The Protector: A gripping, action-packed spy thriller

by Mike Lunnon-Wood

The man looked back down at the bodies, big blue flies hovering over terrible wounds now dried and darkened in the morning sun.

  “Not so far. All GSWs, but this one here had his last up close.”

  “What are you saying?” Cockburn asked.

  “Someone went round and finished them off,” the Fairy replied. “Your man perhaps?”

  “Not his style,” Cockburn replied.

  Someone called something from the house and the young Royal Marines Medical Officer that Cockburn had borrowed grabbed his bag and ran inside.

  “Live one!” the Fairy said. Then, flicking a look at the last man who had searched around the house, he called out, “Stay here!” and he too ran for the door.

  Cockburn was hard on his heels, Chloe running from the car where she had waited. When they arrived, the medic was bending over a big barrel-chested man dressed only in shorts, who was lying at the head of the stairs. Blood had dried on a head wound but it had begun bleeding again, and he had a gun shot wound in his shoulder.

  The doctor was flashing a torch into his eyes.

  “Well?” Cockburn asked.

  “Difficult to say with head wounds. Looks like a crease, certainly concussed. Involuntary reflexes seem alright but I want to do some X-Rays. The shoulder looks nasty enough but the entry is way over. Nothing vital in there except the bullet.” He stopped talking, pulling a saline drip from his bag, stripped the feed needle clear and pushed it firmly into Marco’s arm, handing the bag up to one of the Fairies to hold above the patient.

  “Is this him?” the team leader asked.

  “No. This is Marco Gambini. The owner of the house. I wonder why didn’t they finish him off…”

  “Angle of attack is from below. Two rounds would have knocked him on his back, then the punch-up starts outside. They probably thought he was dead already.”

  “I want a hospital,” the doctor said.

  “Not yet,” Cockburn said. “I want to talk to him first.”

  “This is not negotiable,” the doctor replied firmly.

  “I said no.”

  “I don’t take orders from you. I take my orders from the Officer Commanding Medical Services for the Corps of Royal Marines, and even then my first duty is to my patient. In this case, one who may die. Head wounds are tricky.”

  “How soon can I talk to him?”

  “When he comes round.”

  “OK,” Cockburn said, “I need a phone.”

  Fifty minutes later, a Spanish Air Force helicopter settled like a large insect onto the grass lawn and Marco Gambini was transferred to a military hospital outside Palma. Cockburn and the doctor travelled with him, while Chloe was left to liaise with the Spanish Intelligence operatives who would precede the arrival of the local police. She had been sick when she brushed past the dried gore on the wall, and almost fell over a body in the hall, one that seemed to have no chest left at all – but, for now, she was coping as well as she’d hopes.

  Marco faded in and out of lucid thought throughout most of the day, sometimes rambling, sometimes just staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t until nearly 5pm that Cockburn was able to talk to him when he suddenly tried to sit up, holding his bandaged shoulder with one hand and his head with the other, remembering the attack in vivid flashes.

  “Holly. Where is she? Is she alright?”

  Cockburn sat forward in his seat. “She was with you?”

  Marco eyed him suspiciously. “Who the hell are you?” he thundered, then winced and held his head in his hands.

  “My name is Hugh Cockburn. I am a friend of Titus. Was Titus with you?”

  “He wasn’t there,” he answered, “but the girl was. Is she alright?”

  “She wasn’t there, Marco…”

  “They got her then. Bastards! I saw them carrying her when I was shot...” Suddenly, he remembered his guards. “My people?”

  “I’m sorry Marco,” Cockburn replied, shaking his head.

  “All of them?”

  Cockburn nodded.

  “My God…”

  “Where is Titus, Marco? I must find him. He needs help.”

  The Italian fixed him with a look. Then, in perfect English, he delivered the only two words fit for the situation.

  “Fuck off,” he seethed.

  An hour later, with the doctor signalling him from the hall, Cockburn was still trying to bring Marco around.

