by Stuart Field
They would be looking for a small needle in a vast haystack.
But Samara insisted that finding them wouldn’t be a problem and that she knew the tour's route backwards. Steel found that curious in itself.
Was Kane also under surveillance?
If so, why? He was just a tour guide, or was there another reason? A personal one maybe?
Samara led Steel through the streets which became narrow in places. There were lots of dog-legged streets with lots of sharp turns and long alleyways. Some roads went up at almost thirty-degree angles and others than naturally went down the same gradient. The air was thick. The wind wasn’t getting through the city's build-up, and the circulation of air was almost zero. It had felt like a million degrees in the sun, in the shade, it was cooler being out of the direct sunlight, but there was very little air.
Steel imagined the big guy that Samara had taken out with the plank trying to keep up. He imagined the guy keeling over as soon as they had hit the first incline, then rolling down to the next street, unconscious.
Steel smiled.
He would have loved to have seen that.
But he had got to see something better. Samara kicking seven shades of shit out of the guy. Which technically was all his own doing. It wasn’t classy, but she’d made her point.
They reached the old part of town, with tall grey buildings which had a dark feel of the nineteen-twenties about them. These streets had once bustled with off-duty soldiers and townsfolk. The noise must have been loud and vibrant in such a closed environment, Steel thought as they passed what appeared to be an old tavern.
Now, the streets were quiet, with fading painted names of stores on the weathered walls. As they turned a corner, they saw the tour group at the top of a steep-stepped alleyway.
From where Steel and Samara were they could see Kane’s back. Kane was stood at the head of the path facing his audience. His arms were busy waving about, pointing here and there. His actions were erratic and full of drama and energy. The group were entranced by both his tales and his performance.
‘And on this street, they filmed the famous zombie chase,’ Kane said. He explained the scene and held up the folder once more, showing more stills from the behind the scenes. All Steel had caught of the talk was that Brad Pitt was the star and not much else.
Not that Steel knew who Brad Pitt was – or cared.
As they snuck back into the group, Steel realised nobody had missed them. All eyes were fixed on Kane, pointing down the main street to some old woman’s house.
Samara looked down the street and the many stone steps they had just run-up. Steel saw the confused and worried look on her face.
They had made it back without a tail.
Samara shook off the thought and smiled as she turned to face Steel, but her smile faded as she looked at his expression. It was cold and emotionless.
She did not need to ask. Samara already knew what he was thinking. Steel turned to face Kane as he hurried everyone back down the steep steps.
They were going back the way they came. Steel suddenly felt uneasy. He had hoped they were heading to another pick-up point, and not going back to the car park near the old barracks. Steel looked over at where Samara had stood, only to find she had disappeared.
He smiled with admiration at her skills. She had slipped away, and why not, she knew the city better than anyone. Hopefully better than the people chasing her.
Steel mixed in with the group as they ventured down the steps. He looked back at the street and smiled to himself.
She would be safe for now.
The question was, what did she, or rather Mossad, want from him?
As the tour group got to the bottom step, they turned left and headed back down the narrow street. Kane stood with his arm pointing the direction they should take. Kane smiled with a broad grin, showing off pearly white teeth as he ushered them forwards. As Steel strolled passed, he felt Kane’s eyes stare up at the stairwell and then back to him.
‘What you looking for Kane?’ Steel wondered as he continued to follow the crowd.
As the group lined up to enter the bus, Steel took photographs of the area, making like he was a tourist. In reality, checking if more of the men from another team had followed on behind. Steel suspected Samara had taken a cab back to a safe house, or bureau. He noticed the blue mini was in the same spot. It would have been too much risk for her to come back for it. Besides, if they wanted her dead, he supposed that they would have plenty of opportunities.
They had been on her tail when she’d started on his, several days ago, so why attack her now?
What had changed?
Steel climbed onto the bus and headed for his seat, three rows back on the left-hand side. He found that the same woman he’d sat next too before was there, and had already taken her aisle seat.
She wore the same silly, excited grin as before, all ready for the next phase of the tour. Steel smiled and took his seat. Politely declined the boiled sweet offer as she produced a packet and shoved them under his nose. Steel smiled and raised a hand, making the excuse that he was full. The smell of artificial fruit and starch dust filled his nose, bring back memories of childhood. Good times, happy times. He had to admit he did like them, but that wasn’t the time or place – for sweets.
Steel gazed out of the tinted windows taking in the harbour's view and the other bay's new buildings. He massaged the side of his hands, which were sore from the encounter. He was glad that he was able to take down the men quickly. The last thing he needed was to walk around with torn clothes. However, he would have to live with the dust on his trousers for the time being.
If he was there under any other circumstance, he might enjoy himself. But today he was on edge. A million thoughts rushing through his calculating brain. Steel began to wonder if there would be time to grab a coffee, or at least a quick drink, on this tour.
As the bus pulled away, and Steel took in the view, he could not help but wonder who Samara really was. Her moves on the men in the fort showed she could handle herself.
