Betregard also had the unwitting support of the CIA, which trusted him completely. Langley had fully accepted that all the work Wheeland and his team had been doing in Afghanistan and elsewhere was in the interest of national security.

  And if it looked a little deeper, it still would.

  Wheeland would remain in the government’s employ for another few months after the heist, for the sake of appearances. After that he would quietly slip away and begin a new life. He didn’t have a single doubt that he deserved every penny of it for the services he’d rendered to his country. It was only just and fitting.

  Looking back, he actually thought it had all been too easy to put together. The execution phase was going to be little more than a formality. Sound planning was the key to success. Accurate and detailed risk assessing and analysis, combined with the right personnel, the right procedures and the right equipment. The better the preparation, the less a plan relied on luck. Of course, there was always an element of good fortune required. A simple vehicle accident at this stage had the potential to impede the success of the operation, but even that had been planned for.

  As he sat there, staring ahead, wondering if there was anything he’d overlooked, he saw two men pushing a trolley along the sidewalk. He saw a black plastic box on the trolley. And then he recognised one of the men pushing it.

  It took a second to hit him.

  ‘Stop the goddamned vehicle!’ Wheeland shouted as he pushed a button on the console and the driver’s blackened window slid down to let the daylight flood in.

  In his peripheral vision, Stratton had seen the vehicles come to a stop and he knew they were in trouble. When the window began to open, he saw someone lean across the driver holding a black-barrelled tube.

  ‘Down!’ he yelled, grabbing Chandos and pushing him forward to put a car between them and the Suburban.

  Wheeland opened up with the high-velocity weapon on fully automatic. The powerful bullets slammed through the relatively soft skin of the vehicle, shattering its windows, trashing the interior and upholstery, and peppering it with small, jagged holes.

  Chandos hugged the front wheel while Stratton lay down behind the rear, praying the wheel hubs would protect them. The windows of a shop behind them shattered and the display was ripped apart. He saw someone stood at the counter inside struck several times.

  People in the street scattered, most of them dropping to the ground where they stood. And then the shooting stopped. Stratton knew well enough why. Wheeland had exhausted the magazine and was exchanging it for another. In the passenger seat of a vehicle that would be more cumbersome and time consuming than on one’s feet. They had five or six seconds to move. ‘Go!’ he shouted as he got to his feet and shunted the trolley forward.

  Chandos was quickly up and the pair ran as hard as they could behind the trolley while keeping low, threading between prone pedestrians like a two-man bobsleigh team trying to get their bob up to speed.

  ‘Left!’ Stratton shouted and they took a sharp turn into a one-way street of traffic at a standstill trying to head towards them into the main street.

  ‘Follow them!’ Wheeland shouted at the driver. ‘That way! Cross the street!’

  ‘It’s a one-way street, boss,’ the driver said.

  ‘Parallel it! Go!’

  The driver put his foot down and tried to muscle through the building traffic.

  ‘Send the other vehicles to the RV,’ Wheeland shouted to one of the men behind him. ‘You take the next turn!’ he said to the driver.

  They passed the end of the one-way street and Wheeland caught a glimpse of the two men.

  Stratton and Chandos ran for all they were worth, the trolley rattling along in front of them.

  ‘Right!’ Stratton yelled.

  They turned in sync, crossed the road between a couple of parked cars and down an alley, emerging onto a street and, after a quick check to ensure the black 4×4 wasn’t coming, tore across it, through a gap in a fence and into a small car park.

  Stratton heaved the trolley over the pitted lot while Chandos did everything he could to keep the box from falling off.

  Wheeland’s driver turned the corner to leave the main road and accelerated hard, flying past the car park, but Wheeland caught a glimpse through his side window of Stratton and Chandos halfway across it. ‘Stop! Back up!’ he shouted.

  Stratton and Chandos were already running to the car park exit when the Suburban appeared again. As the two Englishmen came into view, Wheeland took out his pistol and aimed, but he was too late. They ducked around a corner and were out of sight.

  ‘Go!’ Wheeland shouted. ‘Next right!’

  Stratton and Chandos had crossed the street and headed back towards Avenue of the Americas, which they went south on. Several sirens blared, followed seconds later by two police cars screaming past. Stratton glanced back as the squad cars came to a halt further down the street and officers leaped out, guns in hand, crouching behind their vehicles while they tried to figure out what had taken place.

  He looked at Chandos, who was beginning to feel the strain of the physical effort. Stratton slowed a little in order for them to stick together. He realised they needed an alternative form of transport.

