Stalin was raking their eyes out, blinding NATO’s commanders before driving home the killing blow, and there was nothing the Allies could do about it.
But there was something Kolhammer could do.
He took his phone out of his pocket and dialed the number from memory. The call routed through the same hardened network as the data from the pad on his lap, the matrix which had evolved from the Combat Intelligences on board the ships of the Multinational Force. This call, however, diverted through a series of black holes, before reemerging scrubbed of all its metadata and armored in quantum encryption. The handset it reached out to was likewise protected. There would be no record of this conversation, no matter how brief. There never was when they spoke within the invisible walls of the Quiet Room.
A woman answered.
“It’s time,” he said. “You have a go.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“How many drinks have you had, Jimbo?”
Slim Jim swirled the olive around in his martini with the aid of a tiny silver toothpick.
“Hard to say, baby,” he said, sipping at the drink. It was superb. “My ma used to give us fermented grape juice to get us to go to sleep. So you could say I been drinkin’ a long while and—”
“And it’s probably time to give it a rest,” said O’Brien, as she gently took the crystal stemware from his hand. Slim Jim would have protested, but part of him was too tired, and part of him knew she was right. This Russian asshole would be turning up any moment now and he had to have his wits about him. And there was that cocktail waitress too.
Had she told him when she was getting off her shift? Where had he seen her again? Was it that dinner with Karen what’s-her-name? Or down in the bar, downstairs…?
Oh, Emily Dickinson. He’d almost forgotten her too. Maybe he could put them together and make a pussy sandwich.
Man. He was a little drunk. He could admit that. When you had as much experience of being drunk as Slim Jim Davidson, you got to know these things.
“Baby, maybe you should handle this meeting,” he said, his speech slurring.
“Maybe I should,” said O’Brien. He’d seen her drink, like, half a glass of fizzy water all night. And a coffee. That’s right. She had lashed out and had a coffee earlier. With sugar.
Wild times.
“You think I could get some coffee up here?” Slim Jim said. They were still in the private business lounge, awaiting the arrival of the Russian guy and… He searched for the name of the other guy… But… but… O’Brien had told him she had sent their security guy… Their special security guy…
She appeared as if by magic out of his peripheral vision with a ham and cheese croissant and a cup of coffee. He greedily ate the croissant, getting crumbs all over himself, before washing it down with the big mug of java.
He’d lost track of time. They had been in here for a while, O’Brien taking him through a lot of impenetrable, difficult and frankly fucking dull business stuff that she wanted him to deal with. Mostly he just nodded along and agreed and said things like, “Yeah, let’s action that.”
He had a lot of uptimers working for him, and that’s how they spoke. They actioned shit and they descoped the problem and they got the motherfucker done.
“Let’s just get the motherfucker done,” he added, just in case there was some motherfucker somewhere that he’d forgotten about between the beers and the whisky and the vodka martini.
“Yes, let’s,” said O’Brien in that tone of voice. “They’re here.”
He looked up from the remains of his croissant, surprised to find two men standing in the room. He vaguely recognized one of them, a Mexican-looking motherfucker. Probably not the Russian then. That would be the enormous slab of frozen mammoth meat staring at him as though Slim Jim was some bum who’d wandered in here by mistake, which was a hell of a thing, wasn’t it, because Slim Jim Davidson was only the king of the fucking world, who owned this motherfucking hotel and all who sailed in her.
He almost sniggered at that, but got a hold of himself before he started laughing. He felt as though he was teetering on the edge of drunken hysteria and if he fell over now it would be a long, long way down.
“Fellas,” he said,surprised at how steady and sober he sounded. Maybe this was gonna work out after all.
If he could remember what the fuck it was he was supposed to be doing here.
###
This fool was drunk. Ivanov was Russian. He knew drunk. Davidson was covered in food and his shirt was stained with at least one drink spill. He did not stand up when they entered the room, and seemed a little surprised to find them there. Rogas apparently thought nothing of it, however.
“Ms O’Brien. Mr Davidson,” he said, as though everything were perfectly in order.
Ivanov nodded curtly at them both. The woman, Maria O’Brien, advanced on him with her hand out. They shook and he noted that her grip was strong, and her hands were slightly calloused. She had the military bearing of a former Marine—even if she had been a lawyer—and she had obviously worked hard at maintaining her fitness after leaving the service. Her bearing was erect, her shoulders straight, and she looked very competent beneath her expensive business suit.
“Thank you for coming, Pavel,” she said. “We appreciate your time. We know it’s valuable. You did such good work for us last year on the Uzbekistan pipeline.”
He dipped his head again. “Thank you. I am always happy to be of service.”
“Yeah, thanks for that buddy,” said Davidson. He looked as if he was about to get up, but he fell back into his chair when the effort appeared too great.
“Please, sit down,” said the woman, ushering them to a couple of lounge chairs placed in a cozy arrangement around a large coffee table. Fresh sandwiches, pots of tea and coffee, and tiny pastries had been laid out. Davidson leaned forward and took one of the pastries. He reversed his slow collapse back into the armchair to scoop up another four of them.
