by L J Morris
‘Getting back home won’t be as easy. I can’t just jump on a plane.’
McGill shook his head. ‘No, we need to get across the border and keep our heads down till we figure a way out of the US.’
‘That’s not going to be your problem. I’m the one who has to go on the run, you’ve risked enough.’
‘I’m not just abandoning you like they did.’
‘You won’t be, I’ll be okay. As long as I’m not locked up, I can handle anything. I’m gonna need you fighting my case back home.’
‘I promise I won’t give up on you, Ali. I’ll do whatever it takes.’
Sinclair reached out and took his hand. ‘Thanks for coming to get me, Frank. You’re the only man I trust.’
McGill squeezed her hand. ‘Get some sleep. We’ll move again once it gets dark.’
* * *
Shortly after sunset, McGill pulled off the road and on to the forecourt of a small gas station. A single fuel pump sat in front of a dilapidated shack that served as both a pay booth and a shop. Sinclair got out and went in the shop while McGill drove around to the large, corrugated steel workshop at the back of the plot. The workshop’s roller door opened and McGill drove in. Inside the building there was a vehicle covered with an old, paint spattered tarpaulin. As McGill pulled up and got out of the pickup, a young Mexican man removed the tarpaulin to reveal a brand-new truck with US licence plates – the vehicle McGill had hired to travel to Mexico.
McGill handed over a roll of hundred-dollar bills in return for the keys. ‘Muchas gracias. Five thousand, as promised.’
‘Thank you, señor.’ The young man slipped the roll of notes into the pocket of his overalls and threw the tarpaulin in the back of the old truck. McGill started the engine of his rental and reversed out of the workshop as the young man lowered the door.
McGill returned to the front of the gas station and picked up Sinclair, who was standing next to the fuel pump with a fresh supply of water in plastic bottles. He pulled off the forecourt and drove southeast, parallel with the border.
The frontier between the US and Mexico is not, as some people think, a large fence with guards and dogs patrolling along it. For most of its length, the border relies on natural barriers: mountains, deserts and rivers. Many people die every year trying to cross over but, with only a few patrols to cover a vast area, large parts of the border are completely open and haemorrhage immigrants into the US.
In the area Sinclair and McGill were heading for, the only obstacle was the Rio Grande. Thousands of people made the crossing successfully, but it was still a risk. Many were apprehended and returned to Mexico while others drowned in the fast-flowing water, weighed down by their possessions. Sinclair would have to take the chance that she could make it across the river without being seen. McGill would cross legally and pick her up on the other side. Simple. At least, that was the plan.
They stopped at a spot two miles from the river. ‘I don’t like this, Ali. Too much could go wrong before you even get your feet wet.’
‘It’s the only way, Frank. If we take the truck closer, we could be seen. I stand a better chance going cross-country on my own.’
‘But if something goes wrong and you have to turn back, I’ll already be on the other side waiting for you. What happens then? If I cross back again it’ll look suspicious.’
‘I’m not turning back for anything, Frank. There’s no way in hell I’m going back to that prison. Either I make the crossing or I get killed in the process.’
‘I’m not risking that, Ali. I’ll make the crossing with you. We can get another truck.’
‘No, Frank, both of us getting caught or killed helps no one. This is a risk I have to take on my own. You can’t be everywhere.’
McGill’s head dropped and he stared at his hands as he desperately tried to think of another plan. After a few minutes he gave up. He knew Sinclair was right but it didn’t make him any happier about it. ‘Okay. If you make it as far as the river, and don’t drown or get picked up by the feds, I’ll see you on the other side.’
‘Relax. It’ll be a piece of cake.’
McGill handed her a map, a small torch and a compass. He pointed at his own map. ‘We’re here, and I’ll meet you here. I’ll drive this stretch of road every hour, on the hour. Stay hidden till you know it’s me.’
Sinclair placed her hand on McGill’s forearm. ‘I’ll see you in a few hours.’ She opened the truck’s door and he watched her disappear into the darkness.
Following the luminous dial of the compass, northeast from the road, she kept up a steady pace, stopping every few hundred yards, looking and listening around her to make sure she was still alone. It took just over an hour to cover the two miles and she now lay beside a boulder overlooking the border.
Fifty feet in front of her, on the bank of the river, was a small group of around ten men, women and children. A Mexican family, getting ready to cross over to a better life. There was no sign of any red and blue lights on the other side, but, just as the family picked up their belongings and moved down the bank, a border patrol inflatable boat cruised into view. Its floodlight swept across the surface of the water as a deterrent to anyone entering the river. The family stopped; then walked back up the bank away from the lights. Maybe they’d decided to try another night, or perhaps it was a ruse to fool the patrol. Either way, Sinclair hoped it would keep the Americans busy while she sneaked across unnoticed.
Just as she stood up to make her move, a four-wheel drive roared out of the desert and slid to a halt in a cloud of sand in front of the Mexicans. Two men armed with pump-action shotguns jumped out, shouting and pointing with their weapons. Sinclair ducked behind the rock. These guys didn’t look friendly and they definitely weren’t happy.
