Assassins Rogue

by Rachel Amphlett

‘The police are at the bridge, and more are on their way,’ said Greg. ‘Can she do it without drawing attention to your current position?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s her priority at the moment. Hang on.’

  Miles held up his hand for silence while he watched the two figures on the screen duck into a doorway.

  Moments later, the two men in pursuit appeared at the corner beside a boutique hotel and slowed to a hurried walk.

  ‘Christ, they don’t stand a chance,’ said Miles.

  No-one answered.

  All three analysts were turned towards the screen, their faces stricken.

  Helpless, Miles glanced at the other screens while the Czech police vehicles crawled ever closer to the street where Nathan and Marie were attempting to hide.

  He had no doubt that the two pursuers would fade away if the police showed up, and that if Nathan and Marie were taken into custody there would be no guarantee of their safety there, either.

  Then, from the shadows of an alleyway opposite, a figure swept into the narrow lane.

  Miles held his breath as the woman brushed past the first man, then paused behind the second as if waiting to enter the shop he loitered outside, and moved on.

  ‘Wait. Was – was that her?’ said Emily.

  The woman carried on, then stopped at the doorway where Nathan and Marie sheltered.

  ‘Miles? You there?’

  He watched as the two men staggered backwards and helped each other across the street before collapsing at the entrance to the alleyway, and shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘I’m here,’ he managed.

  ‘Eva confirms all four hostiles are down. So, where do you want us to go?’

  ‘Smíchov,’ said Jason. ‘Take the next alleyway to your right and move as fast as you can. You’ll avoid the incoming police vehicles that way.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Miles exhaled, then turned to Greg.

  ‘Well, at least we know she’s carrying a knife as well as the gun.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gerald Knox nodded to the uniformed custodian who greeted him and shrugged off his thick wool overcoat while the man checked his identification.

  A second man moved from behind a desk, took his coat from him, politely requested a cursory inspection of the contents of his leather briefcase for security purposes, then handed it back and crossed Knox’s name from the register.

  ‘All in order, sir,’ said the custodian. ‘If you’d like to follow me, the Prime Minister advised that she’ll meet with you in the study. Would you care for some tea?’

  ‘Please.’ Knox followed him through a maze of corridors and stairways, eventually finding himself on a deserted landing while the custodian rapped on a panelled door before entering.

  ‘Here you go, sir. I’ll advise the Prime Minister’s staff that you’re here.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The man retreated, a soft click the only indication he had left the room and shut the door.

  Knox paced the Axminster carpet, the soles of his shoes silent on the thick weave as he crossed the room.

  Curtains covered the large sash windows of the study while table lamps strategically placed around the space lent a soft glow to the pale yellow walls and cast shadows across the plaster architraves that hugged the ceiling. Bookcases lined the walls containing centuries-old thick tomes on the shelves that were protected by glass doors.

  Knox wandered up to a circular hardwood table set for eleven and ran his fingers over the bare surface, recalling the last time he had taken a seat in one of the black leather chairs, then turned before flicking his wrist and checking his watch.

  Over twelve hours since Flight Lieutenant Kelly O’Hara had appeared in Prague, dying.

  When he reached the end of the room he raised his gaze to the gilt-framed oil painting of a former Prime Minister hanging beside bucolic landscapes, then turned as the door to the left of the marble fireplace opened, and the current incumbent entered.

  ‘Prime Minister,’ he said, shaking hands with her.

  Grey had peppered her blonde hair over the past twelve months but the creases around her eyes were those of laughter, not the frown lines many of her ministers wore.

  The fifty-nine-year-old politician was adept at delegating, managing and leading a country that was now on its own in Europe – and didn’t mince her words if her authority was questioned. However, she was known to be fair, a good listener and a brilliant tactician.

  Knox hoped he had caught her on a good day.