“Vincente says I may be of service to you again,” said Ivanov.
“You may,” the lawyer woman confirmed. She sat back in her own armchair, folding her long legs. “Are you aware that the Soviets have been shooting down satellites?”
His facial expression gave him away.
“Okay,” she said. “I can see that you’re not.”
He looked across at Rogas, but the American’s expression was unreadable.
“When did they do this?” Ivanov asked. “How many satellites?”
“Took them down in the last twenty-four hours. Two that we know of,” said Maria O’Brien. “Both USAF birds.”
“But this is an act of war,” Ivanov protested. “It is madness.”
“Only if you get caught,” said Davidson. He was grinning sloppily, and his voice was slurred, but it was the first contribution he had made which was of any real value.
“And have they been caught? Have they made declarations? Taken responsibility?”
They were questions which answered themselves. “Well, we ain’t at war yet, are we?” said Davidson. “So that’d be a no.”
“Of course,” Ivanov conceded, embarrassed to have been shown up by this drunken idiot. If Stalin had finally lost what was left of his mind to syphilis and dissolution, if he had launched a pre-emptive strike, they would not be sitting in this hotel eating pastries and chatting. The world would be at war and they would more than likely be dead. The nuclear arsenals of East and West were small, but growing rapidly. Mankind already had the wherewithal to destroy himself and the planet many times over. Once would be enough.
Pavel Ivanov determined the most advisable course of action for the next few minutes was to keep his mouth shut and learn what he could of developments that had been unknown to him until just now. He would also learn what role these people expected him to play. He imagined it to be entirely self-interested on their part.
Maria O’Brien consulted a mid-sized handheld device, a ne
w data slate from the look of it, almost certainly ripped off a late model iPad design. Her face lit by the glowing screen, she went on, “Washington has made no statements, yet. The loss of the satellites isn’t public knowledge, although that won’t last long. I was able to confirm the rumors with our sources within an hour. I don’t imagine it will take long for the information to leak out into the public sphere. With no allegations to respond to, Moscow has said nothing.”
“But what are they doing?” Ivanov asked. “Have they mobilized? Are the ready reaction forces on standby? Has the Eighth Guards Army suddenly leapt up out of bed for unscheduled war games on the north German plain?”
Both of the other men looked to the woman to answer the question. There was an interesting dynamic at work here, Ivanov thought. Rogas was a high-level functionary, undoubtedly competent and trusted with access to the most senior personnel and information. He was not simply a cabdriver tasked with delivering Ivanov to this meeting. He had some role to play, but what?
Davidson, on the other hand, seemed to be neither competent nor trustworthy, but what did it matter? He was the tsar of this empire. His courtiers and boyars would serve his interests even in the absence of Davidson having the slightest fucking clue what those interests might be. The man had a reputation as an incurable debaucher, but Ivanov wondered how long it would be before O’Brien—his advisor, his Rasputin—convinced him to marry and establish a line of succession by blood.
Perhaps she had designs on the crown herself. He could see that Davidson’s renown as a dealmaker and strategist of uncommon rat-like cunning—a legacy of his former life as a criminal mastermind it was said—was in fact most likely to be the work of this woman. Rogas had said something to that effect, had he not?
Still, it was all fascinating, but irrelevant.
“You’re asking all the right questions, Pavel,” said Maria O’Brien. “And we are seeking answers, but for now I can’t tell what, if any, other moves the Kremlin has made. However, I can tell you that there has been no general mobilization of NATO forces. Some intelligence channels have been turned to full gain, but that’s it for now.”
“I see,” said Ivanov, but he did not. Not really. “And this is why you have asked me here? Why you are already paying for my time?”
Maria O’Brien nodded.
“Your time is valuable. It should be paid for. We understand you spent some time recently behind the Wall. We also wonder if the work you undertook there might have anything to do with these current developments.”
Another man might have shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. Ivanov set his face to stone.
“As you pointed out, the last work I did for you was in Uzbekistan, out of Turkey. That was last year. I have not discussed that work with anybody. I will never discuss that work with anybody but you. This is a guarantee I give you. This is a guarantee I give all my clients.”
She smiled, quite sweetly.
“But of course. This is why your time is so valuable. But if I might be permitted to change your mind, at least in this instance, we already know your clients in Rome were the British and American secret services, working in tandem. We know they sent you, because you are a deniable asset. The only way we could know this, Pavel, is via your clients.”
She smiled, not in victory, but as though she was telling him something she knew he wanted to know. Ivanov remained unmoved.
“I cannot confirm who I may or may not have worked for at any time. If a client should choose to reveal that information that is a matter for them, not me.”
Davidson was blinking at him blearily, as though he was having trouble following the conversation. Rogas seemed relaxed and content to sit on a coffee as though he really were nothing more than a taxi driver.
Maria O’Brien seemed not at all upset to be denied again.
