by L J Morris
‘You want to know if she’s clean before the missiles are deployed.’
Lancaster nodded. ‘Does she know who Bazarov is? What was she doing with him and what are they planning? We don’t want the details of our new defence system sold to the highest bidder. The political fallout would be monumental.’
‘And you don’t want the Americans to know that we’re investigating one of theirs.’
‘Once we deal with our problem, we’ll let them in on anything we find. If everything checks out, they don’t need to know.’ Lancaster pointed to the cardboard file. ‘That contains the info we have on Quinn, Bazarov, and your team.’
Carter’s brow furrowed. ‘What team?’
‘Two people who can help you, if you can find them and talk them into it. They both have questionable backgrounds but are the best people for the job. I don’t want to know any of the operational details, just the outcome.’
Carter laughed, ‘And if it all goes wrong you can deny any knowledge.’
‘Like I said, Simeon. Off the books.’
‘What makes you think I can convince them to help?’
‘You convinced me to go into East Berlin, didn’t you? If anyone can talk them into it, it’s you.’
Carter picked up the folder. ‘I can’t promise anything, but I’ll look over it for you.’
The two men stood and shook hands. ‘It’s been good to see you again, Simeon. Let me know how you get on, and remember, this is just between us.’
Carter patted his old protégé on the shoulder and smiled. ‘Take care, Edward.’
Lancaster opened the door and they re-entered the main room. The bodyguard ushered Lancaster towards a fire escape and the staircase down to the club’s rear exit.
Carter retraced his steps back through the drunken crowd, down the sweeping staircase and out through the main entrance to the street.
* * *
Carter sat in his hotel room and looked through the files of his potential team. Ali Sinclair and Frank McGill, at first glance, didn’t look anything special. She was a convicted drug smuggler on the run from a seven-year sentence in a Mexican prison. He was a recluse, a suspect in several murders a few years back but never charged with anything. It was only after further reading that their skills became evident.
He looked through their military records. Sinclair, Alison, thirty-one, captain, Intelligence Corps, Special Reconnaissance Regiment, MI6. She was a talented undercover operative who also had frontline tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan.
McGill, Frank, forty-five, colour sergeant, Royal Marines Commando retired. A highly decorated career marine with multiple operational tours in Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Iraq and Afghanistan. He definitely wasn’t a man that you wanted to piss off.
Sinclair’s location was unknown, thought to be somewhere in the US but unconfirmed. She had the skills and the motivation to stay hidden and survive. She had no family to worry about and no one that would give her away. The only way Carter was going to find her quickly was through McGill. He and Sinclair were close, as good as family. They had been serving together in Afghanistan when a roadside bomb had killed her elder brother. If anyone knew where she was, it was McGill; and at least there was an address for him.
Chapter 3
Rock Cottage had been in the McGill family for generations. Sitting on the Cumbrian fells, in the heart of the Lake District, it was surrounded by poetic scenery and enjoyed oil painting views in every direction. Some of the original land had been sold off over the years but it still sat in one hundred acres of rugged hillside. McGill had been approached with several offers from developers but he liked living there. It was quiet, isolated and nobody bothered him. He moved in full-time after the murder of his wife and spent his time trying to renovate the neglected buildings. He rented out some of the land to his neighbours for grazing sheep and used some to try and grow his own vegetables. His next plan was to get a few chickens as he tried to become fully self-sufficient.
Assorted farm buildings were arranged around three sides of a rectangular central yard. The cottage itself was two storeys and was built from local stone with a slate roof. On the left were a low, single-storey barn built with the same stone and, next to it, a smaller, wooden outbuilding. On the right stood a corrugated steel barn that had been built when the original stone building’s roof had collapsed. The steel barn hadn’t been looked after since McGill’s parents died, and the Cumbrian weather had wreaked havoc on its fabric. The walls had surrendered to rust where the paint was faded and flaked. Several large holes had appeared on the most exposed face, and one corner of the roof was covered over with plastic sheeting to try and keep out the rain.
