37 Hours

by J. F. Kirwan

  She knew the term – samurai warriors without a Lord to serve, although their Bushido code demanded it. It made sense. Such operatives, thrown out by their agencies, would either be untrustworthy cut-throats, or loyal assassins. Salamander was evidently a good judge of character.

  ‘After months of searching, I found a recruiting website on the dark net, looking for mercenaries, ex-special forces, Mossad, CIA, and of course Spetsnaz. I posted some details about my training and nuclear submarine knowledge, added in some anti-British vitriol, and waited.’

  ‘Did you meet him?’

  He shook his head. ‘The job interview consisted of a photo, a location and a date.’

  ‘You had to assassinate someone?’ Whoever had been in the photo.

  He nodded.

  Her heart sank. Nothing had changed. Still the assassin. Maybe they should go their separate ways. After they’d freed Katya. ‘And then?’

  ‘A second assignment. I had to get hold of some documents. Detailed schematics of a Borei class nuclear submarine.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  He talked quickly. ‘Then I was in. I met two of his agents: one male, one female. My handlers. I was in constant contact with them. It’s an effective strategy. Difficult to lie consistently to two different people who can call you or turn up at any time. That was the modus operandi for all new recruits apparently for the first year, until Salamander knew he could trust them. I was branded with the tattoo, but I learned almost nothing about Salamander or the extent of his network, just bits and pieces.

  ‘Then I was sent to Murmansk, initially to infiltrate a military unit, given my naval experience, and then after three months I was instructed to assassinate a mid-rank officer, and return to Moscow. I believe, with hindsight, that this led to someone loyal to Salamander being promoted into a key role, allowing the nuclear submarine to be hijacked.’

  He paused.

  Nadia said nothing. She wanted to hear all of it.

  ‘The next mission was to smuggle a Russian nuclear warhead specialist out of the Saratov facility, and take him to Hong Kong.’

  That was going too far. Why else could Salamander want such a person? ‘Bloody hell,’ she began.

  He held up his hand. ‘I leaked information back to the FSB. The specialist was shot dead during a shoot-out at a checkpoint. Salamander was furious. That evening another of Salamander’s snipers executed one of my handlers, the more experienced one who accompanied me on that particular mission. His family too.’

  She began to get an inkling of how Salamander operated. ‘All this can’t have been easy,’ she said.

  He nodded, and continued. ‘The final mission was in Hong Kong. I learned Salamander was going to be there, to see someone, a young woman called Blue Fan. I killed two of Salamander’s men, and hoped to catch him with the woman, but… MI6 arrived in force. Salamander vanished, Blue Fan too, and the rest you know. After almost being killed by my second handler in Istanbul, I fled to Prague, had plastic surgery, took a new identity, and have been on the run ever since.’

  ‘How did you know I’d be here, on Anspida?’

  He looked down, and didn’t reply for some time – she reckoned because he didn’t want her to see what he’d become. A bit late for that.

  ‘When I heard you’d arrived back in Moscow…I tracked down my remaining former handler, captured her, and…questioned her.’ He cleared his throat. ‘She knew very little, just the name of the island. I made it quick for her at the end, and then made it look like it was a gang-related murder, something to do with her pre-Salamander past. That way her family will survive, and get all her money.’ He looked up at her. ‘Salamander is pretty generous when it comes to remuneration.’

  Although she couldn’t deny more than a little resentment at his staying hidden all these years, she recognised how much he’d done in the recent past to try and protect her and Katya. He’d put his life on the line. In any case she needed to focus on what mattered, on the main threat.

  ‘So, why does he want me dead? It’s been two years since the Rose. Salamander seems to be ruthless but ultra-professional, and yet this is starting to feel like a personal vendetta.’

  ‘You are perceptive, Nadia. I think you get that from your mother.’

  She ignored the remark. Eleven years too late. ‘But why does he want me dead, enough to send two assassins here, and to kidnap Katya?’

  ‘I have a theory,’ he said.

  ‘Well? We have pretty much nothing at the moment, so what is it?’

  ‘Cheng Yi,’ he answered.