  ‘This way,’ he shouted, wanting to get off the major route. He turned down another side street, crossed the road and hurried through a piece of derelict ground between the apartment buildings.

  As they reached the other end and another side street the trolley’s front wheels snagged in a deep pothole. The impact turned it violently and the black box jumped off its platform. They watched in horror as it hit the ground, the lid snapped open and the bomb rolled out of it like a big black lead buoy.

  The warhead bounced onto the road and started rolling across the street, right into the path of a slow-moving car. The thud of the impact sent a shudder through Stratton, but the bomb slid down the street, apparently undamaged.

  ‘Dear god,’ muttered Chandos, and they ran hard in full pursuit, as v
ehicles swerved to avoid the barrel. Finally, it hit a pile of trash cans, slowing down enough for Stratton to grab it.

  ‘Is it OK?’ Chandos asked, completely out of breath.

  ‘If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here.’

  Up ahead they saw a man easing several boxes on a crate mover off a ramp attached to the back of a panel van. The man pushed the boxes into a building.

  Stratton knew precisely what he wanted to do next.

  23

  Wheeland’s Suburban drove at reduced speed along a street, the men inside looking in every direction for signs of Stratton and the bomb.

  ‘There,’ one of the men shouted as he pointed at the trolley in the wasteground. They saw the black box alongside it, lying on its side.

  The driver stopped the SUV and Wheeland jumped out. He hurried along the street and the Suburban followed him.

  Stratton and Chandos rolled the bomb up the ramp and inside the back of the van.

  ‘Secure it,’ Stratton said as he jumped back down onto the street to remove the ramp, but then he saw something that stopped him instantly.

  It was Hetta, standing some thirty metres away and looking at him. She was wearing a black one-piece suit with a nylon weapons harness, an empty holster at her hip, her Magnum semi-automatic pistol in her hand down by her side. Her expression was as cold as ever.

  Chandos looked up the street to see what Stratton was looking at.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Chandos asked.

  Stratton stood slowly upright. ‘Don’t do anything sudden.’

  ‘She’s holding a gun,’ Chandos said.

  ‘And she knows how to use it.’

  Hetta walked towards Stratton, her eyes fixed on his. She stopped several metres away.

  ‘I wondered what happened to you,’ he said.

  ‘That’s still my responsibility,’ she said, indicating the device. ‘Don’t get in the way of my mission.’

  ‘I don’t believe you know what’s going on. I think if you did, you might reconsider your position.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘You act like you don’t have a conscience. But I think you do.’

  ‘I can’t afford to have one,’ she said, staring into his eyes.

  Wheeland stepped off the sidewalk and out from behind a parked car, then stopped when he saw the integer down the street. He held his arms out to halt the two men by now with him.

  Stratton looked past her. Noted Wheeland had halted. That was no doubt because he knew Hetta was going to take care of everything for him.

  Stratton looked back at her. ‘I can’t let you have it,’ he said.

  ‘Then I’ll kill you,’ she said.

  ‘At least tell me why you’re doing this. I think you owe me an explanation.’

  She seemed to consider his request.

  ‘You work for Henry Betregard,’ he said, helping her along.

  ‘No. Betregard is only the messenger.’

  ‘He gave you your orders?’

  ‘He delivered them.’

  ‘What if he was more than just the messenger? What if he was creating the orders himself?’

  ‘He couldn’t do that.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘You’re not following a directive from the White House,’ Stratton said. ‘We were both tricked into bringing this nuclear bomb to Manhattan. Betregard is nothing more than a criminal. This is about a bullion robbery. It’s about gold. And I’m trying to put things right.’

  Her expression didn’t change.

  Wheeland couldn’t hear what was being said but he was growing concerned with the lack of action by the integer. She should have killed Stratton by now. ‘Be ready to kill them all when I say,’ he said.

  The man on his right moved a hand to grip his pistol.

  ‘Nice and easy,’ Wheeland said.

  Stratton saw Wheeland’s men take hold of their guns.

  ‘You’ll only be helping them,’ he said. ‘You have to trust me. You’ve learned how to do that, haven’t you?’

  ‘I can’t let you take the device,’ she said.

  ‘Then we’ll get it to the authorities together.’

  There was another pause. This time longer. ‘Do you have a plan?’ she asked.

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Those usually work for you.’

  ‘Wheeland’s behind you with two of his men.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s too pleased you haven’t shot us yet.’

  The delivery man exited the building and stopped dead on the sidewalk when he saw Hetta holding the handgun.

  ‘Your keys, please,’ Stratton said to him.