Simeon Carter sat in the passenger seat of his car and looked at the gravel and dirt track, which led up to the farm, as he put on his boots. The sign on the gate said: Private Land, No Parking, No Cold Callers. McGill was a man who valued his privacy and kept his gate locked. Even without the gate, the track would be impassable in winter without four-wheel drive. Carter fastened his coat and turned up his collar, he wasn’t looking forward to this. He had a feeling that the buildings weren’t the only things at Rock Cottage that were dark and threatening. He picked up his briefcase and set off up the track towards the cottage.
Carter stopped several times to catch his breath as he negotiated the steep, slippery track. He slipped twice and had to put his hand down to stop himself sliding back down to the gate. It was hard going for a man of his age and his hands and knees were covered in mud by the time he reached the buildings.
He stood in the yard and looked around but there was no one to be seen. ‘Hello?’ There was no reply, no twitching curtains or barking dogs. Maybe the place was as deserted as it looked. He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and was attempting to wipe the worst of the mud from his hands when someone appeared from inside the steel barn.
‘Can I help you with something?’ The man wore waterproof trousers and an old, green combat jacket. The skin below his black beanie hat looked as weathered as the barn and he carried a double-barrelled shotgun in the crook of his left arm.
Carter made sure his hands were in view to show he wasn’t armed, he knew McGill’s reputation. ‘Frank? Frank McGill?’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Simeon Carter.’ He held out his hand.
‘What do you want?’
Carter withdrew his offered hand. ‘I’ve had a long drive up from London, Frank. Can I trouble you for a glass of water?’
‘Leave me alone and get off my property.’ McGill turned and walked towards the house.
Carter shouted after him, ‘I really need to speak to you, Frank ... It’s about Ali Sinclair.’
McGill stopped and looked back over his shoulder at his unwelcome visitor. Carter was an old man and didn’t look like a threat, but McGill wasn’t taking any chances. He looked down the track and towards the car parked at the gate. There was no sign of anyone else, no driver or backup; the old man was alone. McGill carried on towards the cottage. ‘You’d better come in.’
The two men entered the kitchen of the house and Carter placed his briefcase on the table. His handkerchief now had more mud on it than his hands did but what he really needed was soap and water. He looked at the bare brick walls and stone floor. The room only had the basics. Belfast sink, fireplace, table and chairs. ‘This’ll be a nice place when you’ve finished it. Reminds me of my own cottage down in—’ He froze mid-sentence. His long experience had taught him that there were times when it was best to shut up and do nothing; this was one of those times.
A silenced Glock 17 was levelled at Carter’s head. McGill’s voice was calm and quiet. It was obvious that he was in control. ‘Lose the jacket, slide the briefcase over here and take a seat.’
Carter did as he was told, hanging his jacket on the back of the chair and sitting down with his hands flat on the table. He wanted to make sure he looked as unthreatening as possible. ‘I didn’t come all the way up here to harm you, Fr
ank.’
McGill pulled out a chair and sat down opposite, the Glock still pointed at Carter. ‘Trust me, if I thought you had you’d be dead already.’
‘The information you need is in that briefcase. Take your time, I’m not going anywhere. Though I’d prefer not to do this with a gun in my face.’
‘I don’t give a fuck what you’d prefer. Tell me what you’re doing here or I’ll kill you now and feed you to my neighbour’s pigs.’
Carter was in no doubt that the veteran marine meant what he said. He had dealt with men like McGill before – hard men, able to kill without hesitation, a valuable tool in certain circumstances. He held up his hands. ‘I have a proposition for you, Frank, an opportunity to bring Sinclair back into the fold, to bring her home.’
McGill placed his weapon on the table and took the file out of the briefcase. ‘Okay, I’m listening, but this had better be good, and keep your hands where I can see them.’
As McGill picked through the contents of the file, Carter filled in some of the details. ‘It’s a simple intell gathering job. We want Sinclair to go in, find out the connection between Quinn and Bazarov and pass the data to us.’