  The buyer for the Rose. She’d watched him die. ‘What about him?’

  Her father said no more. It was like the old times, when he’d play games with her, always getting her to work it out, never supplying the answer directly. All those years, she realised, and even now, he was training her.

  She tried to work it out. Cheng Yi worked for the client, whom they now knew to be Salamander, who went to Hong Kong to see a young Chinese woman, Blue Fan. Why would he go to see her?

  ‘Was there a relationship between Blue Fan and Cheng Yi?’

  He nodded ruefully.

  She watched his eyes. ‘Like…us?’ His look confirmed it. Cheng Yi was Blue Fan’s father. But the relation between Cheng Yi and Salamander was business. Cheng Yi didn’t have the tattoo. Salamander must have gone to see Blue Fan in connection with her father, perhaps enlisting her after Cheng Yi’s demise. Yet Salamander almost never saw anyone. Something didn’t add up. And none of this explained a vendetta.

  She tried a different tack. ‘Where was Cheng Yi buried?’

  ‘His ashes were returned to Hong Kong.’

  ‘That’s why you – and Jake – were there, to see if the client turned up. And to see if Cheng Yi’s daughter turned up, too.’

  ‘Neither of us knew she was his daughter at that time, only that he had a business contact called Blue Fan.’

  ‘Does MI6 know now?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Why would Salamander risk going to the funeral of an underling in the first place?’ Something Lars had said in the forest came back to her. Salamander operates by a code. He has his own code of twisted ethics. But still, the only reason he’d go to a funeral would be… It clicked into place like a cartridge in a revolver snapping into the firing chamber.

  She stood up. ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Was Cheng Yi his son?’

  He nodded.

  Nadia sat back, the weight of it hitting her. She’d killed Salamander’s son. Even if not directly, she’d been instrumental in Cheng Yi’s demise. And the young woman… ‘So Blue Fan is –’

  ‘Salamander’s granddaughter. Roughly your age. It gives us a crucial point of leverage if we ever find her. I am sure no one else knows, Nadia. MI6 have not yet put the pieces together, because I acquired the only sources of DNA from the raid in Hong Kong, by bribing several officials, all killed shortly afterwards by Salamander’s assassins. He knows what I took, and what it means. Another reason why Salamander wants me dead. I know his Achilles’ heel.’

  She recalled what her father had said the day they’d taken him away, all those years ago, the day she’d thought her father had been tortured and executed. The only thing worth killing for is family. Salamander’s rule too, apparently.

  And this time it was personal.

  At least Jake wasn’t family. He should be out of this now. But suddenly, a thought occurred. She could have slapped herself for not seeing it earlier. She retrieved Jake’s phone, and speed-dialled Lorne.

  ‘What is it?’ her father asked.

  She listened to the ringing. ‘In the cave. Lars and Matthias. They were trying to kill Jake.’

  ‘To get to you.’

  She thought about it. They’d aimed at him first. ‘No. I mean they wanted me dead, but him too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Not sure. Maybe because he came close to catching Blue Fan. I don’t know
, but he’s in danger.’ She stared at the phone. Dammit, pick up, Lorne.

  It rang seven times, and on the eighth ring it clicked to a recording. ‘Leave a message.’

  Nadia spoke quickly.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jake half-opened his eyelids, but they were like lead, so he let them close, and crashed out. The next time he woke, he noticed a sliver of black behind the Venetian blinds. Night. Voices he couldn’t untangle sing-songed outside a red swing door with a small square window. A dark face stared in. Jake tried to move, but couldn’t feel his body. He rolled his head to one side and saw three transparent tubes hanging down. They disappeared under the sheet tucked in tight around him.

  A mosquito hovered around a strip light above his bed. It descended, zigzagged, took its time, knew hospitals had plenty of soft targets, and landed on his cheek. He wanted to swat it away, but he didn’t even know where his limbs were. He glanced back to the window. The dark face had sharp eyes and a military hat. Not British, but kind of similar. A word bubbled up inside his head. Gurkha.

  Jake slipped under again.

