by Tim Jopling
In St. Petersburg, in the Palace Embankment, lush surroundings and monumental style were all that could be seen. For Deane, struggling across Palace Square on his way back to Hawk, some half a mile away, all he could think of was the pain and utter fatigue he felt in every cell of his body.
The huge open space of Palace Square seemed to make him feel even worse, as if there was nothing to hold onto when he fell. Not if but when. In what seemed like a lifetime, he eventually reached the middle of the huge open space and perched himself against The Alexander Column.
Located in the very centre of Palace Square and dedicated to Tsar Alexander I for his role in the triumph over Napoleon (a fact not lost on Deane, despite his fatigue), the red granite pillar is the largest freestanding monument in the world. Designed by Auguste de Montferrand in 1829, it seemed to hold the square together as it looked out at the Winter Palace, which sat quietly and alone on the Southern side.
Deane looked up at the large bronze angel that held a cross and sat 154 feet above him. He was in trouble and there was no way around it. Staggering back into the St Isaac’s Square, via Voznesenskiy PR Street, he passed the followers and would be voters of Salenko, who were starting to disperse. The rally had finished and there was no sign of the soon-to-be-dead President of Russia. In front of him were small groups of people who were chanting about the glorious Russian revolution and how Salenko would change the face of the earth forever. Deane didn’t listen, kept his low profile, bowed his head and continued walking to the parked Lada where his new partner would be waiting. Not for the first time on his walk back, he felt his chest and the pain there seemed to be growing worse.
His mind flashed back to the office of a top London Doctor where he had found out his condition of glandular fever just weeks before…
The Doctor sat in his thick black leather chair and put his hands on the large mahogany desk in front of him. Running a hand over his grey beard, he let out a slow breath. ‘There can be no doubt Tom. You do have glandular fever. I’m sorry.’
Deane had been shocked at this turn of events. Sure enough, he had been feeling tired and incredibly run down of late but never did he expect his trusted doctor to give him this bombshell. He looked up, totally perplexed. ‘But I thought it only affected younger people?’
‘Usually. But I’m afraid yours is an extreme case.’ The bearded doctor passed several test results to his patient and gave a sympathetic smile with it.
He glanced at the papers and thought about his future and more importantly, his service to his country. ‘Aside from the pain in my neck, what else will happen?’
‘Well, at this stage it’s hard to say. You may well develop a fever, which will come and go, have a permanent sore throat and possibly even swollen tonsils that may make your breathing difficult. The worst factor of all is the chronic tiredness. The fatigue may well be severe. I strongly urge you to rest.’
Deane leaned forward and put his hands together; he always wanted to know all the facts. ‘And in extreme cases?’
The Doctor hesitated for a moment and then made eye contact with his long-term patient. ‘I must stress, these are extreme cases but you may suffer from inflammation of the lungs and maybe the heart itself, which could lead to meningitis but the odds of this occurring are-’
‘What are the treatments?’
‘To cure it? None. What you must do is get plenty of rest, drink lots of fluids and in time, maybe a month or two, you will start to turn a corner. I cannot stress how important it is to rest.’
‘Thank you Doctor.’ Deane placed the test results back on the desk in front of him and turned to leave.
‘Tom…I realise this must come as a huge shock but you can’t continue your lifestyle with this condition.’
Deane looked at the ceiling for a moment and then out of the window to Harley Street below. How in the world could he confront this disease and still be standing at the end of it if he continued his work for MI6? Several different scenarios ran through his mind until finally, he turned to his friend with a look of a man who had fought and survived one battle too many. ‘What choice do I have?’
Deane felt his chest again as his focus came back to the present. The pain was getting worse now, every breath was an effort and he had to rest. He closed his eyes for a moment but felt his senses register something and he always trusted them. Looking around, he saw the concerned look of Agent William Hawk, his young charge, staring at him from the parked Lada car several feet away.
‘You really don’t look so good, you know. I noticed it the other day, on the flight especially. What’s going on?’