  The woman crossed to one of two check-clothed armchairs set beside an occasional table and waved him to the other. ‘This had better be good, Gerald. I’ve just had to apologise to the President of the United States for cutting short our phone call.’

  Knox eased into his seat, and remained quiet.

  Sometimes, it was the best option rather than bravely venture an opinion. He’d seen politicians with decades of service wilt under the Prime Minister’s sharp tongue.

  She waited until a staff member had entered the room and placed a tea tray on the table before retreating, the door closing behind him.

  ‘Right, let’s have it then.’

  The Section chief opened his briefcase and pulled out a manila folder before taking a deep breath. ‘This might take a while, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Right. Well, you talk – I’ll pour, shall I?’

  When he had finished thirty minutes later, they were onto their second cup.

  He remained silent, the ticking clock on the mantelpiece grating on his nerves while the PM ran her gaze over the briefing papers he had handed over.

  She wouldn’t rush – he wouldn’t expect her to in the circumstances – but he had the unnerving sense that she was sizing him up and making him wait.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Prime Minister, I wondered if now would be a good time to bring in the Minister of Defence on this and perhaps update him with regard to the situation?’

  She slapped shut the folder and handed it back to him with a withering glance. ‘Out of the question, Gerald. I’m facing re-election in eight months and the less the Cabinet know about this, the better. The last thing I need right now is a leadership contest.’

  ‘As you wish, Prime Minister.’ He tucked the folder back into his briefcase and snapped it shut. ‘What about funding though, to ensure that my staff can carry out their duties?’

  ‘Gerald, I’ve spent most of the time since their last escapade smoothing ruffled feathers in Europe, notwithstanding the bioterrorism attack they managed to thwart.’

  ‘I understand that, Prime Minister, but this might be connected to the Ízmir shipment debacle. The Section has the only non-RAF Reaper drone available and it could have been used to monitor the situation in the Middle East if we’d been brought in sooner about that operation. Except now we don’t have a crew, because they were kidnapped and coerced into killing the one man who probably had sufficient intelligence to enable us to arrest and charge whoever’s behind this. With a rogue Reaper we had no idea existed.’ Knox jabbed his finger into the armrest as he spoke. ‘That crew were then hunted down and executed. We’re lucky one of them was able to escape from all of this unharmed.’

  ‘Does anyone else know that she survived?’

  ‘Only myself, my senior advisor Miles Newcombe and the two ex-Section agents she’s currently with.’

  ‘Eva Delacourt and Nathan Crowe?’ The PM’s lip curled. ‘I thought the next time I heard those names we’d have them back here working for us – or under arrest for desertion.’

  ‘This could be our best chance of retaining their services, Prime Minister. After all, it was Eva’s idea to create a bolt hole for agents in trouble. If it wasn’t for her actions, Marie Weston would be dead too – or worse, traded on the black market for the knowledge she possesses.’

  She peered at him over her teacup, then lowered it to the table. ‘You’ll need to provide more evidence before I can make a decision, Gerald
. I cannot afford another embarrassment.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘The crew member who survived…’

  ‘Marie Weston.’

  ‘Yes. I presume Delacourt and Crowe can keep her safe.’

  ‘They’ll do their best in the circumstances until we can bring her back here for debriefing.’

  ‘All right. Do what you need to do.’

  ‘I take it then, Prime Minister, I can count on your support to continue the Section’s involvement in tracing whoever’s behind this atrocity and finding out what is going on?’

  ‘You can, Gerald.’ She cleared her throat. ‘But let’s keep it to ourselves for now, shall we? No need for the likes of MI6 or Jonathan Amberley and his cronies at the MoD to know yet. Not until we know where that drone came from.’

  ‘Of course, Prime Minister.’ Knox stood and straightened his jacket before extending his hand. ‘I will of course provide you with timely updates as to our progress.’

  ‘I’d expect no less.’

  Knox left the room, nodded to the official who closed the door behind him and hurried along the corridor towards the exit.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket before he reached it, and he paused beside an ornate Greek vase to answer it. Knox listened for a moment, then started walking as the caller’s words sank in.

