“Pilbeam said Drexler had a kill-switch for the virus. We’re going to get him. In the meantime get Hugh on that hard drive we recovered from De Soto. See if he can work something out.”
“I’m on it,” Juliet replied.
Dmitri drove fast, using back roads to avoid police roadblocks. It took a couple of hours to reach Kent, the Russian swearing and slapping the satellite navigation. In that time there were news reports of power failures affecting hospitals and public transport. Rioters were taking advantage of the dark, shops and offices ablaze. One radio journalist was breathily proud of his scoop:
A senior, unnamed, MEP has indicated the EU will offer boots-on-the-ground support from the elite European Gendarmerie Force as a ‘fraternal and preventative security measure, despite the British decision to leave the EU.’ The force is mobilising at its headquarters in Vincenza, Italy, for possible deployment if the UK Government asks for assistance. A source linked to the EU’s External Action Service told the BBC, ‘We stand ready to ensure stability and democracy in Great Britain, and stop the contagion spreading…’ A Conservative Party source told me the offer was ‘a breath-taking liberty, which must be resisted at all costs.’
“There’s no way that’s true,” I said. “It’s bullshit.”
“Exactly, my friend. This feels like well-coordinated Maskirovka,” said Dmitri sagely, “old-school KGB psychological operation, before shock army advance. Tell people who wear tin-foil hats what they want to hear. But what is the objective?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Not yet.”
We neared Romney Marsh, a lonely place of scrub and wind-bent hedgerows. Beyond stretched the English Channel, silvery-black. Dmitri followed my directions, nudging the 4x4 along a rutted track. The luminous dial on my G10 read 00:02.
I got out of the car. Dmitri joined me and lit his cigarette. “Your man is here?”
“Yeah,” said Oz, materialising from the trees like a camouflaged djinn. Harry joined him, an oilskin bundle under each arm. The old handler wore a waxed poacher’s jacket and faded combat trousers.
Dmitri nodded. “Oz, is good to see you again.”
“You too, mate.”
Harry stepped forward and introduced himself.
“Ah, Harry. You used to be their handler?” said Dmitri.
“For my sins.”
“Is okay,” Dmitri replied. “Now you fight, instead of telling others to do it for you.”
“Russian, eh? I was shooting down Soviet gunships in the ‘Stan when you were swimming ‘round your old man’s ball-sack,” Harry put the oilskins on the ground with a clunk. “These are courtesy of The Dutchman. I checked out those coordinates, he left a cache not more than ten miles from here.”
I unfolded the bundles. First up were three suppressed Browning pistols. They shone with lubricant, gunmetal gleaming like beetle shell. Next were six Kalashnikovs with fore-grips and Russian PK-AS optics. They were newer AK74Ms, with polymer furniture and side-folding stocks. They were angular, evil-looking weapons. If you wanted to design an object that looked like its sole purpose was killing, you’d most likely come up with something like the ‘74M.
“Excellent tools from The Rodina,” said Dmitri approvingly, loading a rifle and strapping it across his chest. He slung a spare over his shoulder.
Last was an olive green lump, slightly bigger than a shoe box. I felt its heft and smiled. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Yeah,” said Oz. “What sort of crazy bastard goes burying those all over the place?”
“The Dutchman,” said Harry darkly. “It’s almost as if he knew someone would want to come down here one day and blow the bloody place up. Glad I don’t work here anymore.”
We bombed-up magazines, chose weapons and made a plan. Dmitri plugged in his earpiece and nodded. In his long leather duster and slicked-back hair, he looked every inch the Russian Mafioso. Oz readied his rifle and gave a thumbs up. Harry slapped me on the shoulder, gave a grim smile and led the little patrol towards the G-Wagen.
I headed into the night. After ten minutes sneaking about, I saw the outline of a single-story building. Dungeness Engineering. Lying in night-damp grass, I squinted through my rifle optics. The site was surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. There was a rough track, made of concrete sleepers and aggregate, leading to the gate: one way in, one way out. The only cover was a dwarf wall running along one side of the track. There was also a portakabin with improvised Hesco-type barrier work, wire mesh containers filled with concrete. I saw the silhouette of a man stood next to it, the orange tip of a cigarette bobbing in the darkness.
