by Alex Shaw
‘And only you and I would know,’ Tate added, with a smile.
‘C’mon, before I change my mind.’
Tate followed her into reception. ‘Is there anything special about any of the cars in the lot?’
‘What do you mean by “special”?’ she asked as she logged in to the workstation.
‘I don’t know. The big guy—’
‘Sergei.’
‘You remembered his name?’
‘He hit on me.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks?’
‘Anyway, he was taking pictures of the parked cars the day I arrived.’
Sara shrugged. ‘Perhaps our models are different to his back home? I bet he certainly hasn’t seen many like mine, in the flesh.’
‘What do you have?’
‘It’s like you, old and British. A 1966 Mini Cooper S. Import. It belonged to my father; he gave it to me.’
‘I’m surprised he didn’t keep it for himself.’
‘He didn’t need it anymore; he died of lung cancer.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be, most people have lost someone. Have you?’
Tate lied, ‘I’ve got no one to lose.’
‘Parents?’
‘Foster parents, whom I haven’t seen for ten years.’ Technically true.
‘Brothers, sisters?’
‘Only child.’ Which again was technically true.
‘Wife?’
‘No.’
The workstation made a whirring sound. ‘This thing is as ancient as Joe, but he likes it so who am I to complain? You know, he’s so old-fashioned that he refuses to use a cell phone.’
‘So what does he use, carrier pigeons?’
Sara was confused. ‘No, he has a ham radio set. He chats to people all over the world on that. OK, here are their passports. I can’t show you their credit card details.’
‘Very wise.’ Tate scooted around the desk, and looked over the top of her head. He could smell cigarette smoke but now also the stronger scent of her shampoo. ‘Can I print these out, the passport details?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think that there is something off about your Russian guests. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve got some sort of sixth sense about people.’
‘This “sixth sense”, do you use it for your work at the British Foreign Office?’
‘I do.’
She clicked the print button, turned and then cocked her head to one side. With a half-smile, she asked, ‘What is that sense telling you about me?’
‘It’s telling me to thank you for the printout and say goodnight.’
Sara opened her mouth to speak but then headlights abruptly burst in through the open door and rap music blared from the parking lot. ‘Shit.’
‘I agree; I never know what they are talking about.’
‘It’s Clint, my ex; I told him to stop coming around.’
‘He listens to rap?’
‘Yep.’
‘What is he, twelve?’
‘No, he’s a real Maine gangsta.’
The music abruptly stopped and Clint called out, ‘Sara! You there, Sara? I just want to talk!’
Sara looked up into Tate’s eyes. ‘Help me?’
Tate shrugged. ‘Always happy to help a damsel in distress.’
She gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re very welcome.’
Sara took his hand and led them out to the parking lot, where they were greeted by a long-haired figure leaning against a customised Nissan. It was the same car as the night before and the same driver. Tate bit his tongue. Clint’s hair was again held back with a bandana and baseball cap configuration but now Tate could see his jeans, which were as loose as a tent around his legs.
‘Who is that?’ Clint pointed an accusatory finger.
‘Jack; he’s from England.’
Clint pushed himself off the car and took two languid paces forward and gesticulated expressively with his arms. ‘So what? Are you, like, “doing” him now?’
‘I plan to.’ She let go of Tate’s hand, cupped his face, and kissed him on the lips. Her lips were moist and soft. Tate felt her tongue slip inside his mouth. He didn’t resist and placed his hands on her bum, which he’d been wanting to do for the past two days. She pulled away, slowly – then spun abruptly to face her ex. ‘There, Clint. Is that what you wanted to see? It’s over; don’t you get it? Now leave me alone.’
Clint bristled. ‘Get outta my way! I’m going to show him what happens if you mess with Clint Donoghue!’
‘Donoghue?’ Tate repeated. ‘Like, Chief of Police Donoghue?’
He strutted as he spoke. ‘Yeah, that’s right. So you ain’t gonna get the better of me.’
