Spiral

by Andy Remic

  ‘They are frightened of the future, Mr Carter. Cowards often are.’

  ‘Can I ask you about this new processor? The QIII Proto, I think it’s tagged?’

  ‘Even for you, that would be classified,’ said Feuchter softy. ‘All I can say is that, as you know, Spiral exists to wipe out the terrorist threat wherever it may be found and the QIII will be of tremendous help in that task - it is incredibly powerful and will be able to crack encryptions in the blink of an eye, locate terrorist cells globally, and terminate the military networks, command centres and control systems of rogue states ... ahhh,’ he sighed, relaxing slightly, the look of excitement in his eyes fading to a more guarded, unreadable expression. ‘But I get ahead of myself. As you said earlier, this is the Proto - it is not quite ready.’

  ‘It must be powerful technology indeed to evoke such interest ... and threat to life?’ said Carter softly. ‘Maybe some people want it never to be completed?’

  Feuchter merely nodded, smiling, and sipped at his brandy.

  ‘This threat to your niece - you realise it could be a double bluff? You could be the target,’ said Carter.

  ‘That possibility had occurred to me. But I can handle myself, Mr Carter. I used to be an operative very much like yourself. It is my niece who needs protection now - I cannot watch her twenty-four hours a day. What with the party tomorrow and her streak of stubbornness, well...’

  ‘Once again, I advise you to cancel.’

  ‘I will not cancel,’ said Feuchter, his face hardening. ‘The agents say they will draft in more men. And you are here.’ He smiled without humour, showing tombstone teeth. ‘Maria will be safe. She can stay out of the proceedings ...’

  Maria turned to face them from where she sat writing. Her eyes were bright. ‘No, uncle. I will not hide.’ She sounded indignant.

  ‘So be it.’

  Carter rose and left the room. Rain was falling again and he pulled free the ECube and stroked the surface, as if caressing a lover’s skin. He linked to the German Special Forces, FG2. He checked the digits. All the agents had signed in, as they had to do every fifteen minutes.

  Carter cursed Feuchter’s stubbornness. A party! For work colleagues to celebrate a ‘breakthrough’.

  ‘Shit, Feuchter. You should have stayed in Rub al’Khali.’

  Carter had to admit to himself that he was deeply annoyed. He hadn’t realised that he had been drafted in to work on what he thought of as ‘Spiral home ground’. Feuchter was a top dog - a Spiral researcher and military developer - and Carter knew that he would therefore have very powerful enemies. That meant the game was more important than Carter had at first realised; more important than Natasha had led him to believe.

  Carter moved through the house, checking security points, agents and his own small ammo stashes.

  ‘You lied,’ said Kade. ‘You lied, my beautiful brother.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  Carter could hear the joy in Kade’s words: the excitement, the danger and the promise of killing.

  Stick around, thought Carter soberly, checking the last window. I might need you on this one.

  The four black Toyota Land Cruiser 70s rumbled to a halt by the roadside, 6164cc diesel engines idling with a promise of power and almost infinite torque. Moonlight glinted from the smoked-glass windows and in the heavy woods to either side a serene silence reigned.

  The police car that had been following, a white BMW 525 sporting thick green border stripes, slowed to a crawl as it passed the Land Cruisers before moving on, tail lights glowing. It disappeared around a corner up ahead and was lost in the tangle of dense woodland.

  Still the Land Cruisers sat with their engines idling.

  Clouds covered the moon; rain began to fall, softly at first but increasing in ferocity until it pounded against the smoked glass of the Toyotas’ windows and sent streams running down the narrow strip of tarmac.

  In the gloom up ahead, headlights glittered through the downpour. Then the blue lights atop the BMW flickered into life and the large car returned to halt beside the four Toyotas. Windscreen wipers thumped, sending splashes of rain dancing onto the slick road. One of the police car’s doors opened, and a large man wearing a thick overcoat climbed out. He flashed a heavy-duty torch at the lead Land Cruiser, then walked warily forward, his hand on his holstered pistol. Behind him, his companion remained standing by the BMW, wedged between the door and the car’s body, eyes alert above a heavily moustached sneer.

  ‘Verlassen Sie das Auto!’ shouted the lead policeman.