  Next time he opened his eyes, lines of dazzling brightness outlined the window blinds, leaving afterburn splotches on his retinas when he looked away. Definitely not Britain, the weather was never this good. At least now he knew where his legs and arms were, but they didn’t feel right. The face at the window was different: female, a nurse’s white hat. She entered the room, began fussing about him. She had a routine, knew what she was doing. She leaned close to his face. Asian features. Malay? She said something to him, then repeated it.

  ‘Pee-pee?’

  He thought about it, realised his bladder was full. He tried to speak, but nothing came out, so he did his best to nod.

  She whipped back the sheet, pulled up whatever he was wearing, and grabbed his genitals. Something cold and metallic against his penis, presumably a bedpan. In his mind he tensed, but nowhere else.

  ‘Pee-pee,’ she said again, this time an instruction.

  He did his best to relax, which wasn’t that hard. The sound of him pissing against the metal seemed unending. It stopped, and she disappeared somewhere, then came back into view and wiped him brusquely with a damp cloth.

  ‘Doctor come soon,’ she said, then left.

  Time drifted as he tried to remember. Images of scaly silver devils lacerating his body flooded his mind, and just when he thought it couldn’t get worse he recalled Yukio’s face as she was tugged back into the bloody sea. He closed his eyes.

  Should have been me.

  A question quickly followed. Was Nadia alive? Blurry images crept into his mind. Nadia leaning over him, with an older man. Real or imagined? He had no idea.

  A clattering noise in the corridor made him open his eyes again. He managed to move his left arm, mainly by concentrating on his shoulder, which he could feel a little. His forearm lifted above the sheet, covered in bandages that couldn’t disguise the potholes, the missing chunks of flesh. While he stared at his arm, the noise grew, as if something was bumping into the wall.

  A face appeared at the window, Caucasian, stern, not looking his way, focused on something on the other side of the door. Jake heard a choking sound, and saw a uniformed arm, brown fingers outstretched as if grasping for something. Air. Jake felt a stab in the pit of his stomach.

  The Gurkha was being strangled right outside the door.

  Jake tried to move his legs, but it was as if they weren’t his. He had no plan other than getting off the bed. He tried to shout for help, but all that came out was a croak. The door crashed open. The two men lurched inside the room, wrestling and staggering across the floor until the other man, who was bald and athletic, shoved the Gurkha against the blinds. The door swung shut.

  Jake managed to roll onto his side, facing them. The Gurkha, his face drenched in sweat and pain, had a knife sticking in his gut up to the hilt, but was still struggling against the other man who was choking him to death, making sure he couldn’t shout for help. The Gurkha’s mouth stretched wide, fierce as a wild animal fighting to the end. But his opponent was persistent, knew that time and blood loss were on his side. The Gurkha was going to lose.

  Jake groped for the call button, knowing it must be there, but he couldn’t find it. He clutched at the tubes, catching all of them, and pulled. The stand holding the drips and electronic feeds crashed to the floor, the plastic bags bursting with loud, liquid pops. The noise wouldn’t be enough, but the electronic monitors in a supervisor’s room somewhere in the ward would show that Jake had just flat-lined. He hoped someone would arrive before that became a reality.

  The Gurkha’s eyes fluttered, his pupils rising up into his head. His face lost all its tension. His legs caved. The other man lost no time. He let go with one hand, pulled out the knife, then rammed it into the Gurkha’s heart, following him down to the floor. Then he pulled out the knife. He moved towards Jake and pressed the knife against his throat.

  ‘Who else knows?’ The man had a thick accent Jake couldn’t place, not quite Chinese, something else. His features were also different. Mongolian, maybe.

  The words knows what? were on the tip of Jake’s tongue, but he didn’t dare say them in case they were his last.

  The knife pressed inwards, insisting.

  The swing door opened and closed. Lorne, in skirt and heels. Not the best attire to take on a man who had just put down one of the toughest soldiers on the planet, though he’d heard the rumours about Lorne’s martial skills. The assassin’s eyes flicked in her direction, then back to Jake, weighing priorities. Lorne was too far away, and was unarmed, at the end of Jake’s bed. No way could she reach the assassin in the split second it would take him to make his second kill.