‘He’s also a black belt in karate,’ Sara said, slight concern now evident in her voice.
‘So you’re the “Maine Man”? I’m sure your father is very proud of you, Clint.’
‘He is,’ Clint replied not understanding the irony. ‘So come on, Jack … Jack England – let’s see what you’ve got!’
Tate let his body relax as he tried to ignore the adrenalin rush. Clint was no serious threat, but he hadn’t been in a fistfight for a while, well for a week at least. The fact that he knew the kid was trained in karate made it easier for him to predict what was coming at him. A couple of quick punches and some showboating kicks he imagined, moves that looked good in a dojo but meant very little in a real fight against a highly trained soldier. He decided to give Clint another chance but still take the kid down a peg or two. ‘Clint, go home and go to bed. No one loves an idiot.’
‘What did you call me?’ Clint launched himself at Tate but telegraphed his attack. His left fist jabbed out as a dummy before his right fist, a straight punch, hurtled towards Tate’s face. Tate took a step sideways, and with both arms working at once, his right palm forced Clint’s arm down while the back of his left fist slammed into Clint’s nose. It was an effective counter and used Clint’s own momentum against him. Clint obviously hadn’t expected to be punched and stumbled back a step, but before he could understand what was happening, Tate grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him into the Nissan. Clint landed on the hood, leaving a dent before rolling off onto the tarmac.
‘Go home, Clint; sleep it off.’
Clint stumbled to his feet, shook his head and felt his nose with his right hand. Pulling his hand away, his eyes widened as he saw his hand was now bloody. ‘You busted my nose, man!’ He took a step and checked the Nissan. ‘You damaged my car! That’s criminal damage!’
‘No, Clint. You fell and your head hit the car. You are a very clumsy person. Now as we say back home, piss off!’
‘Screw you!’ Clint charged forward. Incensed. Arms and legs jerking as he changed from stance to stance. ‘I’m gonna kill you!’
Tate adopted his own stance, more upright than Clint’s. It was based on a mixture of techniques taught by the SAS. Clint again feinted with his left fist but then immediately threw another left then a quick right. Tate blocked both strikes. Clint dropped and twisted his hips and wound up to deliver a giant kick with his right leg. Tate let the leg get halfway then kicked out with his own leg. His heel collided with Clint’s approaching shin. Clint howled and fell forward. Hitting the ground, he grabbed his leg. A trained fighter would have stopped at that point, claimed a victory, maybe even claimed the girl and walked away … but Tate wasn’t a trained fighter, he was a trained killer. Tate followed Clint to the ground, knees landing on his chest, pinning him. Tate’s hands grabbed the kid’s neck.
‘Stop!’ Sara yelled.
Tate took a deep breath. Released his grip but then delivered a swift jab to Clint’s jaw with the palm of his hand. ‘Go to sleep, Clint.’
There was a clapping from across the parking lot. Tate looked up. The Russians were there, and they had been watching. Tate rolled Clint into the recovery position and got to his feet.
Tate could se
e Sara was shocked. She knelt down next to her ex-boyfriend. ‘Will he be all right?’
‘He’ll wake up in a while. He’ll have a stiff jaw for a few days. I don’t think I’ve broken his leg, or his nose, but I’m not a doctor.’
‘What are you?’
‘Just a bureaucrat on holiday.’
‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’
‘The WWE – I was a huge fan of Rob Van Dam,’ Tate said flatly. ‘How did you know I could beat him?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, thank you and goodnight.’ Tate shook his head and walked towards his room taking long controlled breaths. The two Russians were looking on.
‘Rap is crap,’ Sergei, the big Russian said, with a smile as Tate passed him.
Tate nodded and searched for his key. As he did so, the two men switched to Russian. Tate opened his door, stepped into the room, and pretended to close the door behind him, but left a small gap so he could listen in on the conversation.
‘He has training,’ Sergei stated. ‘Do you think he knows anything?’