  “Look, Marco. You’re a friend of his. So am I. There are people after him. The same ones that took Holly. He can’t fight them on his own. Sooner or later, they’ll corner him somewhere.”

  “They better hope they don’t. I know who I’m betting on.”

  “I still need to talk to him. He must have indicated where he was going.”

  “He didn’t. He just said he had things to do and left me his most valued possession. Which I have lost…” he finished sadly.

  “How will you tell him?” Cockburn tried.

  “My public relations team will do that for me. I’ll have the story of my home under attack in every paper in Europe. He’ll know by tomorrow morning.”

  “And then?”

  “He’ll find them and take her back.”

  “And if she’s dead?”

  The Italian looked at him for a second, the bull strength and will faltering for a second.

  “Then he is dead too. Inside.”

  Cockburn nodded, understanding it all perfectly now.

  “Do me a favour?”

  Marco nodded.

  “Have your people write me into the story. Try and get Ti to phone me. Call me…” He dredged through his memories, all the way back to the last job they had done together. What had his cover been back then? He had been an engineering lecturer. “Call me Mr Spokes,” he said. Some wag in travel had dreamed that one up and it had stuck for the entire mission.

  “He spoke of you once in the Muhkta. He liked you. You and the German.”

  “The German…”

  A look like revelation flickered across Cockburn’s face. I’m a bloody fool, he thought, a stupid incompetent arsehole. The German – of course! “Kurt Eicheman!” he shouted triumphantly to himself. If there’s anyone, it’s Kurt!

  He ran from the room, in time to be stopped in the hall by Cloe. They had been recalled to London.

  *

  Quayle looked at the small group of men sitting round the edges of the room. He would have preferred a mixed team – some women, some old, some young – but the cast-offs and the retired and the invalids was the best he could do. Kurt had risen to the occasion magnificently, giving the names of nine ex-BND and Customs men who could use the extra money and who would, he thought, be itching for a return to the harness. Of the nine, five had agreed. Now they sat around the briefing table in various types of dress, one with a suspiciously shaped bulge in his pocket. They knew they were working for an Englishman, but they also knew he was clean and that payment would be in cash. The job was simple. A full tag and follow operation. No watching, other than final destination, and then call him in. Their new paymaster evidently was not short of cash, so three cars and a motorbike sat waiting for them down in the basement parking area. One of the cars was even a taxi. He had Motorola handheld radios and the cars all had cell net phones. Full two-ways would have been better, they thought, but no way could they get permission and installations in the two hours they had left. Three of the five had been together in the BND in the days when they followed Russians all over the city; not only did they use the same jargon, they knew the street layouts like professionals. The other two were ex-Customs investigators, one in his 40s with only a stump where his right arm should have been, and the other breathing with a rasp, his lungs seared after a drum of chemicals had spilled over his face during a raid on a warehouse.

  “These people use guns?” the one BND man asked.

  “Yes,” Quayle answered. “Do not become compromised, or you may find yourself in the shit. There’ll be no police or back-up on this job, but it’s one time only,
so...”

  “No problem,” the man said, “I just like to know.”

  “What about decoys?” another asked.

  “Unlikely, but bunch up at the start, and then be ready to split up if you have to. These people are very confident, but I think they’re also so close to home that they’re careless.”

  “Just like the Ivans,” the oldest said.

  Quayle looked at him and smiled. He hadn’t heard that expression since Lincoln and the instructors, all wartime operatives.

  The old man caught his look. “Don’t worry about me, sonny. I was following men in these streets before you were born.”

  The others ragged him for a few seconds before Quayle spoke again. “Right, you have your radio call-signs. Heine will be here at this phone, in case your handhelds give out or you lose contact. Help me find where this man goes and you know what it’s worth. I’ll be in the taxi with Klaus. I’ll tag the target in the terminal, and we’ll take the first few kilometres. After that, wait for orders.”

  As they stood, Quayle moved forward to one of the BND, the one with the bulge in his pocket. Quayle tapped the object and the man’s hand covered it defensively.

  “Out with it.”

  The man shrugged and pulled an ageing Walther P38 from the pocket of his windbreaker.