  ‘Not over the phone. Meet me at the usual place in a couple of hours.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Miles pushed the solid brass handrail set into the oak-framed glass door of the exclusive drinking club, the hinges giving way without a sound.

  The door swished closed once he’d passed, the late night push and shove of the city outside falling away with some of the stress as he made his way towards the reception desk and shed his overcoat.

  A string sonata played through speakers set into the ceiling, and the soft music lulled some of the tattered nerves he’d been nursing since returning from Lincolnshire and then having to observe Eva and the others running for their lives.

  The helplessness and frustration was subsiding, but not the worry.

  Not after what he had learned from the RAF Wing Commander.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ the concierge gushed, taking his coat with reverence and folding it over one arm.

  ‘Evening. Gerald Knox is expecting me.’

  ‘Very good, sir. He hasn’t arrived yet, but requested I direct you to the Deighton bar, through there.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  As he passed through an archway to the left of the reception room, Miles inhaled the distinct scent of cigar smoke and money.

  Leather wing-backed armchairs in groups of four and pairs were arranged throughout the large space in such a way that the occupants would be shielded from the prying eyes of their neighbours, although to Miles’s well-trained ears it seemed that he was the only one present at this late hour.

  Beyond the chairs, beyond the walls lined with bookcases and expensive bric-à-brac from all four corners of the world, was a long bar. The brass beer taps were gleaming and the bottles behind the mahogany glistened under strategically-placed spotlights.

  A lone bartender looked up from polishing the brass and smiled. ‘Evening, sir. What can I get you?’

  ‘A scotch, please.’

  ‘Make that two.’

  Miles turned at the gruff voice to see Gerald Knox advancing towards him, the man’s face harried as he brushed a lock of hair away from his forehead and shifted his briefcase to his left hand.

  ‘Did your meeting go well, then?’

  ‘As well as could be expected in the circumstances. Actually,’ Knox said, his attention turning to the bartender, ‘make mine a large, will you?’

  The man nodded and moved away, and Miles watched as he selected two crystal tumblers from a collection on a back shelf, checked the glass for stains or chips, and then proceeded to free-pour the drinks.

  Miles remained silent until the bartender returned, thanked him and raised an eyebrow at Knox as they took their drinks. ‘Where do you want to sit?’

  ‘Over there, at the back near the bookcase.’

  He let Knox lead the way, noting that the old spymaster hadn’t lost his touch.

  The two chairs he had pointed out were away from the curtained windows facing the street, a good distance from the nearest table lamp, and positioned in such a way that between them they could watch both the bartender and the exit.

  Good for avoiding both any hidden microphones and over-inquisitive staff members.

  As he eased into one of the armchairs, the soft leather enveloping his aching back, Miles glanced at the clock on the opposite wall.

  ‘It’s been a while since we had a meeting this late, chief.’

  Knox grunted in response, placed his briefcase at his feet and took a large gulp from his tumbler. ‘So, your phone call…’

  Miles bit back his frustration, and rested his glass on the arm of the chair, turning it in his fingers. ‘When were you going to tell me that you suspected the Reaper crew belonged to us?’

  Knox swallowed a second nip, the scotch disappearing at an alarming rate. ‘When I was sure.’

  ‘What about the drone that was used? Is that ours as well?’

  ‘No. That’s still in its hangar.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Switzerland.’

  ‘Switzerland?’ Miles clamped his jaw shut after the outburst, sure that his voice had ricocheted off the walls such was his shock. He glanced towards the bartender but the man had his head bowed, evidently used to pretending his clients’ voices couldn’t reach his position.

  ‘What the hell is it doing there?’ he hissed. ‘Switzerland is supposed to be neutral.’

  ‘That’s why it’s there.’ Knox shot him a withering look. ‘No-one would think to look for it. Not to mention the fact it’s centrally positioned so we can send it anywhere within a few hours. It saves on flight time and fuel.’