‘I do not think so,’ the older Russian replied. ‘That would be a preposterous coincidence; however, the question is will he cause us any problems tomorrow?’
‘If he attempts to take one of our cars, I’ll shoot him. No man, no problem,’ Sergei said.
There was a pause then the older Russian asked, ‘What type of Nissan is that?’
‘It’s a Skyline, an old one.’
‘How old?’
‘A 1990 model perhaps. It’s an R32 GT-R – but it has lots of wiring. And the owner, I imagine, has added more. It definitely will not start tomorrow, Oleg.’
‘I agree. Not many will start. The Winnebago is diesel, which may have a better chance.’
Tate heard the Russians moving away and a moment later their door opened, closed and the key turned in the lock. Nothing made sense. Why were they interested in cars? Why were they now interested in him? And was shooting him an idle threat? Tate didn’t want to find out, but what he did want to find out about was what was happening tomorrow.
He locked his door and hefted a chair in front of it for extra security. It wasn’t much but it would slow anyone down a pace who tried to break the door down and would allow him time to respond. He yawned; it had been a long day. He’d rested sure, and exercised, but he’d also drunk too much and then danced with the gangsta. He shouldn’t have hit the kid as hard as he had.
Tate traipsed to the bathroom, haphazardly undressing, and as he did so forgot about the folded printouts in his jeans pocket. He flicked the light switch and nothing happened. He rolled his eyes and remembered that the bulb had blown. Tate moved the waste bin, again using it to prop the door open, and then brushed his teeth. Two minutes later he emerged minty-mouthed, but still tired. He ignored his pile of clothes and lay on the bed. He rolled onto his left side, facing the window and the door. He was asleep within two minutes.
*
Tate sat up with a start and, for a moment, couldn’t understand where he was. He heard voices outside and looked at his watch, a mechanical Rolex he’d bought ten years before. He could just make out the time; it was five past four. He lay back down and closed his eyes. He needed his sleep. The only thing that would make him get up now, he thought dreamily, was the woman who worked at the bar – correction, he reminded himself – the woman who owned the bar.
He started to drift off and then he heard Russian voices. Instantly alert, Tate ripped off his sheets, leapt out of bed, and positioned himself by the side of the door, expecting it to be broken down at any moment. There was more noise outside, but his door remained firmly shut. He waited a while longer before chancing a glance out of the curtained window. He saw the two Russians loading suitcases into their identical vehicles, a hard-shell Samsonite each by the look of it and then a second case. It was the second case that made him stare harder: it looked custom, not a piece of regular luggage.
The large Russian lifted his with ease but the second Russian’s case slipped from his grasp and hit the ground. It burst open on impact and Tate saw the unmistakable shape of an assault rifle inside, several spare magazines and a pair of grenades encased in a foam cut-out base. In a comic mime, the two Russians berated each other until the larger one closed the case and hefted it into the SUV. Tate retrieved his encrypted smartphone and started to record the scene unfolding in front of him in HD video.
In a country where the right to keep and bear arms was sacrosanct, the rifle and magazines by themselves were not unusual but the grenades were, and then of course the two men were Russian nationals not US citizens. This made both the weapons and their ownership illegal. What were they up to? The Russians finished loading, got into their Tahoes, and drove off.
Tate backed away from the window. Had he discovered something? He pressed a button on his iPhone and speed-dialled the day desk at GCHQ. He was asked for his agent identity code before being put through to the duty officer.
‘Has there been any chatter at all about an imminent terrorist attack on US soil?’ He leaned against the wall and peered through the small gap between the curtain and window frame at the car park.
‘Please wait; checking for any flash traffic,’ the clipped female voice replied. The line became quiet as the duty officer speed-read the incoming traffic for her shift thus far, signals intelligence taken mostly from the US-controlled Echelon network. She knew better than to ask why the information was needed or where the agent was calling from. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. The US is quiet.’
