by Leigh Barker
“Okay,” Shaun said, putting out his hand towards the kid. “Give me your hand, and I’ll help you up—”
“You’ll fall and pull me with you,” she said, pulling her hand away as far as possible.
“Don’t worry,” Shaun said, in his best reassuring voice. “I got down here, so we’ll get up the rug easy, right?”
“I will,” Debbie said, “but you’re old.”
“Thanks, kid. Off you go, then,” he said, pointing at the carpet. “You go first, and we’ll stay here well out of the way.”
“Why?” Debbie said suspiciously.
“So you’ll miss us when you tumble past.”
Harry laughed out loud before he could suppress it, and Debbie gave him a cold look.
“You go first,” Debbie said, pointing at Harry.
Harry shrugged. “You think I’m younger, then?” he said and grinned at Shaun.
“No,” Debbie said. “You’re both old, but he’s wet and will dribble on my new coat.”
Harry’s smile drifted away for lack of a reason to stay, and he began a very painful crawl up the carpet to the window, with Debbie following and Shaun staying back until she was safely at the window and being helped in by Bob.
Shaun climbed in, nodded at Bob, and turned to Harry, who was standing on one leg and leaning face-first against the wall, clearly in pain. Shaun put out his hand. “Thanks for that. For a second there, I thought we were going over.”
“For a second there,” Harry said, “you were.”
Shaun smiled. “True.” He shook Harry’s hand firmly. “Shaun O’Conner.”
Harry frowned and glanced pointedly at the apartment door and its guard, who was still watching, but showing no sign of offering assistance — policeman guarding will not desert his post, even if it means the death of a detective, a cripple, and a kid. A man with that moral compass should be an immigration official.
Shaun nodded. “He used to be my brother.” And that phrase said all that needed to be said on the subject. “I owe you one…”
“Harry,” Harry said, shaking the hand that still held his. “Harry Thorne, and this…” He nodded towards Bob. “Is Robert Doyle, a friend.”
“Thanks, Robert,” Shaun said. “I’ll try to stop them billing you for the carpet.”
Bob looked from him to the bare floor and back, a look of doubt on his face. “You don’t think they’ll—”
“Nah,” Shaun said. “I’ll tell them a sheikh nicked it and flew home.” He chuckled and turned to Harry. “Okay, Harry. Let’s go and get a drink. And you can tell me what you’re doing here.”
“What about the kid?” Bob asked.
“Her name’s Debbie,” Shaun and Harry said together.
“I’ll leave her with the boys in blue,” Shaun said. “They’ll want to talk to her anyway, and it’ll give me time to find somebody to look after her.”
“I don’t need looking after,” Debbie said. “And you haven’t shown me your badge.”
43
Ethan and his team exited the same Heathrow terminal Jimmy Detroit had used to enter the country, except their mindset differed. Jimmy hated the country, while to Ethan and his team it was just another place to be instead of being someplace else.
They used the city link bus just like anyone else and arrived rested but jet-lagged at the Hilton in Green Park, not too grand, but no dump either, just a regular business hotel. They were to remain inconspicuous, and three Americans in a doss-house hotel was far from that.
“My room in ten,” Ethan said as he slung his bag and exited the elevator on the second floor. Sam and Leroy followed with a groan, and Ethan spoke over his shoulder. “Second thoughts, take a shower first.”
They exchanged glances, and Leroy made a show of lifting his arm and smelling his underarm. Not wise, and his expression said so.
There was a man sitting in the big armchair when Ethan entered his room. No big show, no grabbing his gun. No point. First, if the man was a bad guy, he wouldn’t be sitting and reading the travel brochures, and second, Ethan’s gun was en-route from the embassy. Not being the movies, carrying guns on commercial aircraft was a good way to raise a whole lot of fuss he didn’t need.
The two men looked at each other for a while, each waiting for the other to speak. Ethan tossed his bag onto the bed and sat next to it.
“You’re Master Sergeant Gill?” the man said with a smile.