  “I know how to use it... and when to,” he said firmly, in response to Quayle’s look.

  “Be sure you do. If you frighten my man off, no-one gets paid.”

  The others all glared at him. “Alright, alright,” he conceded, lifting his hands dramatically. And the gun was given to Heine, the one-armed customs man, to hold with their other kit until the job was finished.

  An hour later, Quayle – bearded, blonde, green-eyed and dressed in the uniform of a chauffeur – was holding up a fictitious name on a hand panel in the arrivals area of the terminal, hoping that his hastily assembled team of watchers could do the job. He had his doubts. The best teams had worked together for years and could almost anticipate each other’s thoughts and actions, the drills and procedures – the fallbacks, the overlaps – worked and reworked a hundred times.

  His taxi was out the front now, and the first relay car was only a mile away in case the target took the autobahn south and not north. Schuter lived to the north of the airport. Come on then, he thought, let’s be having you. Quayle was almost sorry the man was an American. He liked them as a rule, the romantic in him finding their naivety appealing, their faith in justice and their leaders childlike. He was always disappointed when one turned out to be sour. Like a vintner with bad grapes from good vines and good soil. Teddy Morton had once described it that way, saying the soil of the American dream was no longer what it was, leached dry by the greedy and overworked by its own success.

  He had been ignoring the possibility that the man wouldn’t show all day – take another flight, fly into another airport or simply abandon the visit after the two men had disappeared – but he hoped that they were so confident that they would stick to their plans. Kurt’s clean-up crew would have packed bags, toilet articles and enough to suggest a deliberate move. The two men had turned up as casualties in a road accident, unidentified until this morning, drugged to the extent that the last few hours would be fuzzy, the residual effect lasting some months. It was the only solution that allowed them to live, without compromising the mission, one insisted on by Kurt. Quayle didn’t care one way or another and conceded to Kurt’s wish immediately, knowing that he needed the German’s help in the coming hours if not days.

  He looked down at his watch, thinking the arrival process through. American passport meant the non-EEC line and the usual delays of checking Turk and Sri-Lankan visas. Give it twenty minutes, he thought, another twenty wondering if his suitcase had gone to Antigua or something. Any minute now.

  He left the position he was in, put the name board down, trying to look disappointed and walked back towards the exit doors. He wanted to see who the man left with when he did. He hung around another ten minutes before spotting his target. The description was accurate. A big heavily-jowled man, his hair grey and spiky: real middle America, complete with plaid shirt, loafers and striped trousers, the overcoat incongruously formal. Quayle watched as he shook hands with a man he hadn’t seen before, noting the ring on the finger. A few stiff Germanic nods later, the stranger took the man’s bags.

  A moment later, another man appeared. Oriental in appearance, he came from behind, stepping forward for the introductions. Quayle looked at the men doing the pick-up. These two are another calibre from the pair last night, he thought. His eyes scouted around. Probably, there was a fourth man in the car. As they walked past him, he half turned away, already slipping the brocade buttons on his tunic. Then, once he was certain he had not been sighted, he followed them through the doors, a man and his wife between them. Pulling an overcoat on, the cap folded up and thrust into one of its voluminous pockets, he watched as a big cream coloured Mercedes Benz pulled up. Soon, the three Caucasian men were arguing good-naturedly about who would sit where, the Chinese watching and saying nothing.

  Quayle dodged cars across the wide road, arriving at the waiting cab. There he slid into the seat.

  The driver lifted the Motorola handheld to his mouth. “Cream 500 Mercedes, five men, licence as follows: Lima Seven Three Three Five. All acknowledge please.”

  The engine gunned into life and the taxicab darted out into the flow of traffic. Soon, they had taken up a position four cars behind the Mercedes.

  “On the main road half kilometre from the first exit, fifty kilometres an hour, inside lane behind a red trailer. Did you get that, Two?”

  Two came back with a snapped “Ja, rolling”, and moved off the verge where he had been sitting with his bonnet up, looking miserable in the rain for the last half hour.