Whether it was lack of sleep, alcohol or both making him paranoid, Tate didn’t know, but something was happening that no one seemed to know about. He spoke to the officer again. ‘I need you to connect me to a number.’
‘Go ahead.’
Tate relayed a telephone number from memory. It was the number of his controller at SIS, the British Secret Intelligence Service, more commonly referred to as MI6. Tate waited as the call was routed via GCHQ, providing an added layer of electronic protection to Pamela Newman. She answered on the third ring, ‘Newman.’
‘It’s Jack.’
‘Can’t sleep?’
‘Ha ha.’
‘You’d better tell me what’s so important. You are meant to be on holiday, remember?’
Tate started to explain but soon realised he sounded a little manic. ‘I’ve got their passport details and video footage of them.’
‘Jack, you know how I feel about hunches, especially yours?’
‘Yes I do.’ Newman had told him they were not just the stuff of badly written detective dramas. An operative had to observe and interpret, and sometimes this could not be put into words.
‘Send me all you have; I’ll mark it as “most urgent” for our techies to look at. I’ll get back to you if I get anything interesting.’
The line went dead. Tate sighed. Could he ever switch off? Yes, he reminded himself he could, but then things went wrong, like getting stopped for speeding. This month off, his first time off in a year, was meant to get him away from the job, to recharge after yet another extended operation, but now it looked like he was in the middle of something else. He checked his watch; it was twenty to five and still an hour before daybreak. Tate sighed heavily; that was all the sleep he was getting tonight then.
He retrieved the printouts from his jeans, placed them on the vanity table next to his bed and switched the light on. Making sure that the papers were square and flat, he photographed them before sending the jpegs in a secure email to London.
Tate walked into the bathroom and started the shower, cursing the missing light bulb. He ran through what he had seen, but none of it made sense. He didn’t know much about the US car market. How many black Tahoes could there be in Camden? What was the link between the murder victims? What were the Russians doing?
He stood under the water, thinking until he heard his phone ring. He struggled out across the slick tiles and grabbed the iPhone. ‘Tate.’
‘Jack, we got a hit on the faces in the passports. Are you sitting down?’
‘Shoot.’
‘Both of them are former GRU.’
‘Russian Military Intelligence?’ Tate sat on the bed. ‘Not the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service?’
‘Definitely GRU, not SVR. That, however …’ At the other end of the line he heard an urgent male voice call her name. ‘Sorry, Jack, one moment.’ The sound became muffled for a moment and he couldn’t hear what was being discussed. ‘I’m going to have to call you back.’
‘Fine, I’m here all night.’ The call ended and Tate was left looking at his blank iPhone. He got up from the bed, stepped back into the shower and rinsed off the accumulated fluff that had stuck to his dripping feet and legs.
Chapter 11
Washington, DC
A silent, purple detonation flowered. It bloomed like a monstrous, inverted Fourth of July firework. Its petals spread earthwards and then faded to be replaced by a mauve glow, creating a spectral false dawn.
Oleniuk felt the tingling sensation he had been warned to expect wash over him, as each individual hair on his body stood up on end.
At that very moment, as if choreographed, every single light around the pair vanished. The White House lights disappeared, the floodlights on the lawn were no more and the stately residence of the President of the United States of America was plunged into darkness.
The glow started to fade; the night sky now taking on the appearance of the bruised eye of a heavyweight boxer, before it gradually became black once more. The co-conspirators removed their protective eyewear. They had delivered a form of vengeance like no other the modern world had ever seen and, ignoring ancient, fanciful tales of vengeful gods, the single most powerful.
Oleniuk put his arm around Yan. ‘We have done it.’
She did not reply; however, she did give him a sideways glance. Oleniuk quickly moved his arm. ‘I was overcome with emotion in the moment. I do apologise.’
‘It is understandable, given the circumstances.’
They continued to gaze at the capital city of the United States – dark, silent but not dead. The majority of the population were safely asleep and those who weren’t would interpret the loss of power as a citywide outage, a total blackout.