  Nothing moved; the lead Toyota sat, engine rumbling, the rain running in rivulets down the dark windscreen and bonnet. The police officer tried to peer through the glass but could see nothing inside.

  ‘Ich sagte, verlassen Sie das Auto!’

  Slowly, the driver’s window hissed down on smooth electrics; the police officer took a step closer, his flashlight coming up to reveal—

  The muzzle of a silenced pistol.

  There was a pop.

  The officer was hurled backwards, the flashlight’s beam swinging up to illuminate rain falling in diagonal sheets. Through the gloom came a shout - ‘Nein!’ - as the second officer pulled his gun and began to fire. Two bullets slammed against the wing of the Toyota before a stream of automatic gunfire picked him up, spun him round and left him lifeless and bleeding on the tarmac.

  The Toyota Land Cruisers reversed, then drove past the BMW. One ran over the body of the first police officer to have been killed, leaving wide tyre tracks across and through his chest.

  They roared off into the night, leaving a ghostly scene of horror stroboscopically lit by the flashing blue lights of the abandoned police car.

  Carter watched the convoy of expensive vehicles sweep up the drive. Seated on a wide bench outside Maria’s room as she dressed, his attention was divided between the room’s solid wooden door and the small window out of which he gazed. Rain fell heavily from towering clouds, and a heavy gloom had settled over the world.

  Carter could hear two types of music, intertwining, an insanity mix: thumping beats rising up the wide sweeping stairs at the end of the plushly carpeted corridor and coming from the huge ballroom - and the gentle lure of Beethoven from Maria’s room. Carter pulled free his Browning 9mm HiPower. He checked the thirteen rounds in the clip, then checked the other five clips he carried about his body. Seventy-eight rounds in total. Carter liked to be prepared. As he had often told Roxi: ‘I don’t want to die because I ran out of fucking bullets.’

  The door opened. Maria appeared - stunning in a white dress that showed off her pale complexion and dark hair.

  ‘You ready?’ asked Carter kindly, sensing her fear.

  Maria took a deep breath. She knew - as well as he did, as well as the many agents positioned around the house and grounds - that tonight was a golden opportunity for assassins. If they were for real and not just a hollow blackmail attempt. An empty threat. A hoax...

  ‘Do not leave me tonight. Not for one moment.’

  ‘So you’ll accompany me to the toilet?’ she laughed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really?’

  Carter smiled. ‘Yes. Prime location for attack - it is the one moment when, shall we say, a person’s guard is truly down.’

  They went down the luxurious wide staircase, with its thick carpets and carved oak banisters. The walls were richly decorated with plaster frescoes inlaid with gold. Q Division obviously paid well.

  Carter had instructed Maria Balashev earlier that evening: no leaving the house, no alcohol, and no picking up young - or old - men. If Maria wanted to live through this potential threat then she had to minimise complications.

  Fucking parties, thought Carter.

  Fucking Feuchter! Stubborn bastard - stupid bastard!

  A hundred and thirty guests. Carter had almost shot Feuchter himself when Hans Jesmar, head of the German security operation, had handed him the slip of paper.

  People mingled. Servants wit
h trays of drinks circulated and Carter’s gaze swept across the large, gaudily decorated suite. Rich velvet curtains hung to the floor, obscuring the view of any outside observers - and of any long-range snipers.

  Carter stayed close to Maria. She knew many of the people who had arrived and Carter allowed the conversations to flow over him. If anybody approached or spoke to him he was curt to the point of rudeness. He did not want conversation - it distracted him.

  He watched. Maria socialised and, like a good girl, stayed off the champagne.

  Feuchter, obviously suffering a little from stress, was drunk and being loud and abusive in a corner. Carter checked the squad monitor. Everything was OK.

  The woodland surrounding Castle Schwalenberg -swathes of deciduous and conifer trees that rose and fell, following the slopes and dramatic contours of the land -spread out for miles. Several rough narrow trails, littered with fallen trees and branches, criss-crossed forest, but on this dark and rain-filled night nothing seemed to move except thick branches swaying in the wind, and rain running in violent rivulets down the knobbled bark of trees.

