The Agent (An Isabella Rose Thriller Book 3)

by Mark Dawson

  Pope nodded.

  He knew they had no choice, not really. This was the only course of action open to him. He had to do it. But Isabella didn’t.

  ‘You should think about what you want to do now,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to follow me.’

  ‘Why?’ she said. ‘Because it’s dangerous?’

  ‘It will be—’

  She cut him off. ‘You don’t think I’m used to that by now?’

  ‘I know you are—’

  ‘We’re in this together. You’ve said it yourself – I already know too much for me to be safe. I want to see it through.’

  Pope didn’t argue. He took the cell phone that Isabella had found and scrolled through the calls that had been made and received. There was only one number. It wasn’t identified.

  He called it.

  ‘Worldwide Distribution. How can I direct your call?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to someone about Maia.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’

  ‘You have an agent. Her name is Maia. I’m with her now – she’s in the boot of my car. Put me through to someone who can talk to me about her or I’ll call the press instead.’

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘Captain Michael Pope.’

  ‘We’ll need proof that you’re with her.’

  Pope selected one of the photographs that he had taken of Maia chained to the radiator and sent it.

  ‘Got it?’

  There was a pause. Pope thought he could hear another voice, a murmured conversation in the background.

  ‘Yes,’ the speaker said. ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘She was stabbed in the shoulder the last time I saw her. It’s amazing how quickly she’s healed. Do you think the newspapers would be interested to see what you’ve done?’

  ‘You’re not in a position to make threats, Captain. Think of your family.’

  ‘I am thinking of them,’ he said. ‘It’s the only reason I haven’t gone to the media already.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’d like to give her back to you.’

  ‘That would be helpful, Captain. In exchange for your wife and your daughters?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘We’ll need to talk about it.’

  ‘I’m not negotiating. This will be the only time we talk.’

  There was another pause. Pope watched the traffic rushing by, spray kicking up behind them as the cars and lorries sped through the standing water. He stared at the tail lights until his eyes lost focus and the red became a constant blur.

  ‘Very well. Where and when?’

  Pope found that his heart was in his mouth. ‘One more thing before we get to that,’ he said. ‘I want Vivian Bloom to be there. He makes the exchange. No one else.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Who?’

  ‘Don’t waste my time. You know who he is. And it’s non-negotiable.’

  ‘You would risk your family over something like that?’

  ‘That’s the deal. If it’s no good for you, just say. My next call will be to the Post.’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary. Mr Bloom will be there. Where would you like to meet?’

  ‘Bring them to Knoxville in Tennessee. The exchange will be at midnight in two days. I’ll call again with the location.’

  He ended the call without waiting for a reply. He found that his hand was shaking as he broke the phone open, pulled out the battery and the SIM and dropped them and the phone into the cup holder between the two front seats.

  Isabella was looking at him across the cabin. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘They said yes.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We’ve got a long drive.’

  PART FOURTEEN:

  Knoxville

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Isabella was in charge of navigation.

  They followed the interstate, taking I-66 towards Woodstock and then switching on to I-81 for the long, seven-hour drive south to Tennessee. They stopped on two occasions. The second time they stopped, Pope chose a gas station with a large parking lot, a wide empty space where he could park the car and still be confident that Maia would not be able to attract attention if she started to holler from the trunk. He stayed in the car with the gun while Isabella went into the stores for provisions. Once Isabella had returned, and they were on quiet roads again, he pulled over and they both went to the trunk. They each aimed their guns as Pope opened the lid and offered Maia water. He helped her to sit and held the bottle to her lips while she drank.

  She said nothing. She was relaxed and cooperative.

  The Cruze’s tank was three-quarters full, and they had been able to make it all the way down to Blacksburg before they needed to fill up. Pope found a quiet place and Isabella filled the Cruze up with gas as he waited, ready to drive away if Maia tried to pull anything.

  Once again, she did not.