“Last time I looked,” Ethan said, hiding his surprise that the man was a Brit, but hey, he was sitting in a London hotel, so doh!
The man stood, crossed the room, and put out his hand. “Steven Priestly,” he said with a white smile, which in itself was a surprise.
Ethan shook the offered hand once without getting up. “You’re a spook?”
“That’s a name for it, I suppose.”
“What have you got for me?” The world bent a little as Ethan’s brain told him to go to bed, yeah, if wishes were horses, the Lone Ranger would have a posse.
Steven took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to him. “Compliments of Her Majesty’s government,” he said and turned to leave.
“Be sure to say thanks next time you see the queen.”
Steven chuckled quietly as he left. “Yes, she’s coming for tea on Saturday.” He closed the door behind him.
Ethan tossed the envelope on the bed and unzipped his bag.
He was showered and dressed in a well-worn shirt and jeans when the boys tapped gently on the door.
Leroy tossed him the gun the courier had delivered, and Ethan checked it over carefully. Colt M1911, the preferred sidearm for most Special Forces and S.W.A.T teams and the same as Sam and Leroy packed. It felt good to be dressed again.
Leroy handed Ethan a bottle of beer and shrugged. “Be rude not to come bearing gifts.”
Ethan turned the cap and flinched, and caught the opener Leroy tossed him.
“Brits don’t use twist tops,” Leroy said with a grin. “I guess they wanna be bad-asses.”
Ethan took a drink of the cold beer and waved Leroy and Sam to sit. “Okay,” he said and leaned his arms on his knees. “Half the US federal agencies are here to look out for the president. And then there’s us.”
“So they can go home, then,” Leroy said with a grin.
Ethan looked at him for a second and shut him up. “We’re here because there is a clear threat to the president that these boys can’t know about.” He squinted. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Copy that,” both men said in unison.
“The piece of shit rag-head Lupus is our only target.” He took another sip of the beer. “If a bus load of terrorists roll up to the parade, we let them be.” He waited a moment for effect. “That’s the job of the suits.”
“Copy that, boss,” Leroy said. “I’m all for the easy life.”
Jetlag caused Ethan’s eyes to slip as he glanced at him. Easy life? The attrition rate for the unit was higher than any other Special Forces group in the US, and not through any carelessness, they were the vanguard and first to engage the worst the enemies of freedom could throw at them, and the cost was high, very high. He thought of Al Caponetto, Eddie Elward, and Manuel Alvarez, and the others before them, many, many others. And there would be more before the war was over. God, he felt tired, and not just from the jetlag. All those kids who’d stepped up to serve their country and were now gone, and for what? Did it make a difference? He couldn’t say, nobody could, but they weren’t just going to lie down and let their enemies strut their shit on American soil.
He opened his eyes and saw Leroy and Sam watching him quietly, and from their expressions he could tell that they knew, and that they felt it too. Three ordinary men standing in front of a hurricane of hate. Huffing and puffing and hoping to slow it down. He picked up the envelope the spook had left and tore it open, mostly to break the tension. It wouldn’t contain anything he didn’t already know. But he was wrong.
44
Valentin Tal had no
idea what a lockup was, but he was in one. It was no bigger than a double garage, but it did what its name implied, it was lockable, and with two very expensive sniper rifles in their boxes laid out on the trestle table, locking was a pretty useful feature.
Patrick O’Conner was nervous because someone had tried to kill him the night before and because the quiet-spoken Russian scared the shit out of him. He was like something from a Cold War movie, and he felt that if he said the wrong thing, he might find himself in a gulag, or worse.
And he may very well have been right, Valentin didn’t like this man who sold his country for money, he’d dealt with many such men in his long career, and he detested all of them. Where was their honour? Their love of country? This… this capitalism was like a cancer eating at the core of any nation that succumbed to its greed. When this was over, he would kill this man, when there was no more reason for him to live.
He smiled at Patrick. “Thank you for arranging these packages,” he said, tapping the thin, wooden boxes on the trestle tables.