  A deep rumble cut through the gloom, and four black vehicles crept smoothly across the forest floor. Heavy wheels crushed branches and negotiated fallen trees with 4X4 ease ... slowly the Land Cruisers came to a halt, strung out in a line.

  Engines died.

  Silence crept back.

  Doors opened, and dark figures climbed swiftly free of their metal confines. They moved stealthily forward and crouched, peering through the trees towards Castle Schwalenberg, its lights glittering with promise in the distance.

  The line of shadows bristled with weapons.

  There were various clicks as magazines were slotted home.

  Copper-eyed stares met; silent commands were exchanged; and slowly, with an infinite and precise care, the column of armed killers moved off through the undergrowth, untroubled by the rain and the threat of death to come.

  Friedrich squatted beside the bush, listening to the commands issued by Jesmar. He hoisted the rifle, the weight burning into his arm and shoulder now that the hour was getting late, and glanced up at the rolling clouds obscured by the driving rain.

  ‘Fucking weather,’ he muttered. ‘Sent to torture a man!’

  He sighted down the Ruger M77 MkII VLE’s scope, and swept the grounds in front of him, rotating the rifle on the smooth-action Harris bipod. He could see nothing through the rain, even on IR and UIR. Friedrich rolled back his shoulders and craved a cigarette and a cup of hot coffee. With five sugars. Yes, he could almost taste the steaming brew...

  His mouth watering, something made Friedrich glance behind him. Despite knowing that other agents were posted at the rear, protecting his back from infiltration, Friedrich nevertheless felt something subtly out of place. He scratched at his rough-stubbled chin and frowned, eyes trying to pick out movement in the gloom. Then he brought round the Ruger and sighted down the scope on IR. There - he saw ... something ... A figure slipping behind a tree? Or the taunt of dancing branches fuelled by the desire for nicotine and caffeine?

  He shifted the scope slightly, but could make out nothing more between the trees’ wide boles and tangled foliage. He shifted uncomfortably in the rain, feeling trickles run into places he had once thought secure.

  ‘Bitch.’

  Friedrich lowered the rifle for an instant to wipe a trace of rain from his forehead - and heard the hiss an instant before the black bolt slammed through his hand and into his forehead and brain beyond, pinning his hand to his skull in a final salute to the Goddess of Death. Gore ran down either side of his nose and he slumped slowly backwards, his free arm falling limply to his side, speckles of blood tracing smears across the stock of the Ruger M77 rifle.

  There was a pad of soft footsteps; three figures crouched by his corpse. They lifted the weapon from the ground and black-gloved fingers trailed water down the scope.

  ‘Leave it. We do not need it.’ The words were low, soft, gentle.

  The weapon bounced on the soft forest floor and the figures disappeared into the night.

  Two hours had passed. Carter could feel himself growing weary and, motioning to Maria, he followed her into the relative calm and cool of the hallway before the wide sweeping stairs. He took a small leather case from his pocket, opened it and removed a small phial. He stuck the needle into his thigh and replaced the empty phial in the case.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Maria.

  ‘A stimulant. Allows me to stay awake and alert. I’ll pay tomorrow.’

  Maria smiled, and shivered. ‘It’s chilly.’

  Carter looked at her, then turned, his gaze moving up the stairs. ‘You feel that draught?’

  Maria nodded.

  ‘It wasn’t there before.’

  ‘Probably just an open window,’ said Maria, as Carter discreetly withdrew the bulky Browning and with his free hand waved Maria behind him. He pulled free his comm. ‘Jesmar?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can you come to the foot of the stairs? I think we have a situation.’

  ‘OK.’

  Jesmar was there within fifteen seconds, a small black pistol in his hand. ‘Watch Maria for a few minutes,’ said Carter. ‘I have a bad feeling about this...’

  ‘Wait, I’ll send some men with you.’

  ‘No time.’

  Carter followed the draught, his boots silent on the carpet. He felt adrenalin and the recently injected drugs kick his system and with his spinal column wrapped in the stimulant’s fist he climbed to the top of the first flight of stairs. The music drifted into the distance, a ghostly ambience. He checked the squad monitor - five minutes since all members had signed in. Carter tutted to himself. A lot could happen in five minutes.