‘What makes you think Ali will work for you lot again after you abandoned her in that prison?’ McGill sounded calm but Carter could sense the underlying menace in his voice.
‘Six couldn’t jump in and get her out, it would have blown her cover from her previous job. If she hadn’t pleaded guilty, she’d have been released after a few months when the fuss had died down.’
‘She only pleaded guilty to get Quinn released. They were friends and Ali thought you’d get her out.’ McGill was becoming more agitated.
Carter shifted in his seat, uneasy at the change in tone. ‘Sinclair wasn’t working for us when she was arrested. She was supposed to be on holiday with an old university friend. We did what we could.’
McGill slammed his fist on the table, his hand hovered inches from his Glock. ‘You did nothing for her. She spent two years in that shit hole.’
Carter held up his hands, he wasn’t going to win this argument, but he had to calm it down somehow. ‘I wasn’t involved in any of that and I wouldn’t have left her there. Look, Frank, I wouldn’t blame Sinclair if she had nothing to do with us again, but we need her. She’s the only one who has an existing relationship with Quinn. They’re old friends and spent time together in a Mexican hellhole. Quinn will trust her, and definitely owes her.’
McGill closed the file and threw it back into the briefcase. ‘Why don’t you get the Yanks to do this? They could pick up Quinn and threaten her with terrorism charges. I’m sure she’d squeal like a pig.’
‘It’s not that easy. The US Government could cover it up to make sure we buy in to their system and not develop one of our own. We need to do this without American involvement.’
‘They won’t be happy with us operating on their soil.’ That was an understatement. The Americans didn’t take kindly to foreign agencies interfering in their business at all, let alone operating in their backyard. There was every possibility that, if caught, he and Sinclair would be thrown into a deep, dark hole for a long time.
Carter was well aware of the risks. If things went wrong, the best Sinclair could hope for was finishing her time in the hell of a Mexican prison. ‘Well, it’s up to us to make sure they don’t find out.’
‘But if they do, we can be written off as unofficial and thrown to the wolves?’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
McGill laughed. He thought Carter seemed okay, not one of the usual career-driven arseholes that populated Whitehall these days. They were only interested in enhancing their own reputations on the backs of people like him and Sinclair. Carter was old school from a different generation; it didn’t mean McGill trusted him though. ‘If you were just coming to me with this job, I’d kick your arse back to London.’
Carter knew McGill thought of Sinclair as family and that he would do anything he could to protect her; that was his way in. ‘Of course, if Sinclair does this job for us, we can get her home. She can start a new life without the risk of being picked up and sent back to Mexico. Wouldn’t that be good, Frank?’
‘All Ali wants is to come home, but she’s not the kind of person to betray a friend.’
‘That’s where you come in. I know that you two are close. I’m hoping you’ll be able to convince Sinclair that she’ll be helping Quinn and, at the same time, helping herself.’
‘I’m not going to convince her to do anything. It’s her decision. Whatever she decides, you’ll just have to accept it.’
The tense atmosphere inside the cottage had eased and McGill was visibly less agitated. Carter was more relaxed, at least he now felt he would make it out of the room alive. ‘That’s good enough for me, Frank. I’d appreciate any help you can give me.’
‘If Ali does agree to do this, I go in as her backup.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that. Do you know where she is?’
McGill stood and walked over to a cork noticeboard that was fixed to the wall next to the door. He unpinned a postcard from amongst various receipts and photographs and passed it over to Carter.
‘I know where she was a month ago.’
Chapter 4
Ali Sinclair took a long drink of lukewarm water from a plastic bottle before pouring the remaining contents over her face and head. The water ran down her neck and mixed with the sweat that already soaked her skin and made it glisten under the floodlights. She hated the heat. She missed home, the bite of a cold winter’s day on her skin, the smell of fresh cut grass after a rain shower, but home wasn’t an option. She was an escaped convict, an illegal immigrant with no documents, no passport and nowhere to go. The last eighteen months on the run had, in some ways, been as bad as prison. The constant fear of being found out and sent back had kept her awake at night. She had no real friends, or anyone to confide in, no one here even knew her real name. She was stuck, pretending to be someone else and hiding amongst people who didn’t ask too many questions.