  They listened to the radio. The top of every hour brought a new development in the story of the Dulles airport attack: the bombers had been positively identified; martyrdom videos had been circulated by channels associated with the Islamic State, with each man pledging allegiance to the caliphate and warning of the commencement of a holy war; the CIA and FBI were confirming that the attack was most likely directed from Syria; and, finally, as they crossed the border into West Virginia, there was an Oval Office statement from the president in which he said that the attack was ‘an act of war’ and promised that the United States military would retaliate appropriately.

  ‘They’re getting what they want,’ Pope said. ‘London first to get the British on side. That worked. Now this.’

  ‘And Litivenko?’

  ‘You’ve got to give them credit. They killed two birds with one stone. Nearly three, if you count us.’

  ‘So why was Maia there?’

  ‘To make sure she was dead.’

  Isabella stared out of the windshield.

  ‘What is it?’ Pope said.

  Isabella shrugged. ‘So why is she cooperating?’

  ‘She’s handcuffed. We’re both armed. What’s she going to do?’

  ‘It’s as if she’s resigned to it. She hasn’t tried anything, not even when it was just me and her. And I fell asleep.’

  Pope reached over and grasped her shoulder. ‘Don’t let her get into your head. She’s dangerous, Isabella. You’ve seen what she can do. Don’t forget it.’

  Isabella rested her feet on the dashboard as Pope pulled into the middle lane and overtook a slow-moving convoy of lorries.

  ‘Why are we going to Knoxville?’

  ‘We’re meeting a friend there,’ Pope said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone I used to know a long time ago. His name is Chuck. We’re going to need help. And this is going to be right up his alley.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We’ll go south. The Great Smoky Mountains. I know them. I trained up there before. We’re going to be outnumbered and outgunned. We can make the odds a little better if we know the terrain better than they do.’

  ‘You have a plan?’

  ‘I do,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t think about trying to leave me out of it.’

  He snorted. ‘Couldn’t do that even if I wanted to, could I? There’s only two of us, three if you count Chuck. I’m going to need your help.’

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  They arrived in Knoxville at five in the morning. Pope had called ahead and arranged to meet his friend at the Cracker Barrel Old Country Store, just south of the interstate as it ran the last few miles into the city. The restaurant was in a large, modern building that looked more like a warehouse than a place where you might go to eat, with a parking lot dividing it from the Motel 6 to the west. Pope pulled into the parking lot. It was empty, but he parked the Cruze as far away from the buildings as he could.

  It had been a long drive and Isabella was tired. She yawned.

  P
ope looked over at her and rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Not too much more to do this morning, then we can get some sleep.’

  She was about to reply when she saw the lights of another car rake across the side of the building. Pope squinted into the glare.

  ‘Is that him?’ she asked.

  ‘I think so.’

  The car parked next to theirs. It was an old military vehicle, a four-wheel-drive utility. It had a horizontal slot grille at the front, plenty of ground clearance and the driver was protected by a fold-down roof. The vehicle was in excellent condition, the olive drab paint job glittering in the glow of the lights that towered over the parking lot. Pope and Isabella waited until the grumbling engine was shut off and the driver stepped down.

  Isabella looked him over. He was an old man with a thick beard reaching down below his chin. He had thick, bushy white eyebrows and a gap between his two front teeth. He was wearing a padded leather jacket with a patch sewn over the breast. His face broke into a ready grin when he saw Pope.

  ‘Michael Pope, as I live and breathe. I never thought I’d be seeing you again.’

  The man reached out his hand and Pope took it. That didn’t seem to be enough; the man drew Pope into an embrace and clapped him vigorously on the back.

  ‘Good to see you, Chuck,’ Pope said.

  ‘Likewise.’

  Pope went over to the jeep and ran his fingers across the grille.

  ‘Is it an original?’ Pope asked.

  ‘You recognise it?’

  ‘M151?’