I crawled towards the wall and took cover. Sliding the box-shaped object Oz had given me from my pack, I set it facing the gate. Wriggling as close to the wall as I could, I called Monty’s number.
“Yes?”
“It’s Winter.”
“I knew you’d call sooner or later, Cal,” he said in a treacly voice. “Where are you?”
“Outside.”
A pause. “What d’you want?”
“Drexler.”
“Speak with the man himself,” Monty snorted. “In fact, he’d like that very much.”
“I have already. I wasn’t impressed. I’ve got a thumb drive containing the STREGA file and Kris Pilbeam’s confession. I’ll upload it on the Internet. The virus, Hoffman’s crazy maths project, your current location, why MI5 sacked you for corruption…”
“Really? You’re the murderer. Do you want that on the internet too? More bluffing.”
Oz’s voice buzzed in my earpiece. “Movement outside the workshop. Four tangoes, all armed. Monty ain’t with ‘em. Movement towards you… in three… two…… one…”
I saw dark figures to my front, toting weapons. Whispered voices. The crunch of gravel underfoot.
And I squeezed the trigger of the Claymore mine I’d positioned opposite the gate.
The detonation battered my ears, hundreds of steel bearings scything the air. I dashed forwards, AK shouldered. All four men were shredded by the Claymore’s steel tempest, my boots sliding on gore in a charnel-zone of meat and abandoned weapons. A dying man groaned, hands fluttering over glistening mauve entrails. I shot him twice, ending his misery.
Dmitri’s G-Wagen bumped along the track, halogen lamps splashing the portakabin with light. Gunfire erupted from the building, kicking up dirt around me. Oz and Harry leapt from the vehicle and took cover behind the engine block. The old man rolled like a pro, taking up a fluid firing position. Dmitri stumbled out of the driver’s door, clutching his arm.
Oz popped up and emptied a magazine at the portakabin. “Re-load!”
“Covering!” Harry barked, hosing a stream of bullets across the yard. Dozens of dirty shell casings littered the ground, trailing smoke.
Oz reloaded and fired into the portakabin window. Darting into the open, I dragged the Russian behind the G-Wagen. The sleeve of his coat was slick with blood.
“Where’s the injury?” said Oz, pulling a field dressing from his tactical vest.
“Upper arm, not shoulder,” Dmitri grunted. “Is OK.”
Bullets caromed off bodywork, making us hug dirt. The G-Wagen’s windows shattered, glass granules spattering like rain.
“Come on,” said Oz, looking at the door to the workshop, “they should be here by now.”
Dmitri’s bloody hand clenched his arm. “Who?”
“Them,” I said.
Harry slid a fresh magazine into his AK. “What the fuck’s going on, Winter?”
“Hold your fire,” I ordered.
Three figures emerged from the office building. The first was stocky and bull-necked, wearing a load-carrying vest over a black tee-shirt. He sprinted across the courtyard and tossed something through the portakabin window. The grenade detonated with a thump, a ragged figure baling out of the door.
The second of the trio was a gaunt, fork-bearded man in jeans and a hoodie. The wash of headlights revealed coppery-re
d hair. He emptied a pump-gun into a second man staggering from the portakabin. “ENDEX!” he hollered in a harsh Scottish accent.
“You were late, Duncan,” I said.
“No matter. We brought someone to see you.” Bannerman was an ex-paratrooper. When his team were killed in Africa, he was transferred to mine. Then, after I disappeared to Iceland, he agreed to feign loyalty to The Firm.
“Here’s your old buddy, Cal,” said the bull-necked guy in a strangely-pitched voice, the legacy of an old bullet wound to the throat. Alex Bytchakov was my team’s Russian-American sniper and the other half of our ruse. “Being Monty’s henchman deserves hazard pay.”
Monty, the third man, lay on the ground. Hands plasti-cuffed behind his back, mouth gagged. Piggy eyes blazed at the indignity. He wore slacks and a corduroy sports jacket, a mobile telephone clipped to his belt.
“I don’t understand,” said Dmitri. “These men are with you?”
I nodded.
“We’ve been pretending to be Monty’s bitches for six months. You OK, big man?” Duncan replied, looking at Dmitri’s arm.
“Is only flesh wound.”