Krav Maga seemed to be her choice of fighting technic, which did not surprise him as it was the favoured fighting skill of Mossad. Which also bore the question, what was a Mossad agent doing there?
They headed out of Valletta towards Mdina. A city he remembered for all the wrong reasons. He could still see Brad’s lifeless face as he lay on the pavement. Someone had killed him for something, and Steel still had no idea what. The same people who had murdered Lucy.
The same people he was going to put in the ground.
Steel took in the fantastic, but sometimes harsh looking countryside. Winding roads clung to the sides of steep hills, with a mix of green and craggy rock faces. Lush vineyards backed onto the rough ground. For him, the whole place was a beautiful paradox. There wasn’t a simple walk from one location to another. You had to have transport, of which there was, thankfully, plenty.
Steel checked his cell phone for any missed calls. He was half expecting Foster to keep contact just to see what he had found. But nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Director Walter Sloan of the Malta section of the FBI sat quietly in his office. He was in his fifties but didn’t, look it. The Malta weather seemed to agree with him. He was of average height, but an ego to rise above all else – way, above. He wore a brown cotton suit with a white short-sleeve shirt and blue clip-on tie. His brown Oxford shoes were highly polished, mostly with the help of the machine in the lobby. It was one of those automatic jobs that cleaned and polished your shoes while you still wore them.
Ingenious.
The embassy had installed it to stop people treading dust into the carpets. Still, it also gave an excellent impression to visitors. Taxpayers money well spent.
Sloan’s office was a twenty by twenty feet box, with a large window to the left, along the wall behind him. This 6x3 window had a clear view of the rear of the embassy. His desk was large and locally made by craftsmen. Constructed from
a thick piece of teak that had been carved and stained to give it an aged effect. Along the left-hand wall near the bureau, were three small grey filing cabinets. On these stood two potted plants and a picture of him shaking the President’s hand. Behind his desk, two American flags hung from ash poles, the poles crossed at the base, pointing the polished metal tips outwards. The room was painted white with black skirting boards, bordering a blue carpet.
Everything else in the office was dull and official-looking. The best that tax dollars could buy. Along the right-hand wall was a tall black cabinet. The shelves were filled with numerous styles of books, and photographs of Sloan’s family. The left-hand wall held only two paintings from a local artist. In front of the desk, sat three armchairs arranged at a semicircle, so they faced the director.
Sloan had been excited when he received the posting, it had been a promotion. However, they had forgotten to mention his office would be around thirty feet underground. The window's view was an image relayed from cameras on the south wall, just like in the hallways.
‘Damned psychiatrists,’ Sloan said as he glanced at the fake window.
Sloan sat patiently in his thickly padded brown office chair. He found himself looking at his Rolex wristwatch every few minutes.
The others were late.
He had no doubt it was on purpose.
The section chiefs of the CIA, Homeland and NSA Malta section were coming at his request. And because of that, they were dragging their heels.
Sloan looked up as the door opened and his secretary walked in. She was a slim woman in her late forties, stepping machines, yoga and other forms of workouts had done their job to keep her looking good. She had long black hair held back with a white clip. Her toned figure clad in a beige skirt suit and matching pumps. The suit had been a Christmas present from her soon to be wife. Sloan did not mind that she was as he called it ‘one of those’, and she did not care; he was a dinosaur that should have been made extinct after the cold war. Janis Fletcher had been with Sloan for years. She was a good secretary.
‘Sir, your visitors,’ Janis said, holding the door so the three could enter. She waited until Sloan gave her the nod and then quietly closed the door as she left.
‘So, Walt, what’s this all about?’ asked Charles Tipp, Director of the NSA. Sloan did not answer, he just watched as Tipp sat in the right-hand chair. Tipp was around six-two and in his late forties. He wore a brown double-breasted suit and a sky-blue shirt covered his stocky build and brown Oxford shoes, also highly polished. Tipp had a square head, all cheek muscles, flat nose, square jaw, and flat ears. On top of this square head, he had a crown of blonde hair that should be on a hair products advert. He looked like a cartoon character from a kid show, a big top half and spindly legs.
Lloyd Bolton of the CIA was an inch shorter than Tipp. A quiet man in his fifties, with hair as black as coal and quality grey suit but no tie. Bolton said nothing, he just walked over to the left-hand chair and sat. Leaving the middle chair free.
Sloan waited while Alison Price of Homeland Security sat at the window side and sipped her English breakfast tea she had brought in with her. Preferring her own company than sitting between the two men.
Sloan smiled at the display. Three agencies were sent to work together, but they could not stand to be sat near each other.
Price was a tall woman with an athletic figure and a blonde bob haircut. She wore a dark grey skirt suit that had a crossover closing jacket. She wasn’t particularly attractive, but something about her drew men like a moth to an inferno.
‘We need to talk about the project,’ Sloan started ‘How sure are we that its tamper-proof?’