Deane got into the car and sat in the driver’s seat, too exhausted to even think of a reply.
Hawk studied his so-called mentor and started to feel serious concern for the operation and safety of the West if the man beside him was indeed the best MI6 had to offer. Not that he doubted his mentor; he knew all about his achievements but wondered why he had not raised his health concerns back at HQ. ‘We could always go back and rest if that’s what you want to do.’
‘You’ve just been promoted.’ Deane said weakly, whilst handing over the car keys.
‘Now I know you’re sick. You want me to drive?’ he watched Deane get out and stagger around the other side of the car, as he slid across the gearbox and into the driver’s seat. Hawk looked back and saw a pale man, shaking with fever. ‘Whatever this is, we have to make contact with Station R.’
Deane tried to swallow but couldn’t and slowly moved his head to face his partner. ‘There is no Station R, Will, they were killed over a month ago. I doubt there is a replacement available either; it’s down to us. Start the car and get us moving.’
Hawk fluffed his thick blonde hair and let out a sign of concern. ‘How in the world are you going to stop Salenko and his security? You can barely move.’ He closed his eyes for a second and looked deeply troubled. ‘This is not good…’
‘I’ll be fine in a few minutes. Concentrate on the road.’ Deane’s voice was one of stubborn arrogance but deep down he knew he was getting worse and there wasn’t anything he could do about it…
Jordan adjusted his torch beam and continued forward with Gibbs just a few paces ahead of him.
The manhole that led back to Regis House was now several hundred metres behind them as the two agents progressed further and further into the darkness.
Jordan stopped for a moment and slowly moved the beam of light over a corner up ahead, to where several pieces of equipment lay covered in cobwebs and years of dust. ‘This place is just one big time capsule, you know; there’s nothing here. I bet…’ Jordan stopped in his tracks as the light caused a glimmer as if it had collided with steel. Something new in this dump? He stepped closer and angled the light carefully. Within seconds, Jordan began to realise what it was. ‘What the fu-’
BOOM! BOOM!
Jordan ducked down for cover. He saw his colleague run past and head for the manhole, the only chance of safety.
Gibbs drew out his Heckler and Koch USP and fired off several rounds as he turned around and held his position. He screamed out to Jordan who was still on the ground. ‘Run to the manhole, Alex. NOW! I’ll cover you enough for you to call for help!’
Time appeared to slow down as both agents, survivors of so much danger and death in the past, scrambled for the safety of the manhole…
As the Lada sped along the winding roads that led to the commercial Nevskiy Prospekt area of St. Petersburg, Hawk was stressing and couldn’t stop. None of this had been said at the briefing, not at any time! His mind was spinning with different rumours he had heard, most of which had been circling around his fellow agents for months. Surely they were just that though – rumours? Many had mentioned words of change and different versions of what might be coming in the future. Agents that were young like Hawk and some older than Deane himself were all talking about Russia and the losses of other colleagues around the world. Was a war on its way? Will there be inter-agency team’s s
et up to stop it? Hawk had even met others at MI6, MI5 and the C.I.A. some with a long list of achievements behind them that had categorically said if a war did come, they would play no part and resign their commission.
Dangerous revelations, Hawk knew. Word of mouth was a powerful tool that could do more damage than many would admit. Ramsey’s chilling words and bloodcurdling tone came back to him… ‘Do it. Kill them all.’
Doubts were growing stronger in his mind now no matter how hard he tried to stop his thoughts from taking him further down that road. If everything was to be believed, the operation in Russia was of pivotal importance and could well avert a war before it had even begun. It was down to him, Deane and the two inter-agency agents to stop it. As he came to a set of traffic lights along Nevskiy Prospekt Street, he considered asking his mentor for advice as he looked ahead.
Nevskiy Prospekt hummed with activity and with only one look, proved it was the commercial heart of St Petersburg. Outside the window of the Lada was a busy street with wide grey pavements, lined with many grey painted street lamps and sign after sign, almost giving it a sea-like view. With so many signs in the distance, it was impossible to spot them in time, let alone read them.