“Ah, Russian,” Alex grinned, grinding Monty’s phone under his boot heel. “We’re like zombies. Only head-shots work, right?”
Dmitri winced, but laughed anyway. The hip flask was handed around and emptied.
“Who’s the old fella?” said Duncan, eyeing Harry suspiciously.
“Time for introductions later,” Harry replied.
“I know that voice,” said the Scotsman. “You’re Harry, right?”
“Not now,” I said.
“You’re right, we need tae get in the wagon,” said Duncan, striding towards the minibus parked nearby. “There’ll be Polis here sooner or later.”
Oz was already emptying a jerry can of petrol over the G-Wagen. “I’ll take the BMW. Where to now?”
We bundled Monty into the minibus. Monty wriggled and groaned through the gag in his mouth.
“He wants to say something,” said Harry, ripping off the gag.
Monty sucked in air, wheezing like an old man. “You want Drexler, don’t you? He’s at the CROUPIER site. He’s waiting for you.”
“I can take you,” said Harry. “CROUPIER’s only fifteen miles west of here.”
Alex pulled a map from his pocket and Harry pointed out a spot east of Rye. The Kent and Sussex coast was legendary for smuggling. The marshy beaches were secluded, long-favoured by drug-runners and people-traffickers operating rigid inflatables. Noting the grid for CROUPIER’S location, I pinged it to Juliet.
“Let us go and meet this crazy American.” Dmitri grunted, getting in the BMW with Oz.
The rest of us piled in the minibus, a mud-spattered Toyota. Last in was Alex, who rolled an incendiary grenade into the foot well of Dmitri’s bullet-riddled 4x4. We bumped along the track as it exploded, Dungeness Engineering back-lit by orange-white flame.
We skirted Lydd, Duncan hurtling towards the coast road. Finally I saw a lonely blue light, flashing in the distance. It was heading away from us, towards the power station. I guessed securing nuclear energy sites was a priority during an emergency, not investigating fires in lonely workshops. “Monty, what’s going on?” I said, ripping the gag from his mouth.
Monty sucked in air, voice a wheezy croak. “A show of force.”
“Why?”
“I thought you’d have guessed by now. After all, you’ve got that ex-SIS bitch feeding you intelligence.”
Alex Bytchakov nudged the muzzle of his M4 into Monty’s cheek. “Answer the question.”
Monty’s face was pale, like wet putty. “Drexler was recruited as an ICEPICK, just like you. He was blackmailed, implicated in a murder. The EVOCATI who hired him was Lois Baker. Ambitious bitch, wanted to be PRIMO. She boasted Drexler was a game-changing recruit for The Firm, an expert in a new way of war. Erik turned out to be our very own Spartacus. He led a slave revolt, got the Trieste and US cells on board.”
“And he’s taken a job that involves crashing the economy?”
“Jealous, Winter? Drexler bent The Firm to his will. You sat and sulked in Iceland. He’s PRIMO EVOCATI now. And you? Trying to catch up, as usual.”
I looked at Harry and raised an eyebrow. The handler said nothing, statue-faced. But I saw his finger slip inside the trigger guard of his weapon. I shook my head.
Alex pulled a face. “Monty, we’ve been watching your ass for months. Why didn’t Drexler ask us to join this revolt?”
“I warned him off you two,” Monty replied, a trace of a smirk on his fleshy face. “You were too close to Winter. I assigned you and Bannerman to my protection team instead. You keep friends close, but enemies closer.”
“How did Drexler identify the bosses?” I asked.
“I told him, of course,” said Monty, eyes burning with crazy defiance. “The EVOCATI? They looked down their noses at handlers.”
“They didn’t look down their noses at me,” Harry replied icily.
Monty shrugged. “Besides, Winter discovered my true identity. Threatened me. I wanted to get my blow in first.”
“You helped Drexler murder the entire chain of command?” said Alex, screwing up his scar-streaked face. “I’m kinda impressed, if I’m bein’ honest.”
“Yes.” Monty looked out of the window, the night perfect black. “Drexler’s continuing what The Firm has always done – providing a service. But he chooses work that suits his agenda. I admire that.”
“Come on, Monty, this isn’t what The Firm does,” I replied, ice-water in my veins. “This is attacking our own bloody country.”
