by Ryan, Chris
They left the airstrip and drove east. Fuller updated Strickland on the way, letting her know about their escape plan so she could contact the High Commission in advance and prepare for their arrival. When they were twenty miles clear of the strip, Bald pulled over at a lay-by, tore off his bulletproof vest and belt holster and broke down his rifle into its component parts. He shoved the weapons, the vest and the clips into the holdall with the laptop. Then he picked up the medical kit and cleaned and dressed Fuller’s wound while he went through their cover story. If anyone stopped them, they would claim to be British tourists, a man and wife, on an edgy adventure off the beaten track. They would claim that they had been held up at gunpoint and robbed. A gunshot had been fired during the scuffle, hence the bullet graze on Fuller’s left hand. The sunglasses and baseball caps would help disguise their appearances.
They reached Suarez at six o’clock in the evening. Almost an hour before last light. The town was situated on a small plain between low hills, with a curved strip of sand facing out towards the sea. Bald did a quick mobile recce, driving slowly through the streets. He saw a lot of deteriorating homes and rusted vehicles and bins overflowing with rubbish. A big pastel-coloured church in the middle of the town. He didn’t see any police. But there were a few too many locals in the streets for his liking. Kids playing football, people going to and from work.
He steered back out of Suarez and pulled up in a lay-by a couple of miles away. Then they waited for last light.
At 18.50, as the last band of light glowed on the horizon, Bald gunned the engine and motored back into the town. The streets were darker and quieter now. Easier to move around unseen. He arrowed down the gridded streets, parked the Land Cruiser outside the church, grabbed the holdall and dismounted. Locked the wagon and quick-walked with Fuller across the main road, heading for the beach.
Bald had a rough plan sketched out in his head. They would wander down to the beach, holding hands, like a couple going out for a romantic evening stroll, and take a look at the set-up. Looking for anything suspicious. Then they would hang back and wait for an opportune target. They were looking for a go-fast motorboat with a small crew, two or three guys at most. Small enough for Bald and Fuller to overpower. He ruled out stealing an empty boat. They would need a skipper, he said. Someone who knew the waters and was confident of getting them across to Trinidad.
They would have to make their move when the beach was empty, Bald knew, in case any passers-by sounded the alarm. But he felt they wouldn’t have to wait long for an opportunity. Some of the local fishermen were bound to go out at night, when there was less traffic at sea. They would head out late in the evening, returning at dawn the following day to sell their catch.
In the fading light, they walked up and down the sand, from one end of the beach to the other. Several colourful fishing boats were moored bow to stern in the shallows. Nobody in sight. They carried on past the boats for fifty metres and found a spot to lay up among the palm trees running alongside the beach. Anyone watching them would have assumed they were a couple of lovers disappearing for a shag in the bushes. Bald set down his holdall and watched and waited, eyes fixed on the boats.
Ninety minutes later, beneath the wan moonlight, he spied three skinny guys making their way down to the beach. They were carrying a bunch of fishing gear, Bald saw. Fishing nets, bait, crates. He watched as they waded into the shallows and made for a small fishing vessel with an outboard motor. Bald scanned the ground further up the beach, making sure they were alone. Then he slid his Glock 17 out his holster, grabbed the holdall and broke forward from the shadows, Fuller hurrying along at his side, clutching her pistol.
The fishermen didn’t see him coming. Not until he was in their faces. The nearest guy was standing in the shallows, passing up supplies to the two blokes in the boat. He wore a hoodie and shorts and had silver stud earrings in both ears. He heard Bald at the last instant, spun round. Alarm flashed across his face as his eyes locked on the pistol. Bald trained the Glock on Stud’s centre mass while the two other fishermen stood up on the boat and froze. Even in the semi-darkness, he could see the fear stencilled across their faces.
Stud jabbered Spanish at him. Bald kept his eyes on the guy but addressed Fuller. ‘Tell this prick no one gets hurt if he does exactly as I say. If he tries to run or call for help, I’ll cap him and his mates. Tell him.’
Fuller translated.
Stud’s face whitened with fear.
‘Tell him he’s got a couple of passengers tonight. He’s going to take us across to Trinidad. Port of Spain. If he tries anything, he dies. If he tries to shop us to the authorities, he dies. Understood?’
Fuller translated again. Stud nodded quickly. He understood. Bald cocked his head at Fuller. ‘Get in the boat. We’re leaving now.’
Several minutes later, they were pulling away from the beach. Speeding out towards the Gulf. Towards safety.
Bald kept a watchful eye over Stud and his mates, but from the terrified looks in their eyes he doubted they would do anything stupid. Ninety minutes later, they were closing in on the Trinidadian coast. Lights from the port twinkled on the horizon. For the first time in a week, Bald felt the tension easing out of his muscles.
‘It’s nearly over,’ he said to Fuller. ‘Thank fuck for that.’
She wore a pensive look on her face. ‘I’m not so sure.’
‘What’s the problem? We got rid of the Yanks. We’re out of the country. We’ll be home and dry in a few hours. We won, lass.’
‘Not yet.’ She paused. ‘We’ve still got to deal with Cantwell. He’s going to pay for what he’s done. Mark my words . . .’