Hawk’s eyes darted from passers by, to road signs, to the many shops and the occasional Western influence; a large Coca-Cola sign flashed by as he started to move the Lada along the busy street. Ahead of him on the left, high in the distance, the Duma Tower caught his attention. Hawk had never been to Russia before and had so far found St Petersburg to be a fascinating city. He could easily see why it was commonly recognised as the tourist centre point. As the Lada coasted down Nevskiy Prospekt past the Russian Library, a small sky blue and white building, he saw the Passazh Arcade and wondered how many people were in there, buzzing around the shopping mall. He looked up and saw the glass canopy that stretched some distance away from him.
The whole street was positively buzzing with activity and it was impossible to go more than 10 –20 miles an hour. The traffic was so busy and the number of people around seemed to slow everything down.
Finally, the car passed the Duma Tower. Hawk remembered what he had read months before, recalling that the Tower had housed the local Government back in the early 1900s.
He snapped his mind back to the present and turned the car down Dumskaya Ulitsa as he looked across to Deane for guidance. All he saw was a sick man but asked the question he wanted answered anyway. ‘Tom…do you really think it’ll come to war?’
Whilst Hawk had been letting his thoughts and fears get the better of him, Deane had been doing two things. Monitoring the adjacent wing mirror to see if they were being followed and hardest of all, using every inch of his mental powers to lock the pain away in his mind. It was proving to be an almost impossible task but he didn’t have enough energy to move and also answer the young boy’s question. ‘There’s a lot more going on here that we don’t know about and I’ll hazard a guess that Ramsey doesn’t know either. Truth be told…I don’t know. War will only add to our problems, putting us all in the limelight and in harm’s way.’
Fear could be heard in Hawk’s voice. ‘But surely the UN will step in and take control?’
Deane blamed Ramsey for this and no one else. The boy wasn’t ready for such an operation; one that could change the course of history. He wished more than anything that he had Olsen by his side. Not only could they take on and defeat Salenko and his security together, he would also feel far stronger than he did at that moment. Before answering, he sent a silent prayer out into the wilderness that Olsen was indeed alive and putting his training to good use. ‘We can only do what’s been asked of us, Will. I have no doubts that Salenko is not what he seems. He does indeed have goals that aren’t peaceful and for that reason alone he must be stopped.’ Deane studied the wing mirror again.
‘Surely there must be a diplomatic solution to this. Salenko has his beliefs, I can’t believe he will instigate a war to revolutionise Russia, he may well try-’
‘Enough!’ Deane forced himself up from his seat and started loading his black, powerful-looking Spitfire G1 pistol. ‘Take the next turning on the left. We’re being followed!’
Ferec threw away the night vision goggles, desperately wanting to challenge himself and started running. The thrill of the chase had now taken him over, so desperate was he to engage the apparent best MI6 had to offer. He lined up his pistol and couldn’t repress the sick grin that spread to every corner of his mouth. Your lives are mine…
Jordan grabbed his colleague and pushed him towards the direction of the manhole. ‘Call Sam and tell him to seal off this-’ Instantly, Jordan’s body snapped back as if he’d been hit with incredible force. He let out a gasp of pain and collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Ferec saw one target drop and the sight alone fuelled the fire within him to crush the remaining challenger. At full sprint, he lunged through the air and smashed into the S.U.C.O. agent who had started to run towards the manhole. His hands gripped around the man’s neck, and squeezed with all his might, desperate to add a S.U.C.O. agent to his list of kills.
Chapter 13
Friday, July 27th 12:15,
Regis House basement, King William Street, Central London.
Gibbs struggled to break free of the vicelike grip around his neck and twisted his torso in a vain attempt to shake off his attacker. Ferec had come from nowhere, had probably killed Jordan and was now intent on taking his life as well. He looked up and saw a face full of determination. Gibbs’s own eyes darted to those of the assassin and then onto the sick grin that grew ever wider.