  He moved to a nearby window at the top of the staircase and, crouching low, peered into the darkness. He couldn’t see any of the positioned snipers - but that did not mean they weren’t there.

  He moved across the wide landing, listening, outstretched hand following the gentle hint of a breeze.

  He stopped in front of a broad sturdy door. He rested his hand against the wood.

  Carter licked his lips.

  ‘You need me,’ came the whisper of Kade’s voice.

  I need nothing, Carter thought bitterly.

  He pushed gently and stepped aside; the door swung free. Carter peered, then with outstretched weapon slid in. The room was dark and he swiftly switched on the light...

  Empty.

  Carter moved towards the window, which was open - a three-inch gap. He looked out, then down, saw a small strip of mud caught against the wooden sill - and suddenly realised that he was a clean target against the window ... He moved fast, as a .22 calibre sniper round smashed through the glass of embed itself in the plaster of the ceiling.

  Carter rolled on the carpet, was up and running—

  He screamed into his comm, ‘We have a breach, red floor, sectors 15 to 20 ... I repeat, we have a fucking breach...’

  He spun out of the doorway and into the path of a surprised black-clad figure; the Browning 9mm slammed twice in his hand and the intruder was kicked from his feet, scrabbling at the holes in his throat as he went down hard.

  Carter looked left and right. From somewhere in the house came the sound of distant screams and cries for help. He ran to the top of the stairs and a stream of silenced bullets spat wood from the rail. He dived, rolling against the wall with a bone-jarring thud. His gaze fixed on the bullets in the rail, the chewed wood and splinters - he judged the angle, popped his head round and fired off five rounds. Then, scrambling to his feet, he ran for the head of the stairs.

  The silenced machine gun ate the wall behind him as Carter leaped, clearing the top flight in a single bound; his Browning slammed in his hand once more, six rounds that picked up the assassin and sent him spinning down the remaining stairs where he sprawled at the foot, blood soaking the plush pile, his chest caved in and slick with gore.

  No guests ... no guests i
n the hall...

  Fuck, screamed Carter’s brain.

  He crept down the stairs and crouched next to the corpse, creating a smaller target. The comm vibrated in his hand. ‘Carter, Jesmar. I have Maria in the kitchens. Yellow, sector 34. There are six of them in the ballroom -they’ve herded the guests together. They are all heavily armed.’

  ‘I’ve taken out two,’ said Carter softly as he replaced the clip in his gun. ‘You stay there, I’ll come to you.’

  The guests were silent in the lounge. Carter slowly eased his head around the corner; a black-clad assassin stood sentry with a silenced Uzi-K2. Carter fired three rounds and ran in the opposite direction towards the kitchen. As he spun through the door bullets tore the wood behind him and he sprawled across the tiles, sliding between stainless-steel cabinets on his belly. His boot kicked backwards, slamming the door shut.

  ‘Jesmar?’ he bellowed.

  ‘Over here,’ came the shout from one of the adjoining rooms.

  Carter peered over the stainless-steel cabinets, strewn with bubbling pans and half-prepared dishes; discarded knives and chopped vegetables littered the worktops. There were no cooks visible. He moved carefully around the room and towards the adjoining chamber. Hairs prickled across the back of his neck.

  ‘I’m coming in - hold your fire.’

  He stepped into the dimly lit room. It was a storage chamber filled with sacks and crates with stencilled lettering in German. He saw Jesmar, standing beside an ashen-faced Maria.

  Carter met Jesmar’s stare and he knew—

  Knew that something was wrong—

  The gun rose and pointed at Carter.

  ‘I am sorry, my friend. It is your time to die.’

  Carter nodded gently. ‘I think ...’ His Browning lifted, a blur, and smashed a bullet into Jesmar’s face; the bullet entered through the man’s nose and exploded the back of his head across a sack of vegetables. Jesmar toppled in a heap. ‘…somebody is playing a game with me,’ Carter finished.

  ‘Carter,’ sobbed Maria. She ran to him and fell into his arms. He hugged her quickly, then closed the door behind him - sealing them in this kitchen tomb. He moved to Jesmar’s blood-drenched body and checked through his clothing. He took the dead man’s Glock, pushing it down the front of his trousers and collecting the spare magazines.