They forced the family to kneel in the arc of light that was being thrown out by the vehicle’s multiple headlights. One of the young men stood up and argued with the pair but a shotgun blast silenced his complaints. The other members of the group screamed and the children began to cry. These men weren’t local police or federales, she knew exactly who they were.
The last two years of her life had been made hell by the drug cartels that ran the prison. They were ruthless and had the money and resources to bribe or kill anyone they came up against. They also made big money from people smuggling. Coyotes – the smugglers who made a profit from every illegal migrant coming up from South America – paid tax to the cartels to ensure safe passage across their territory. This small group weren’t using Coyotes and hadn’t paid tax. If they were allowed to get away with it, a lot of money would be lost. An example had to be made.
Sinclair had to get across the border and couldn’t afford to hang around, but, at the same time, she felt for this family. She didn’t want to walk away and leave them in the hands of these bastards. It was time for a little payback.
Without making a sound, she worked her way behind the four-wheel drive. The two men were standing in front of it with their backs to the light. Dropping on to her stomach, she crawled the last few yards then stood up and peered through the back window. Two nine-millimetre semi-automatics sat on the dashboard within easy reach through the side window.
The two cartel men were preoccupied, shouting at the family, taking any money, or jewellery they had. She approached the open, driver’s window, took one of the weapons and checked it was loaded. As the closest man took aim at a woman in the group, Sinclair stepped out from behind the vehicle and shot him. The man fell forwards into the sand, blood pouring from the wound between his shoulder blades. His accomplice spun round to face their attacker but could only make out a silhouette against the lights. As he levelled his shotgun at the dark shape, Sinclair pumped two rounds into his torso before he could pull the trigger.
The family were rooted to the spot, frozen with fear. Sinclair lowered her weapon and shouted at them, ‘Go. GO.’ It was like someone had fired a starting pistol. They all stood up and took off into the river. The border patrol now had t
heir hands full trying to catch the terrified group as they poured across the river.
Sinclair threw the weapon in the water and ran downstream – away from the unfolding chaos. While the border patrol radioed for backup and tried to round up the Mexican family, Sinclair slipped into the water, unseen, and crossed over to the US.
Thirty minutes later she was sitting in the cab of the truck with McGill. He handed her a towel and threw a blanket round her. ‘Any problems?’
She smiled. ‘Nothing I couldn’t handle.’
Chapter 2
Simeon Carter stepped out of the hotel’s entrance and looked up and down the packed pavement. He hated being in London, especially during rush hour. The sky was darkening; car headlights reflected off the rain-soaked street as people spilled out of offices and shops. Rats, racing away from their corporate lives, rushing past without seeing him or each other. He pulled up the collar of his jacket against the chill wind, descended the stone steps and joined the river of bodies flooding into the tube station. Squeezing his small frame into the carriage with the rest of the cattle, he manoeuvred himself so his back was against the wall. An old habit that meant he could watch the people around him without being approached from behind.
He took an envelope from his coat pocket and read the invitation inside. In ornate, gold lettering on the front of the white card it read:
You are cordially invited to the annual reunion of the Berlin Gentleman’s Club.
Carter wasn’t interested in reunions and, up until now, hadn’t attended one. This invitation, however, was different. On the back of the card was a single handwritten word: Broadsword.
He’d read the word over and over in the last week. It was a word he’d never wanted to see again, a code word used between him and the intelligence officers he had controlled during the Cold War. It meant something big was happening, something that couldn’t be dealt with using normal procedures. It signified a need for extra security. A black op.
Most of the operatives he’d ran in those days were dead now. Picked up and killed by the Stasi in East Berlin or, more likely, they had finally given in to the effects of stress. The suicide rate was high amongst former operatives. In those days, anyone suffering from psychological trauma was likely to be told to pull themselves together. Maintain the stiff upper lip. Others fell to liver damage, lung cancer or heart attacks. Years of heavy drinking and smoking ushering them into an early grave. Only one was left. He, unlike Carter, had stayed in the security services and risen to the upper echelons. Not one of the figure-heads held up for politicians and the press to salivate over and criticise, Edward Lancaster was one of the faceless, grey men who ran the sharp end of the operation. He dealt with men and women who put themselves in harm’s way, on a daily basis, for little reward.
The reunion was taking place in the Wellington. A private members club, close to Whitehall, that was frequented by ex-civil servants. The front of the building was typically Georgian with three floors of symmetrical windows around an ornate porch. The entrance was framed by marble columns and four steps led from the street up to two etched glass and mahogany doors with brass fittings. Carter walked through the doors and into the grand entrance hall. A small, discreet reception desk, manned by a uniformed security guard, occupied one corner of the entrance, with a sweeping staircase opposite. At the bottom of the stairs was a gold-framed message board on an easel. The stick-on letters read:
Berlin Gentlemen’s Club. First Floor.
Carter climbed the stairs and followed the noise of drunken laughter along the elaborately decorated hallway to the Waterloo Suite. The room was full of grey-suited men who looked like they’d been drinking since lunchtime. Most of the faces were unfamiliar to him, not many genuine Cold War veterans bothered to attend these organised reunions. They preferred quiet reminiscence and a small toast to absent friends. Events like this had been hijacked by fantasists who swapped stories about operations behind the iron curtain, but had, in reality, never been outside Whitehall. Some of them didn’t even look old enough to remember the height of the Cold War, never mind to have played a part in it.