  The driver looked across at Quayle, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Don’t worry English. We won’t lose him.”

  *

  There was a car waiting at Gatwick Airport for Cockburn and Chloe, the same driver who had picked up Cockburn the night he had flown in to the RAF base only days before.

  “The office doesn’t know you’re back, sir. Sir Gordon requests no contact until you’ve met with him.”

  “Same as last time?”

  “No, sir. We’re staying in Sussex.” And, with that, the glass panel slid across, leaving the back seat in privacy.

  Chloe looked at Cockburn, who shrugged and sat back in the deep seats. For a time they sat in silence, while the big car eased its way westwards through Crawley, the light drizzle softening the hard yellow street lights.

  “You seem pretty sure about what’s-his-name,” she said softly.

  “Eicheman?” He shrugged to himself. “Yes I am. I’m a bloody idiot. I should have thought of him before. He and Titus go way back. Career BND man, bloody good at his job. If Ti’s convinced anyone to help, it will be Kurt. And if anyone will be willing to help, it will be Kurt. He owes Ti favours. Eicheman’s a man who respects that type of thing.”

  “The old school,” she said.

  “No. Just another disobedient, stubborn, innovative, loyal bastard.”

  “Oh!” she said, chuckling. “You like him too then!”

  “Don’t remind me! Those two have given more controllers grey hair in both services than the rest put together. Kurt is now quite senior. Station Chief Frankfurt was his last move.”

  It was close to ten o’clock when the car pulled into a long gravel driveway a few miles outside Godalming. The house was a large red brick affair with roses growing in careful columns out front and a large barn along the garden’s south aspect. Bright lights gave the whole area a showy staged look.

  They were ushered into the drawing room by a uniformed maid, who closed the big double doors behind them. There, in front of the fire, stood Tansey-Williams. Behind him, a pair of long crossed legs protruded from a high-backed Queen Anne chair.

  Tansey-Williams raised a hand in welcome.

&nbs
p; “Come in, Hugh. You too, Miss Bowie. Sorry to drag you back like this – but things have been happening. First, I would like you to meet someone...”

  The figure in the chair rose. The first thing Chloe saw was the eye patch on a lean hard face and, as her eyes dropped, taking him in, she saw the right arm hanging down, its hand in a glove. He smiled at her, a raffish confident smile – and, if only for a second, she went weak at the knees.

  “My God,” Cockburn said, “General Borshin.”

  He had studied pictures of the man a thousand times, the man responsible for all Soviet external operations. Here he was, in the same room as his arch-rival the Head of MI6, drinking brandy and chatting by the fire.

  His thunder stolen for a second, Tansey-Williams glowered at Cockburn and then turned to Chloe. “May I introduce KGB General Nikolai Borshin, Head of Directorate Four in Moscow?”

  She put out her hand, her mouth dropping open at the mention of the name.

  “How do you do?” she said

  He took her hand and nodded formally, then turned to Cockburn. “You are Hugh Cockburn?”

  “I am.”

  “Interesting career. Prague, Berlin, Bucharest amongst your tally. Never Moscow?” Borshin was trying to score points.

  Cockburn smiled. “Several times, but your people never knew. I took a photo of you the day you got the Directorate.”

  “Touché,” he replied gallantly.

  “Just as our people will never know he has been here today,” Tansey-Williams said, stepping forward. “Sit down everyone. Let’s get our cards on the table. Hugh, what news of Quayle?”

  “He wasn’t at the villa. But they got Holly Morton alive. He was never there. Just dropped her off.”

  “Dead end?”

  “Not quite. I have another lead. I am also hoping that Quayle himself will be getting in touch when he hears about the kidnapping. But of his whereabouts? We have no idea.”

  “It would seem we have had more luck,” Borshin said.

  Cockburn leant forward in the firelight, his face a mask of disbelief. “What?”

  “ I have had a man here for a while. He met Quayle in Ireland, offered him help.”

  Cockburn allowed himself a wry smile. “Your man gets about. He also saw Adrian Black, didn’t he?”