“That is what we would hope you would say if circumstances were different and you were being asked about work you had done for us. But, Pavel, allow me to explain why you should trust us in this instance. You are right to surmise that we may be on the eve of war. If so, everything changes. The imperatives which demand you protect the confidentiality of your clients can hardly apply in a situation where the world may cease to exist in twenty-four hours. I put it to you, Pavel, that by breaking confidentiality, by telling us what you know of what happened in Rome, or at least as much of what happened as we need to deduce what Stalin is up to, I put it to you that you are actually helping your clients, advancing their interests. And I remind you, we’re only having this conversation because they allowed me to learn something of the role you played behind the Wall, and the fact that whatever you did there is related to whatever is happening now.”
He almost smiled. This woman was very good. She had slipped, however. Just a little. She had been quite careful to use the collective “we” when discussing the arrangement she wished to come to. But she had said “they allowed me to learn” of his mission in the Soviet sector of Rome. That spoke to much greater autonomy than would be enjoyed by a mere factotum. He needed time to think this through. Specifically, he needed time to contact Section Six or the OSS.
“You tell me all of these things happened. Satellites shot out of space. Intelligence alerts. Possible mobilizations. Perhaps whole armies moving around in the dark where we cannot see them. But I know nothing of this.”
The O’Brien woman raised her palms in a gesture of feigned helplessness.
“We understand your concern. And again, we approve of your caution. If you have the resources or contacts to verify any of this, we are more than happy to seek confirmation. But, Pavel, I would remind you that events are moving quickly. All we’re looking for is actionable information.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Actionable? How? Do you wish to short certain options on the stock market? Is this all we are discussing?”
O’Brien looked almost disappointed in him.
“Pavel, we would be more than happy to talk you through the options we see as reasonable going forward but we cannot have those discussions if we have no information upon which to base them. We do not need to know the operational details of your mission in Rome, merely understanding the context of what would—”
Davidson interrupted her.
“You want to kill this Skarov asshole or what?” he said.
For the first time since Ivanov had met her, Ms O’Brien seemed at a complete loss for words. Rogas too was suddenly alert and attentive to proceedings, but he looked just as confused and surprised as the lawyer.
“What did you say?” Ivanov asked. His voice was low and dangerous. Davidson was still drunk. But he appeared to have focused his drunken intensity on this conversation, like a man trying to convince a bartender that he is good for one last shot.
“This asshole you been chasing for—what? Ten or fifteen years? This fuckin’ Skarov or Scarface or whatever his fucking name is? You want to kill him?”
Ivanov honestly did not know what to say. He had been rendered just as speechless as the others in the room. Everyone but Davidson.
“Because that’s what I hear. The only thing gives you a boner these days is the idea of putting a bullet into this motherfucker. Tell us what we want to know, and he’s yours.”
“What do you mean he is mine?”
“I mean we know where this cunt is, right now. You tell us what we need to know. I put you on a fast jet, I got a fuckin’ fleet of them. You take all the money and guns you need. And you put his fuckin’ lights out. From what I hear of this prick, you’d be doing the world a favor. But first, you tell the lady what she wants to know.”
He told them everything.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Julia broke to her right, charging at a cabin door and hitting it with her shoulder. The shots had come from somewhere up towards the bow and she had been covering their six, which remained clear, at least for now. She heard Harry and Charlotte open up with thei
r weapons—the Metal Storm and the Thompson submachine gun. The gunfire was horrendously loud in the confined space of the passageway, but it did the job of suppressing the Russians’ fire long enough for them to get out of the killing zone.
The cabin door gave way under the impact of Julia’s shoulder charge, the flimsy lock exploding with a report almost as loud as the gunshots. She stumbled into a space perhaps twice as large as the cabin in which they had been held prisoner. It was much more comfortably appointed; a comparatively bright place, the bulkheads painted in a light off-white, three incandescent globes casting a warm glow over the relatively luxurious fitout. Two bunkbeds, two armchairs, a small table.
Professor Bremmer’s children were crouched behind the armchairs, presumably cowering from the uproar in the passageway.
That’s how she thought of them: as Bremmer’s children.
In the free-falling rush and adrenaline surge of combat, exhausted not just by captivity and torture, but by the events of the last two days, she reacted with the natural protective impulse of any adult confronted by terrified children. Even one like her, without much in the way of a maternal instinct.
“Get down and stay down,” she shouted at them. “I’ll look after you, but stay down.”
She took up a firing position by the broken cabin door. It afforded her a view towards the stern of the ship, covering an arc of the passageway she had just left. Anybody wanting to surprise them from that direction would have to get past her. She could only hope that Harry and Ninja Barbie could assault forward and…
The blade was a stiletto, five inches long and no thicker at its base than her little finger. It entered her body three inches to the right of her spine, just above the line of her hip. She did not feel it immediately, and when she did it was not as a gross, potentially lethal penetration of her body, but as a dull sensation, less painful than the aching throb of her fractured cheekbone.
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