Patrick licked his lips. “No problem. It was a bit tough, but that’s why you hired the best.”
Valentin knew exactly how tough it had been to take delivery from the Jamaican shipper, but let it go, playing the game he’d played so many times. A grateful and stupid Russian spy. “You have received payment?” Of course he had, or he wouldn’t be here.
“Yes, right on time. Thanks,” Patrick said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have people to see.”
Valentin raised a hand. “Of course, please,” he said, waving the Irishman to the door. “And thank you. Perhaps we will meet again.” Said the lion to the goat.
“Perhaps,” Patrick said, leaving as quickly as he could, while maintaining what little dignity he could.
Valentin watched the man go, and his smile faded like a snowman’s in the sun. Yes, they would meet again. He dismissed the man from his mind as he unclipped the catches on the nearest box and flipped up the lid to reveal the M200 rifle, its barrel removed and placed in its storage slot, and the rifle butt fully retracted to minimise its length and mask the case’s contents. Below the rifle, tucked in their protective foam, were the rifle scope, the spotter scope, a box of one hundred .408 CheyTac rounds. And next to these was the advanced ballistics computer that did away with all the uncertainty of manual calculations.
It was an ugly little weapon in its cut-down form, but Valentin touched it gently, almost with awe. This was going to silence Russia’s critics and change the financial dynamics of the West and open the door for the re-emergence of the Soviet Union. A lot to ask, even for the best rifle in the world, but it wasn’t just the weapon, it was the people who would be using it, and the Brothers Vogel were the best. Veterans of half a century of struggle, who shared an astounding talent for killing at a distance, maestros of the long gun, as Valentin liked to call them.
The lockup door creaked open, and Valentin closed the lid of the rifle case, turned, and put his hand under his jacket as if scratching an itch.
“Perhaps if I gave you a chorus of Sing to the Motherland, you would not shoot me,” Branislav said.
Valentin smiled. “If you sing, I probably will shoot you, if only to save my ears.” He brought his hand from under his jacket and extended it to his friend. “It is good to see you again.” He smiled as Jurgen stepped in behind his brother and closed the door. “Ah, and here is Jurgen.”
They shook hands as if they hadn’t seen each other for years. Valentin checked the street through a tiny hole he had drilled through the door, and when he was sure there was no one in the quiet industrial street, he walked back to the rifle cases and opened the second one.
“Take your pick. Choose as you would the woman who is to be your companion on a great journey,” he said and waved his hand at the apparently identical rifles.
The brothers took one weapon each, assembling them with expert hands, setting them up on their bipods on top of the wooded cases, extending the collapsed stocks, squinting through the scopes and working the bolt actions, before finally examining them in minute detail.
Branislav lifted his rifle and held it across his chest like a trophy. “She will be my lover,” he said with a wide grin. “Until the loving is done.”
Then Jurgen lifted his rifle in one hand, as if weighing it, smiled and placed it carefully back on the case and patted it lovingly.
“Then,” Valentin said, “we are ready to… how do the Americans say? Ah, to rock and to roll.”
The brothers began to break down the weapons and repack them carefully in their cases. When the pleasant work was complete, Valentin looked out through the spy hole and turned back to face them. “Now take them somewhere quiet and make love with them until you know each other as you do your favourite whore,” he said with a quick smile that just as quickly vanished. “There will be time for only two shots.” He stepped a little closer to them. “If either of you miss, our mission fails and we betray the hopes of our Motherland. Do you understand this?”
They nodded.
“Very well, then,” Valentin said, smiling again. “The next time we meet will be on the day of celebration.” He waited for a moment. “Or the day of our death.”
Valentin watched the East Germans cross the dirty yard, push the cases into the back of a hired Land Rover, and drive away without a backward glance. He closed the metal door, walked to the back of the unit, and pulled another case by its rope handle from behind a stack of empty cardboard boxes.