THIRTY-ONE
Three days later, at precisely seven o’clock in the evening, Julian Cantwell stepped out of the King’s Arms pub and began the short walk back to his secret base of operations. A fine rain was falling, settling like mist across the village of Swanton, nestled in the Oxfordshire countryside. He crossed the main road, turned left at the quaint village green and strolled confidently towards a building on the other side of the square, overlooking a small pond.
The old post office had cost a pittance to acquire. The building had lain vacant for more than a year before Cantwell had purchased it, through a series of shell companies arranged by his business partners. It was a classic village post office, with stone walls and a red-painted letter box, next to a wooden door ringed with roses. The original sign still hung from the wall, and the only hint at the change in ownership was the name of the new company fixed above the entrance: ‘WhiteSpear IT Solutions, Ltd’. The name had been a necessary addition, to ward off any curious locals who might wonder what was going on inside. Anyone who googled the company would be directed towards an anonymous website, written in stolid corporate-management speak, with lots of talk about values and diversity and mission statements, without giving away any actual information on what the company did. There was no phone number on the website, and any messages sent to the email address were answered by one of the individuals who worked inside the building.
The post office building, with its superfast broadband connection, twenty-four-hour access and innocuous location, was the perfect cover for Cantwell’s secret project.
Teams of hackers, recruited personally by Cantwell and vetted by his American friends at Langley, worked in eight-hour shifts inside the building, with four-hour breaks between one team departing and the next arriving. To avoid drawing too much attention to themselves, the hackers lived in digs in Oxford, nine miles away. They were bussed into work at the start of their shifts, entering the building through the same back entrance used by delivery vans. The blinds were drawn at all hours and the hackers were not permitted to leave the building during the day under any circumstances. Most of them had no problem sticking to the rules. They were talented but emotionally fragile individuals, laughably easy to manipulate. The few who had questioned Cantwell’s methods, or their purpose, had been swiftly dealt with. Suicides, drug overdoses, car c
rashes. Cantwell couldn’t afford any weak links. They were playing for high stakes. The risks were enormous. Discretion was critical.
No one in the village knew anything about the operation. As far as they understood, Cantwell was an eccentrically dressed overweight Londoner who ran a small start-up out of the old post office. Something to do with computers and spreadsheets. The sort of boring subject that discouraged further questions.
What really went on inside, of course, was much more sinister.
He took in a draw of breath and fought off a wave of tiredness. He had been holed up at the post office for the past three days, working round the clock with his hackers on their next planned operation. Had argued that they should lie low after the Venezuela job, but the Americans had insisted on pressing on. Their boss wasn’t famous for his patience. The next mission had been green-lit to take place two days from now. His people had been working flat out to get everything ready in time. If they pulled it off, it would be a major victory. A hot thrill ran through Cantwell just thinking about it. But he also had a certain feeling of trepidation. They were moving too fast, he feared. Mistakes had been made in Venezuela.
On the face of it, the mission had been successful – Vasquez was dead – but the attempt to pin the blame on two rogue Brits had gone badly wrong. Five ex-SEALs were dead. In the absence of an easy scapegoat the new president was in damage-limitation mode, blaming nameless ‘foreign elements’ for the assassination. Worse yet, the hostage had apparently escaped. No one had seen or heard from her since, which was disconcerting. Cantwell had shared his concerns with his fellow conspirators, but they had assured him that it was being dealt with.
Nothing to worry about, they had said.
Cantwell wasn’t so sure.
He turned right past the square, swinging past a row of parking spaces as he made for the entrance to the post office building. He spotted a delivery van parked on the other side of the pond, next to a row of terraced houses. Cantwell vaguely remembered seeing the same van parked nearby earlier that afternoon. Or the same model and colour, at least. He wondered for a moment if he was being watched. But then again, there were so many delivery drivers these days. Streets were clogged with them.
Calm down. Probably just another driver doing his rounds.
No one knows you’re here.
He reached the entrance, rooted through his pockets for his keys. Twisted the key in the door lock and stepped inside. The ground floor of the post office had been extensively remodelled, with laminate flooring and white-painted walls and desks, but Cantwell had retained the original oak ceiling beams. A nice touch, he felt. A nod to the building’s rich history.
At five minutes past seven, the workspace was empty. The previous shift had clocked off at six o’clock, with the second team not due to arrive until ten. Cantwell had left soon after the earlier shift, popping over to the King’s Arms for a pint of Guinness and a steak pie and chips. His usual routine. He would spend the few hours in his private office, catching up on the news, checking over the details for the next operation. Sleep for an hour or two on the sofa, before the next shift arrived.
He fumbled around in the darkness, looking for the light switch.
Found it.
Flicked it on.
Then he froze.
Two figures were sitting on a pair of office chairs at the nearest workstation. A man and a woman.
Cantwell recognised them both.
‘Hello, Julian,’ Madeleine Strickland said.
The man – Cantwell couldn’t remember the chap’s name – said nothing but stared at him with a look that suggested he would very much like to rip his throat out.
He automatically looked back towards the door.