  The man didn’t move.

  ‘Haven’t you heard? The city’s evacuating,’ Stratton said.

  ‘There’s an atom bomb loose on the streets. You need to run,’ Chandos added.

  The man looked more worried about the gun at that moment and slowly handed Stratton the keys.

  Wheeland decided enough was enough. ‘Kill them.’

  The two men pulled out their handguns.

  ‘Wheeland!’ Stratton warned.

  Hetta swivelled on her heels as she brought her gun up. Her strength and speed were impressive as she angled her body to reduce her profile and steadied the barrel of the Magnum for a fraction of a second before firing.

  The boom was deafening. The delivery man threw himself to the ground and one of the soldiers took a high-velocity round in his chest with the force of a cannon ball. His body armour took the impact as he was lifted off his feet and thrown back several metres before he hit the ground.

  As that first bullet struck, another exploded from Hetta’s gun, aimed the other side of Wheeland. The target spun around onto the hood of a car, cracking the windscreen before he rolled to the ground. Both men lay unconscious. Hetta aimed the weapon at Wheeland, who dived back between the parked cars.

  Stratton hurried through the van to the driver’s seat. Within seconds the engine gunned to life and Hetta stepped into the back as he crunched it into gear. He drove them off down the street, the ramp disconnecting and rolling away. She held onto a rope hanging from the top as she looked out of the open back.

  Chandos held onto the wooden slats fixed to the insides of the van and stared at her, uneasy in her presence.

  ‘Was it you, in Lagos?’ he asked.

  She took her time answering. ‘You were lucky to survive that explosion.’

  ‘So were you.’ He studied her face. She didn’t have a mark on her, in stark contrast to the injuries on his face. ‘But at least I lost you,’ he said, a hint of victory in his eyes.

  ‘You went to the port and boarded a Russian bulker for Buenos Aires.’

  His smirk melted. ‘Why didn’t you come after me?’

  ‘I was reassigned.’

  Chandos continued to stare at her as she watched the road.

  In the cab, Stratton consulted his map and the way ahead. A crossroads loomed. He went through a red light to take a right towards Manhattan Bridge, causing several oncoming vehicles to swerve to avoid his wide turn.

  He glanced in the mirrors and as he looked to his front a black Suburban shot out of a side street almost level with him. It swerved violently, leaning hard over so that it was almost on two wheels, and smashed into the van’s flank.

  Stratton fought to keep control as the panel van lurched over to the other side of the road, swiping the near side bumper of an oncoming car. The car was far lighter and, while it careened off at an angle into a parked car, the van was knocked back into its original lane.

  The black Suburban seemed hardly affected by the collision. It was also much more powerful than the van and quickly drew level on the passenger side. Through the open driver’s window Stratton saw Wheeland at the wheel, gun in hand, about to fire.

  Stratton touched the brakes to put the SUV slightly ahead and Wheeland fired, hitting the windscreen. At the same time the operati
ve whipped the nose of the van into the Suburban’s rear quarter, sending it fish-tailing violently as Wheeland fought to keep control. The Suburban’s nose side-swiped a parked truck, which completed Stratton’s effort, and it spun around so that it was facing the other way.

  Stratton swerved the van heavily over to avoid colliding with the Suburban and pushed the gas pedal to the floor as he looked in his wing mirror in time to see Wheeland’s vehicle smash backwards into a line of parked cars. He had to brake hard as he caught slower traffic up ahead. He flashed a look to his rear at Wheeland climbing out of the Suburban, holding a rifle. There was no way he was going to drive the van through the traffic before the bullets began to fly.

  ‘Get ready to debus!’ he shouted.

  In the skies above the city, a Bell helicopter swooped low over the streets. Stencilled on its side was the name of the organisation that owned it: ‘Radiation Detection Agency – New York City’.

  Projecting from a gantry under the nose was a large, white probe similar to the one on the spook detection vehicle in Bagram. Inside the helicopter, seated behind the pilot and co-pilot, were two engineers surrounded by a complex array of electronic hardware and monitors displaying data and analytical information. Several oscilloscope signals peaked, the analysed data automatically transmitted by a radio.

  Twelve blocks away, inside the operations headquarters of the RDA, the diagnosed signals received from the helicopter were highlighted down the side of a large screen. A quadrant displayed a satellite map of New York City. Flashing indicators showed the locations of static and mobile radiation detection sensors. Half a dozen of them were airborne.

  The room bustled with activity. Eyes were on the monitors as data alarms flashed. The operations director saw the new information and paused as he watched it develop.