Monty snorted. “Spare me, Winter. It’s not our country anymore, is it? It’s been sold. Britain needs a shock. Like a puppy needs it’s nose rubbing in its own shit. This country is fucking broken.”
“Feel better now, Adolf?” said Bannerman.
I grabbed Monty, hauled his face next to mine. “Drexler is playing you all for fools. His technical people thought they were rectifying world austerity. Then we’ve got a tin-pot reactionary like you, supporting him as well…”
Monty sneered. “The dice land where they will, Cal. I’ve rolled mine.”
“Wanker,” Duncan snorted.
“That’s like a jerk, right?” asked Alex.
“It sounds like Drexler’s got everyone drinking snake oil,” said Harry.
I fixed Monty with a dead-eyed stare. “I wonder if Jacques Paradis has the answer.”
“Over-playing your hand, Winter?” Monty sneered. “Mentioning that name just narrowed any chance you had of survival.”
“Who the fuck is Jacques Paradis?” said Duncan, grinding gears.
“I think he’s hired Drexler to play God with the world economy,” I replied.
Monty grinned, so I slammed my rifle butt into his face.
“Man, you beat me to it,” said Alex, nudging the comatose handler with his boot.
We drove on. Candles flickered in the windows of lonely houses. The roads were empty, radio announcers urging the public to stay at home. News bulletins spoke of hospitals running on generators, queues forming at petrol stations. Finally, Duncan parked on a rutted track. Pools of water shone glassily, reed-covered hillocks separating us from the sea.
Harry fished a pair of night-vision binos from his pack. “Look right, by the fence. You’ll see CROUPIER over there.”
The fence straddled a low hill. Beyond lay a derelict caravan park by a beach, blue-silver in the moonlight. Rows of forlorn trailers were overlooked by a white-washed clubhouse. “That’s it?” I said, unimpressed.
“It’s fucking genius,” Duncan replied. “I’ve spent my entire life avoiding places like this.”
I scanned the site with night vision. “Looks deserted.”
Alex’s laugh was grim. “I figure it’s crawlin’ with Drexler’s people. You just can’t see ‘em.”
“It’s got ambush written all over it,” Harry nodded. “I was never allowed to set foot
in the place when I was on The Firm. This was where they told me the accountants worked, channelling our assets.”
We heard the throaty chug of an engine as Oz and Dmitri arrived. The BMW rolled to a halt. Dmitri walked towards us, cradling his injured arm. “Is this it? I only see shitty caravan park.”
“Yeah, that’s the target,” I replied. I gave them the short version of Monty’s story.
“Yes, Oz tells me you work for secret organisation,” said Dmitri. “In which case you need new boss. In FSB Spetnatz we had hot-tub. And countryside dacha for partying.”
“We’re working on it,” I replied.
“Work harder,” said Dmitri, touching his field dressing. “My coat is ruined, my truck is blown up. Now you arrange for us to get ambushed in seaside shithole?”
“I’ve got a bottle of Stolichnaya in my pack,” said Alex.
The big Russian shrugged. “I suppose things could be worse.”
“What’s the plan?” said Duncan.
I looked across shadows and dunes, the hundred places you could site marksmen. Oz looked me in the eye. He was thinking the same thing.
“Get back, find some cover.” I said finally. I lit a cigar. A Montecristo Petit Edmundo. The tip flared bright enough to trigger every piece of night vision in a mile radius. The men cringed, like I was holding a grenade with the pin missing.
Oz crouched in the shadows, AK shouldered. “Cal?”
I shrugged. “When all’s said and done, Drexler’s still an ICEPICK. Let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.”
Chapter twenty
“You mad bastard. What you gonnae say?” said Duncan, eyebrow arched.
“Drexler’s cornered,” I replied. “Maybe I can buy us some time. Give me twenty minutes, then ping my satellite phone to identify a location. Marcus can get the SF boys down here. End this the conventional way.”
“Ballsy, but why not?” said Harry, hefting his Kalashnikov. “We’ll hold here. Contain any tangoes on the caravan park.” He nodded to Duncan and Alex, who disappeared into cover, weapons ready.
The Saint Jude Rules (Cal Winter Book 3) Page 15