A few times she had risked everything to contact Frank McGill. She needed to hear a friendly voice and he was the closest thing to family that she had. McGill was trying to help her back home but without much success. Every solution involved her going back to prison. She had to earn enough money to move on, start again somewhere else. That’s why she was doing this.
She swapped the empty bottle for a towel and dried her face and hands before adjusting her black, padded fingerless gloves. Wearing a tight black vest and baggy black shorts, she bounced on the balls of her feet, as if jumping an invisible skipping rope, and waited for her next challenger.
The announcer whipped up the drunken crowd as a local man climbed into the cage. Sinclair’s opponents tended to be one of three types: women who wanted to prove they were tough, fat old men who wanted to grope her, or young rednecks who thought beating her was a way into her bed. None of them had posed a real threat and none of them had won. With her unbeaten record, and the way she dressed, her nickname was obvious. The PA system hissed and the fighters were introduced to the crowd.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, on my right, standing five feet eight inches tall and weighing one hundred and forty pounds ... our ... un-de-feat-ed champion ... BLACK ... WIDOW.’
Sinclair threw a flurry of shadow punches that always got a cheer.
‘And on my left, the challenger, standing six feet four inches tall and weighing three hundred and fifty pounds ...’
Sinclair zoned out – slowing her breathing, blocking out the noise and focusing on the man in front of her. He was big but it was mostly fat. With him were a younger couple, maybe his son and daughter, both in their twenties. She was blonde, heavily made-up and wearing a tight white vest and cut-off denim shorts. He wore a black ‘Don’t mess with Texas’ T-shirt, jeans and a grubby baseball cap. They cheered the big man on as he walked around the cage with his arms raised in a premature victory salute. He wasn’t ready for this a
t all.
The bell rang and the mountain of flesh opposite her wobbled across the ring with his arms outstretched. Sinclair easily ducked under his grasp and spun round behind him. Two quick kidney punches and a kick to his right leg brought the mountain to his knees. Sinclair backed off, giving him the chance to take the count and walk away from the match with only a damaged ego. Spurred on by his screaming supporters, he decided not to take the opportunity and climbed to his feet. Wiping the sweat from his eyes and moving towards her, he pointed at Sinclair. ‘I’m gonna fuck you up.’
He ran the last few feet between them. She sidestepped out of his way, but a hand from outside the ring grabbed her ankle and made her stumble just long enough for a massive fist to land a powerful punch to the side of her head. As she fell on her back, the mountain of flesh bent over and picked her up by the throat. He pushed her back against the side of the cage, brought his face close to hers and licked her cheek. ‘I’m gonna enjoy this.’
Sinclair raised her hands and pushed a thumb into each of his eyes, forcing his head back. The pain made him release his grip and Sinclair wriggled free, rolling across the ring away from him.
Rubbing his bloody eyes, he looked across at Sinclair. She took a step towards him and threw a straight left into his solar plexus that bent him over. She followed with a right uppercut to his jaw then, grabbing the back of his head, drove her knee into his face. A stream of blood poured from his shattered nose and two broken teeth fell out onto the canvas as he pitched forwards, unconscious.
The crowd cheered and the announcer prepared to climb into the ring but Sinclair caught a flash of movement out of her left eye. Her opponent’s daughter flew across the ring screaming, her hands out in front of her with fingers like claws. With her left hand Sinclair blocked the red painted talons that slashed at her face, and smashed her right elbow into the other woman’s face. The daughter held her hands to her split eyebrow and, staggering backwards, tripped over the still unconscious body of her dad. Junior was next up. He jumped into the ring throwing wild, ineffective punches that put him off balance. Sinclair dodged each one and, picking the perfect moment, brought her right foot up in a powerful kick to Junior’s groin. With watering eyes and his balls on fire he folded himself into the foetal position, his mouth open as if to scream but with no noise coming out.