  ‘I know,’ she said, not moving. ‘Along with two others.’

  The knife pressure remained. The assassin studied her for a moment. ‘I don’t think so.’ He turned back to Jake.

  ‘Blue Fan,’ she said.

  The man’s irises were almost completely black, but he wouldn’t look at Jake directly. Because he’s about to slit my throat. Jake had to get his attention. He swallowed some saliva, hoping his voice was back.

  ‘I saw her,’ he lied. ‘I know what she looks like.’

  The point of the blade pricked Jake. A single drop of blood slid down his neck. Any more pressure and he’d rupture the carotid. Lorne took a step.

  ‘Stay where you are! And you –’ now he looked Jake in the eye ‘– if you saw her, why hasn’t MI6 issued anything?’

  Jake was making this up as he went along. Lorne jumped in.

  ‘We had to wait until we had better evidence. Now we do. DNA. We know –’

  Jake watched him as Lorne talked. The assassin was listening intently. But not only to her. Jake looked closely at the assassin’s right ear, and saw the telltale thin skin-coloured wire. Someone else was hearing this entire conversation. Salamander.

  Jake suddenly wondered what the endgame was here. This assassin was going to be trapped very soon. Salamander was gaining information, finding out how much they knew. If Lorne could take the assassin down, they could interrogate him afterwards. Yet Salamander wouldn’t be so clumsy. Jake studied the assassin’s body, and spotted a small black pouch on the man’s belt at the back, a dull red LED pulsing steadily.

  ‘Stop!’ Jake said, making both the assassin and Lorne swivel towards him. ‘Lorne, you don’t have to give him the whole forty-seven yards.’

  He hoped she understood. She narrowed her eyes, then seemed to relax. She kicked off her heels. ‘If you say so.’

  The assassin looked from him to Lorne and back, and was clearly listening, awaiting instructions. But Lorne didn’t wait. She took two quick steps forward then kicked viciously towards the man’s head. He backed out of the way just in time to avoid her heel, then lunged with the knife. Lorne bent backwards fast, like a gymnast, the knife spearing past her chest and chin, the assassin’s arm outstretched. H
er left hand smacked upwards just under his elbow at the same time as her right palm hammered down on his wrist.

  Jake winced as the man’s elbow joint crunched the wrong way, bone piercing flesh, the man crying out in agony. Lorne clasped her fingers around the hilt of the knife hanging listlessly from his now-useless arm.

  Jake noticed the pouch. The red light’s pulse had sped up, and was growing in intensity. ‘Window, Lorne, now!’

  She blocked an incoming punch from the assassin’s good arm, and headbutted him full in the face, smashing his nose. He stumbled backwards and she advanced, feinting high before crouching low, well beneath another punch. She rammed the knife straight up into his solar plexus, skewering his heart. He slumped forwards, onto her shoulder, and she grunted as she heaved his dead weight towards the window, and then through it, taking the Venetian blinds with him. She ducked down below the frame just in time as the bomb exploded, shattering the rest of the window, showering them both with glass.

  She stood up, dusted herself off, looked for her shoes, emptied one of glass shards, then slipped them back on.

  ‘I owe you,’ Jake said.

  ‘Big time,’ she replied. ‘Nice call on the Code 47, though.’

  Suicide bomb. ‘How did they know I was here, Lorne?’

  She leaned out through the window, peered down, then came back in. ‘Good question. Technically Jake Saunders is in a hospital fifteen miles from here, also with a Gurkha posted outside. We were very discreet. Even the embassy didn’t know.’

  They both knew what it meant. ‘We still have a mole in MI6,’ he said. Salamander’s mole. There had been a purge after the Rose. It hadn’t worked.

  Four commandos burst through the door, semi-autos at the ready. They took one look at Jake, then a longer one at Lorne, her face and clothes spattered with someone else’s blood. ‘Sorry we’re late, Ma’am,’ the lead said.

  ‘Get the plane fuelled,’ she said. She nodded at Jake. ‘He’s ready for travel.’

  ***