Edward Lancaster stood at the other side of the room; Carter made eye contact and set off through the crowd. After a couple of handshakes, a backslapping, and a drunken ‘who the hell are you?’ he made it to the bar on the opposite side.
The two men shook hands, just old colleagues reminiscing about their shared past. They looked no different to anyone else in the Waterloo Suite that night. ‘It’s good to see you again, Simeon, it’s been a long time.’
Carter gave a sideways glance towards a large man standing next to them. ‘I got your invitation, thought it would be good to catch up.’
Still holding Carter’s right hand, Lancaster motioned towards a door beside the bar with his left. ‘Why don’t we go somewhere a little more private?’
Lancaster’s bodyguard reached over and opened the door for them. Carter nodded his thanks to the man and walked through into the anteroom. Lancaster paused at the entrance and whispered to his bodyguard, ‘No one comes in.’
The bodyguard nodded and closed the door behind them.
The inside of the smaller room was every bit as traditional and establishment as the rest of the building. Wood panelling covered three walls, with a floor to ceiling bookcase along the length of the fourth. In front of the bookcase was a large mahogany desk with a green leather sofa against the opposite wall.
The two men sat on the sofa and Lancaster placed a brown cardboard folder between them. ‘I’ll get straight to the point, Simeon. I’ve a job I need you for.’
As soon as Carter had received the invitation with Broadsword written on it, he’d known that Lancaster would have something unorthodox in mind. He looked down at the folder but didn’t attempt to open it. ‘I’m retired, Edward. You know that. Just living the quiet life.’
‘I know you. You miss the thrill of the chase.’
Carter shook his head. ‘I don’t miss the bullshit that comes with working for politicians.’
Lancaster smiled. ‘You never were one for diplomacy and rules.’
‘I got the job done. When it comes down to it, that’s all the hierarchy were really interested in.’
‘That’s all I want for this job, Simeon.’
Whatever Lancaster had in mind, it must be big. ‘You’ve got access to all the resources the security services have to offer. Why do you need me?’
‘You can guarantee secrecy. We can’t afford any leaks or hacked computer files on this one. We don’t want anyone to know, least of all the Americans. This needs to happen off the books.’
Carter knew what ‘off the books’ meant, it meant deniable. ‘Whose high-profile arse are we trying to save?’
‘No one’s yet. Only a handful of people are aware of this, and no one knows that I’ve come to you with it.’
‘So, what’s the problem?’
‘In four weeks, phase two of a nuclear missile system will begin deploying in the seabed around the UK. It’s being funded by NATO. Its existence won’t be made public. It’ll be passed off as oil exploration.’
‘Surely, the whole point of a nuclear deterrent is that people know we have it.’
‘It’s not, strictly speaking, a deterrent. The missiles are tactical, low yield. They’ll be used to target local areas that may have been compromised by domestic events.’
‘Domestic events?’ Carter hoped this wasn’t what he thought it was.
Lancaster nodded. ‘In the event of war, there may be European governments who become hostile to the objectives of NATO. There may be a terrorist takeover or the election of a far-left government. Phase one deployed missiles around the US coast to do the same job in Central and North America.’
‘You mean nuke our allies? Who the hell thought of that? Who decides when it’s used?’
‘The exact details aren’t important right now, Simeon. Let’s just say they are “need to know”.’
Carter had neve
r known the underlying reasons for many of his operations; he’d just got on with his mission. ‘Okay, what do I need to know?’
‘The company supplying the system is QRL Global Defence. Three weeks ago, Liam Quinn, the husband of their CEO, disappeared, along with their two young sons, while out fishing in the Gulf of Mexico.’
‘Tragic, but why would that create so much concern?’
‘His wife, Josephine Quinn, was on a business trip in London at the time and the Americans contacted us to track her down. While the police were looking for her, they stumbled across an MI5 surveillance operation that had photographed her with this man.’ Lancaster placed a black and white photograph on the table in front of them.
Carter sat forwards and studied it. It showed a man and a woman sitting outside a coffee shop, engaged in deep conversation. ‘Doesn’t look anything out of the ordinary. Who’s the man?’
‘We know him as Viktor Bazarov. Although we don’t know if that’s his real name. He’s an arms dealer, drug runner, terrorist for hire, anything he can get paid for.’
Carter tapped the photo with his index finger. ‘I’ve heard that name before, back in the nineties, in Bosnia.’
‘The first record we have of him is after the Soviets pulled out of Afghanistan in ’89. He’s ex-Spetsnaz, hiring himself out as private military muscle. He’s been a player in every area of conflict and unrest for the last two decades.’
Carter picked up the photo and studied it. ‘No one’s come close to catching him before. He changes his location and appearance so often, he’s impossible to track.’
Lancaster took the photo and put it back in the file. ‘Just after that picture was taken, he disappeared. We don’t know where he is now. Getting something to help bring him down would be a bonus, but our priority is Quinn.’