Ferec could feel the windpipe in his fingers begin to give and found more strength from within as he began to laugh. ‘YOU’RE DEAD!’ he shouted. He recognised the desperate anxiety in the eyes of Gibbs but the assassin didn’t flinch. He had seen it before in the hundreds of other murders he had overseen; this one would be no different.
Gibbs screamed as best he could and lashed out at the face above, catching the mouth with his knuckles. Ferec lost his grip slightly as Gibbs lifted up his right knee with all the force he could muster, slamming the bone into the genitals of the man above.
Ferec rolled off and winced in agony as he was kicked away, onto the remains of the rail tracks.
Gibbs got to his knees and rummaged for his Glock .45 in the darkness but found nothing. A light appeared in front of him, illuminating his attacker, who was standing over the crumpled body of Alex Jordan.
Ferec threw a high-powered disc of light away and the device landed next to the wall, sending out its beam on the standoff. The remains of the abandoned station lit up partially, illuminating the features of the three men, Ferec and Gibbs in particular.
Jordan registered white-hot pain in his chest and could feel hot blood run down his body. Somehow, he opened his eyes enough to see a man standing over him. He was laughing uncontrollably and was aiming a pistol right between his eyes. Jordan raised his right hand weakly and tried to speak but the sheer effort of it all made him black out.
‘NO!’ Gibbs smashed into Ferec, grabbed the weapon and forced it out of his hand as he turned and spun around to make a full on impact with a well-timed left hook.
Ferec composed himself and caught his balance, raising his hands, gearing up for battle.
Gibbs never took his eyes off the man ahead and kept both hands out in front of him, trying to focus on the fighting style of San Shou, which he had worked so hard to master over the years. At the same time, he made sure his expression never changed as his right thumb punched out an S.O.S. code on the keypad of the mobile phone that was concealed in his right hand. Quickly, he held down the zero and tapped out 999. Just once, he saw the red flash on the display that was safely protected by his hand and then he dropped the phone to the floor and stepped forward. Gibbs began to pray that the other S.U.C.O. protectors would pick up his S.O.S. signal and be on their way. All I have to do is hold this guy off for a few minutes.
Amidst the shadows a
nd the remains of a London Underground station long since abandoned, the men stood face to face, each waiting for one to make the first attack.
Outside the remains of Aldwych station, several cars passed by but not many people were around. The whole area was bathed in the early morning sunshine; that and the constant orange glow from the lampposts provided illumination.
Olsen looked miles away as he leaned against the Audi A4, trying to regain his composure. The rage inside him had begun to fade but the sight of the dead cameraman now urged him on even more, to stop whatever was ahead. He had picked up a voicemail from one of his teams that the British Museum station was all clear but his mind wouldn’t stop racing with other possibilities.
Carter reloaded his Heckler & Koch P7M8 and watched his friend closely from the other side of the vehicle. Questions were in his mind as to how well his friend was coping. So far he had seen Olsen look to be far more stable but the episode he had witnessed on the roof of MI6 was never far from his mind. In all the years he had worked with him, he had seen the look of rage on him before but never with such a reckless tinge. You’d better keep it together Sam; I don’t want to be the one to tell Rachel her husband got himself killed. He turned around at the sound of a car and saw a speeding grey Audi A4 approach them and park on the pavement.
Olsen approached the vehicle and opened the driver’s door. ‘I hope you have a bomb disposal expert with you.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Spoke the driver.
‘There are devices of some kind, possibly incendiary. Have one sent to the labs at headquarters for analysis.’ Olsen turned to face Carter. ‘Take them down there Dan, I’ll contact the other teams.’
Carter was sitting in the front seat of the A4, operating the display. ‘Sam, you should take a look at this.’ he touched the screen several times and localised the distress call. ‘It’s Gibbs, he’s activated his phone and it’s set to S.O.S.’