  Chuck nodded. ‘The quarter-ton. You know your jeeps. This one was used by Creighton Abrams at Long Binh. Came up at auction fifteen years ago. It was one of the ones they couldn’t sell, so they quartered it for scrap. I welded it back together, did it up and put it back on the road.’

  ‘She’s a beauty,’ Pope said.

  ‘But you didn’t come all the way down here to admire my wheels, did you?’

  ‘No,’ Pope said. ‘I appreciate you doing this.’

  ‘What you talking about?’

  ‘Coming out here. You didn’t have to.’

  ‘Sure I did. I told you – I ain’t never forgotten what you did for me. I owe you, brother. I’m happy I got the opportunity to help.’

  ‘You don’t know what I want you to do yet.’

  ‘You want to grab some breakfast and tell me about it?’ He nodded to Isabella. ‘Who’s this one? Your daughter?’

  ‘I’m not his daughter,’ Isabella replied tersely.

  ‘Her name is Isabella,’ Pope said.

  Chuck offered her his hand. She took it. His skin was leathery and dry, his grip firm.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Isabella. My name’s Chuck McCluskey. Now, then. I don’t know about you two, but I’m so hungry I could eat the north end of a southbound goat. How about y’all?’

  Pope smiled, but shook his head. ‘Wish I could, but not now.’

  ‘I know a place,’ Chuck said. ‘Open twenty-four seven, best pancakes this side of paradise.’

  ‘I can’t leave the car,’ Pope explained. And then, when McCluskey showed his confusion, Pope added, ‘Can we go somewhere quiet? Do you still have your place at the airfield?’

  ‘Sure do. Got a couple hangars over there now. It’ll be quieter than a mouse pissing on cotton at this time of the morning. We can shut them up good and tight and you can tell me whatever it is you want me to be getting myself into. You want to do it now?’

  ‘No time like the present.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ he said, turning to the jeep. ‘You can follow me there.’

  Pope got behind the wheel and set off behind the old jeep.

  ‘He’s our help?’ Isabella said as they pulled away.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘That he’s obviously crazy?’

  ‘He’s not crazy. He’s just eccentric. There’s a difference.’

  ‘If you say so,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘An old friend.’

  She looked at him and impatiently gestured that he should go on.

  ‘This was a long time ago,’ he said, his fingers drumming against the wheel. ‘I was in the Group, but it was years before I took over as Control. There was a businessman we had our eye on. The top man in a petrochemical outfit. They were breaching sanctions by buying oil from Iraq. The decision was made that the man had to be removed.’

  ‘Killed,’ Isabella said. She had no time for euphemisms. She knew that Pope had been a government assassin. Her mother had held the same position that he’d held. She was inured to surprise, although Pope often seemed to tread carefully whenever the subject came up.

  ‘Fine. You’re right. That’s what they wanted us to do. He was into winter sports and had a cabin up in Vail. They sent us here to train for the operation. The landscape was similar, the climate was similar, it was a good spot. I came up here with John Milton and a couple of other agents, we put a plan together and then we practised it.’

  ‘How was the old man involved?’

  ‘We planned to go in on foot, but we wanted the option of exfiltrating by helicopter. Chuck used to fly for the 1st Cavalry Division in Vietnam. The way he tells it, he flew six hundred missions without getting shot down. When he got out, he flew for the CIA. He must’ve been fifty-five when they assigned him to us. We thought they were taking the piss, but they weren’t. I’ve never seen anyone fly helicopters like him.’

  ‘I don’t know if you noticed,’ Isabella said, ‘but he’s not fifty-five now. He’s a lot older than that.’

  ‘I know,’ Pope said. ‘But Chuck owes me a favour and we can’t just hire a pilot for what we’ve got to do. Apart from the fact it’s way beyond being illegal, no one in their right mind would agree to it. He will. I trust him, he’s still flying, and that makes him our best shot. We’ve got to be creative if we’re going to get out of this in one piece.’