‘I wouldn’t try to run,’ Strickland continued. ‘You wouldn’t get very far. Our friends at Five have got a surveillance team outside.’
Cantwell swallowed. ‘The delivery van.’
‘Yes.’ Strickland waved at the silver-haired man with the black look in his eyes. ‘You remember John Bald, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ he lied quickly. ‘From the briefing.’ He shifted his gaze back to Strickland. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘We’d like to have a chat with you.’
‘You should have called. Put something in the diary.’
Strickland shot him a smile so thin you could hack through bamboo with it. ‘Actually, we’d prefer to speak to you alone.’
Cantwell frowned. ‘How the hell did you get in?’
‘We have technicians who are very good at that sort of thing.’ She gestured to an empty chair. ‘Have a seat, Julian.’
‘Think I’ll stand.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Cantwell glanced at Bald. The guy’s right hand was stuffed inside the pocket of his leather jacket and gripping something bulky. A gun, perhaps. He couldn’t tell.
‘I assume you know why we’re here,’ Strickland said.
Cantwell thought quickly. Six knew about his business in the old post office, obviously. MI5 had been running surveillance on him, possibly for days. Which meant someone had tipped off the security services about his secret project. But on the other hand, they might not know very much. This could just be a fishing expedition, he thought. They might be setting a trap for him. He must tease out what they knew.
‘Is this to do with Caroline?’ he asked.
‘In a way.’
‘Where is she?’
‘We’re keeping her in a safe location. Somewhere your American friends won’t be able to find her. She works for us, of course, but I assume you know that already.’
Cantwell stayed quiet.
‘She told us everything,’ Strickland said.
‘I’m not sure I follow, Madeleine.’
‘Caroline met with a CIA officer in Caracas. He told her chapter and verse. We know about the CIA’s involvement in the plot to assassinate Vasquez. We know your role in the operation.’
‘That’s your evidence? Some second-rate gossip one of your spies picked up? You don’t seriously believe that, do you? I’m just a political fixer, for God’s sake.’
Strickland smiled again and folded her hands. ‘We know more than that. A lot more. You see, John managed to retrieve a laptop from Venezuela. There’s a treasure trove of information on there. Messages, emails. Phone logs. Transcripts. And we found something else, too. Details of another assassination plot.’
There was a triumphant gleam in her eyes as she went on.
‘We’ve been watching you. We know what you’ve been up to in this place for the past few days. You’ve been colluding with the Americans to kill the Turkish president.’
‘You can’t prove that.’
‘Oh, but we can. Right now, our people are questioning a dozen hackers taken from a number of addresses in central Oxford. They’ll soon agree to cooperate, once they understand the charges they’re facing. It’s over, Julian. You’re done.’
Cantwell sneered at her. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’
‘What the fuck do you mean?’ Bald growled.
‘It’s not just Turkey and Venezuela. It’s much bigger than that.’
Strickland stared at him in surprise. ‘There are others?’
‘There’s a list,’ Cantwell said. ‘Heads of state who have been targeted by President Drummond.’
‘How many?’
‘More than you’d imagine. Ukraine, Iran, Mexico. Several more. All those countries who are hostile to American interests. Specifically, to those of President Drummond.’
‘That’s got to be a fucking long list,’ said Bald.
Cantwell shrugged.
Strickland said, ‘This comes direct from the president?’
‘Of course. It’s his new foreign policy. He’s very proud of it.’
‘Why?’
‘Drummond wants a new approach to dealing with the West’s enemies. Soft power is dead. The old tools of propaganda, financial manipulation and sanctions no longer
work. Something more muscular is needed.’
‘So he planned to have their leaders killed instead?’
‘It’s the simplest, most cost-effective way of getting rid of those regimes. We can then replace them with ones that are more sympathetic to our interests. It’s regime change, without having to go to the fuss of invading a country and spending trillions of dollars.’
‘But also highly illegal. You’re talking about a systematic programme of extrajudicial murder.’
Cantwell swatted away her words. ‘Spare me the lecture. We’ve been assassinating people every day in the Middle East. What’s the difference between taking out some minor terrorist and a despotic leader who is opposed to our interests? I’d argue that there’s more justification for taking out the ruler.’
‘And you simply decided to go along with the plan?’
‘They reached out to me. Wanted to sound me out. It was all very hush-hush, of course. They couldn’t be seen to be officially sanctioning the killings. That would trigger a public backlash. People are still weirdly averse to knocking off our worst enemies. It had to be done covertly, with the help of people like me.’
‘Like you?’
‘People who believe in what we’re trying to accomplish,’ Cantwell said.
‘And what is that, exactly? Wiping out anyone who gets on the wrong side of the president?’
‘We’re trying to restore the West to its former glory. We’ve lost our nerve. The West is terrified of intervening in other countries’ affairs these days. We draw red lines and issue strongly worded condemnations and expel a few diplomats, and nothing more. The merest hint of military action sends our politicians running for the hills. All that has done is embolden our enemies into believing that we’re fundamentally weak. It’s time we were more proactive. Show our enemies that we are capable of something harder edged.’ He tipped his head at Bald. ‘You of all people should understand the value of that.’