Tipp rolled his eyes in disapproval to the question. ‘We’ve been over this Walt; it is a hundred per cent tamper-proof when it’s downloaded.’ Tipp had a Louisiana accent. His voice was deep but clear and had all the signs of a good education.
‘Yeah – when it’s downloaded, but what about now?’ Sloan asked, his voice was gravely like he’d been using cheap bourbon as a mouthwash. The other two men looked at him in surprise.
‘What do you mean Walt? The disk is secure,’ said Bolton with confidence. ‘Nobody can get to the disk drive without us present, so what’s your worry?’
‘I always worry, Lloyd; it’s my job. So, answer the fucking question.’
‘Trust me, Walt. The disk is secure, nobody is getting near it,’ Tipp said, leaning back into the chair confidently. His thick arms sprawled over the arms of the armchair, he crossed his left leg over his right.
But despite all their confidence and reassurances, Sloan could not relax – not until the damned thing was installed.
Deep down on the sixth level of the blockhouse, a figure moved about avoiding the cameras as it went. Dressed like the others in a black suit, blending in with moving groups of people, the figure approached a green-painted door near the end of a long corridor. Quickly the figure stopped and started to pick the lock. There was the sound of the tumbler turning, and the latch was undone.
Immediately, the figure moved inside, quick and silent, then closed the door behind them. It was cold and pitch-black inside. The figure fumbled about on the wall. Brushing their hand up and down the brickwork until finally, they found the switch. One-click and the lights came on. There was no dust or dirt, but it felt grimy. The room was long, possibly twenty-by-ten feet, with mustard-coloured walls and industrial shelving. The shelving stood six sections high by three sections broad, each around three-by-two feet of dark grey metal sheeting. It was a regular army bolt-together system, cheap but effective.
The illumination was provided by three single bulb lamps which hung on long cords. Their green metallic lampshades created pools of light on the grey concrete floor.
It looked like something from the Cold War.
Old cardboard boxes marked with serial numbers filled the ageing metal shelving. The room did not fit with the rest of the building where everything was new and bright. It was as though this was the place were things got filed and forgotten.
The figure moved quickly towards the empty wall at the end of the room, to run gloved hands over the brickwork. It was looking for something hidden. The figure stopped. It’s right hand froze over what appeared to be some repaired damage to the wall, a set of three bricks that did not quite fit right, as if they had been inserted after the rest as part of a repair. The stranger pressed the uneven piece of wall and waited. There was a click, and then a grind of gears before one of the shelving section swung out. The figure moved to the revealed door.
A sterile white room.
Chapter Thirty
Steel sat back in the coach seat as it headed for Mdina. The sun beat down relentlessly.
Steel had been to many places that had been hot, and quite a few freezing. So, he was accustomed to weather and temperature change. However, being accustomed did not mean that his body liked it any better. The air-conditioner was working hard to bring the temperature down. Some of the older ladies cooled themselves with waved magazines, others carried small battery-operated fans.
Steel gazed at a map of the island on his cell phone, switching between the satellite view and the map view. All in high definition so good he could see a cat sat in a shop window – or at least he thought it was a cat. He was making mental notes of a few possible places of interest, and distances between them. Which hilltop went somewhere, and which just led you to a sheer drop. Was there a village or farm, or vineyard close by? He checked the small red dot on the map, which showed their location on the map. They were on Route 7, the Triq L-lmdina Road. Steel watched as the landscape wheezed by, the ploughed fields, the old stone walls, the trees and bushes that lined the road. He saw a bright red FOR SALE sign attached to one of the walls but missed whether it was for a house or a plot of land. He liked Malta. The people were friendly; the weather was great, and the scenery was breathtaking. He sighed deeply. Thinking about what could have been, the holidays that Helen and he could have taken on this is
land.
Helen would have loved it here. Steel’s lonely gaze went back to the window and the landscape. Samara next to him was taking photographs out the window. He had no idea what, possibly random things to show some poor unsuspecting friend when she was back home. A bottle of cheap chardonnay and four hours of holiday snaps awaited some poor bastard, Steel thought.
He smiled as the image came into his head.
Steel looked at the tablet and the image of the red dot moving closer to its destination. They had just passed a place called Misrah Kola, and now they were heading out into more countryside and towards a place called Attard which according to the map would be on his right. But Steel wasn’t interested in the place. He was more interested in what he had just seen on the map.
‘And to our right…somewhere,’ Kane said, trying to point something out, but all everyone could see was a high wall, trees and bushes.
Nothing of real interest. Nothing, everyone hadn’t seen before.
‘… is the American Embassy,’ Kane announced. His tone dulled as if giving up the search for visual confirmation but carried on the explanation all the same. Steel looked over with interest. He had seen it on the map. It wasn’t a single building, not at all like what he had seen in places like London or New York. This was a large complex within a fence. At first, he had thought it was a military installation until he had seen the name. EMBASSY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.