  McCluskey led them south to a private airfield on the eastern boundary of McGhee Tyson Airport, the domestic hub for the Tennessee area. It was five thirty in the morning when they pulled up at a gate in a high wire-mesh fence. Isabella looked up and saw a sign that announced the Army Aviation Heritage Trust.

  ‘Heritage?’ she said.

  ‘Keep an open mind.’

  McCluskey drove on to the airfield and parked next to a large steel-framed hangar. He signalled for Pope and Isabella to stay in their car and walked stiffly to the control panel. He unlocked it and then pressed a button so that the hangar door rolled up. He got back into the jeep and drove inside. Pope followed.

  The internal lights were off, so the interior was lit by the headlamps of the jeep and the Chevrolet. Isabella could see five distinct, dark shapes. The beams played across them and she realised that she was looking at a collection of helicopters.

  Pope switched off the engine and stepped out. Isabella followed him.

  ‘Jesus,’ Pope whistled. ‘What have you got here?’

  ‘Hold on.’ McCluskey reached the box for the lights and switched them all on. The hangar was bathed in white as banks of lights came on in groups. ‘There you go.’

  ‘Look at this,’ Pope exclaimed.

  Isabella didn’t recognise the helicopters, but she could tell that they were of varying age. They were impressive.

  ‘What do you think?’ Chuck asked them.

  ‘I think it’s amazing,’ Pope said. ‘Where did you get all these?’

  ‘They come up at auction every now and again. We buy them, restore them, get them into the air again.’

  Isabella looked at the helicopters sceptically. ‘They still fly?’

  ‘Just one of them at the moment,’ McCluskey said. He walked down the row to the farthest chopper from them. He tapped his knuckles against the aluminium fuselage. ‘This one.’

  Isabella looked at it.

  ‘You recognise that, young lady?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Huey 624,’ Pope said.


  ‘Correct. Call sign’s Lucky. I’d guess she’s about three times your age. Workhorse of our fleet. Bought brand new by the US Army from Bell Helicopter in sixty-seven, then sent to Vietnam. Did combat service with the 61st Assault Helicopter Company. The company insignia is two dice – six and one, that’s the unit designation – and when you add it up, you get lucky seven. That’s where she gets her name. She was brought down by ground fire at Ia Drang.’

  ‘Not that lucky, then,’ Isabella said.

  ‘You got a lip on you, missy, don’tcha?’

  McCluskey opened the cockpit door and leaned in to adjust something that Isabella couldn’t see. ‘We buy historic aircraft like Lucky and get them fixed up so that they can fly again. I got a team of veterans, from Vietnam vets all the way to guys who just got out, and we put them to work preserving the equipment that they used to work on when they were serving. We put them all the way back to their original army specifications, we make sure they’re maintained to operational standards, then we get clearance to fly them again. We do air shows and we take old soldiers up, rekindle their memories.’ He shut the door. ‘Listen to me – I’m going on and on. You didn’t come out here to see my helicopters. What can I do for you?’

  ‘You said she was still flying,’ Pope said, nodding to the Huey. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Well, shit, sure I am. Who else you think flies her?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that. Because we’re looking for a pilot. That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘That’s the thing. I could’ve hired a commercial pilot if this was straightforward, but it’s not. You better come and take a look at this.’

  Pope led the way to the back of the Cruze. He drew the pistol.

  ‘What you got in there, partner?’ McCluskey said.

  Isabella drew her Beretta.

  Pope opened the trunk and stood back.

  Maia was still curled up, her legs drawn up to her chest. She looked up at them now, blinking into the fierce white light.

  McCluskey whistled. ‘Right,’ he drawled.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Isabella trained the pistol on Maia as Pope and McCluskey lifted her out of the trunk. Maia tentatively put weight on her legs and tried to straighten up; she was cramping, her face reflecting her discomfort. Pope asked if she wanted to go to the bathroom and she said that she did. McCluskey told them it was out back, and Pope told Maia to head towards it, his pistol aimed square between her shoulder blades. Isabella followed.