  When Miles raised his glass to his lips, he realised his hands were shaking.

  Maybe he should’ve ordered a double as well.

  Knox drained his glass, then held it up and tapped it with his thumbnail and called over to the bar. ‘Another two, please.’

  ‘Right away, sir.’

  ‘How are you getting home?’ said Miles.

  ‘I’m not. I’m availing myself of one of the guest accommodation suites upstairs tonight. You should, too. Phone your wife. Let her know you’re going to be down here for the long haul. We’re going to be working some long hours until we get to the bottom of this.’

  The Section chief raised his palm for silence as soft footsteps approached the table, and Miles held his tongue while the bartender fussed about setting down a dish of complimentary canapés with their drinks.

  When he walked away with Knox’s empty glass in hand, Miles leaned forward.

  ‘What did the PM say?’

  Thankfully, Knox’s drinking had slowed. Instead, his expression became reticent as he cradled the tumbler in his lap.

  ‘We have her go-ahead to support Eva and Nathan in any way we see fit. That includes getting Marie to safety. We also have carte blanche to do whatever it takes to locate the man calling himself Colonel Paul Richards and all persons associated with him. Then we have to find out why Jeffrey Dukes was targeted and murdered.’

  ‘What about the other intelligence agencies?’

  Knox shook his head. ‘Absolutely not. This is a Section-only investigation. Our crew, our problem. The last thing the PM wants is MI6 or the MoD catching wind of this, so we’re going to have to tread very carefully with our questions. She’s worried about a Cabinet split and losing her job before the next election if this gets out.’

  ‘Shit. Now I can see why you needed the drink.’

  ‘Indeed. Have you heard from Delacourt this evening?’

  ‘Only within the last hour. They’re on the outskirts of the city.’

  ‘Do we know who sent the hit team after them?’

  �
��No names yet, but we have to assume they were reporting to whoever has the rogue drone. They must be the same ones who shot Kelly as well.’ Miles sighed. ‘Greg hasn’t found any trace of them in our system, despite running the images through every database at our disposal.’

  Knox shook his head. ‘There are more and more mercenaries coming onto the market these days than we can keep up with. What are Delacourt and Crowe’s plans for tonight?’

  ‘They’re still trying to contact Decker.’

  ‘And we have no idea where he is?’

  Miles wrinkled his nose. ‘We never did, once he left. After the last threat was eliminated, he disappeared again. He’s like a ghost, you know that.’

  ‘A ghost whose skills would be highly valuable if we could convince him to return.’

  ‘Maybe it’s for the best that we don’t.’ Miles shrugged, took a sip of scotch. ‘After all, he helps when Eva asks him. Might be better to leave it that way.’

  Knox stifled a yawn, rocking his head from side to side. ‘Okay, well I’m sure they’ll be in touch once they’ve worked out where to meet him. In the meantime, I want your analysts working through the intel we got via Kelly O’Hara’s version of events as given to Eva and Nathan, and what Marie has told us in relation to the pick-up in Lincoln. That needs to be escalated so we can find out who the driver was that went to the restaurant. Get another pair of analysts to work on the Jeffrey Dukes side of things.’

  ‘Will do, chief.’

  ‘I’ll catch up with you at noon tomorrow for a debriefing, but pass on everything you find out to Delacourt in the meantime.’ Knox drained his glass and stood, picking up his briefcase. ‘I have a feeling she’s going to need all the help we can give her on this one.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘We can’t stay long.’

  Eva prised open two slats of the dusty plastic venetian blind and peered out through the window of the cheap motel room to the street below.

  Litter cluttered the gutters and a pair of pigeons bobbed between parked cars, flipping over discarded food wrappers and takeaway cartons in their endless search for scraps. In the distance, a siren wailed – a pitiful backdrop to a bleak urban sprawl.