45
“I know what I was doing in Patrick’s apartment, but the question is, what were you doing there,” Shaun said, as they settled at a table in the window of the bar, from where they could watch the action further up the street. “Not that I’m not grateful,” he added, raising his hands. “Okay, I would have got off the roof, but you helped some.”
Harry chuckled, but let it go. “Just passing,” he lied. “Lucky, I guess.”
“Yeah, lucky that passing included a trip to the sixth floor,” Shaun said and waved away Harry’s protests. “And Bob here,” he raised a finger towards Bob, who was busily downing a Guinness, “either he’s got some sort of square growth on his gut, or he’s got a wad of cash in his shirt.”
Bob coughed and choked on the beer and started to formulate a plausible lie, which would have been a neat trick.
Shaun waved it away. “Look, I don’t give a shit about Patrick’s cash. You could’ve had his furniture as well for all I care.” He leaned forward for emphasis and to make sure no one else in the busy bar overheard him. “You took a hell of a risk to break into his safe, and I want to know what it was you were after.”
“Not really much of a risk, as it happens,” Harry said, making no attempt to deny the undeniable. “What with everybody being dead.”
“Except the worst one,” Shaun added bitterly.
“Yeah,” Bob said, “it looks like he ducked into a safe room and left everybody else to get massacred. Including that kid.”
“That kid,” Shaun said, “is his daughter.”
Harry frowned. “Which makes you—”
“Yeah,” Shaun said, “she’s my niece.”
“And the woman you called to fetch her?” Harry asked.
“Kaitlin,” Shaun said and smiled. “Yeah, she is cute, but way out of my league. Met her at some lame ceremony. She came through, though, saying yes to taking the kid.”
“Her name’s Debbie,” Bob said with a grin. “I believe she mentioned that.”
They chuckled for a moment before relapsing into a serious mood.
“You were telling me what you were looking for in Patrick’s safe,” Shaun said.
“We weren’t,” Harry said and continued before Shaun could make the threat that hung in the air. “But no harm you knowing.” He took a drink of his Guinness and arranged his thoughts. “My brother, the musician,” he shook his head, “was at a gig in a tranny bar, and one of them told him he’d seen some guns. Nutty name…” He frowned as he recal
led it. “Tweetie Pie,” he said with a wry smile. “What sort of name is that?”
“Yeah,” Shaun said, “and you should see him in the flesh.” Now he wished he hadn’t said it like that because now there was an image in his head that wouldn’t flush.
“You know him?”
“Met him a while ago,” Shaun said. “Him and a couple of his… girl friends were involved in a shootout. Nothing to hold them on that wouldn’t put a dent in my day, so we cut Tweetie loose to see what he flushed out of the bushes.”
“Well,” Harry said, “what he flushed out was a couple of the finest extreme-range sniper rifles money can buy.”
“Yeah,” Shaun said. He looked around quickly, but nobody was reacting or listening, being far too engrossed in their own importance. “We met a couple of CIA types who told us all about them.” He smiled. “Helpful of them. Must be this détente thing rubbing off.” He smiled at the memory of the Americans in the rain. “I guessed Patrick was still up to his old tricks.” He leaned on the round table and pointed at the papers. “So, do those tell you who they are for?”
“Yes. He’s a businessman, and businessmen keep records.” Harry tapped the sheaf of papers on the table.
“That’s police evidence,” Shaun said, making no attempt to do anything about it.
Harry glanced at the papers, then back at Shaun. “Yes, this is evidence,” he said quietly. “So that raises two questions—”
“Why don’t I take it, and why don’t I arrest you for burglary and interfering with a crime scene?” Shaun said.
Bob coughed and spluttered his beer again. “I, err… have an appointment with my, err… Pilates instructor,” he said, getting up quickly and pushing past the people milling around the bar.
Harry watched him go, smiled, and looked back at Shaun. “Yeah, it’s a point. Why aren’t we in handcuffs?”
Shaun picked up his whiskey and held it up to the light to see the amber liquid in its true glory and then put it back on the table. “You tell me?”