Desperate Ground

by L J Morris

  Another wild cheer erupted from the crowd, who were still chanting her name, as the man with the microphone held her arm aloft and declared her the winner and still undefeated champion.

  * * *

  Showered and changed, Sinclair sat on a log with a bottle of beer and stared at the dying embers in the makeshift barbeque pit. She looked up at the sound of a police siren. Was it coming this way? Sooner or later they would be coming for her, but not tonight. The siren faded into the distance and her heartbeat returned to normal. She drained the last mouthful of beer and threw the bottle into the plastic sack with the other empties.

  Walking back to her trailer she was blinded by the headlights of a vehicle directly in front of her. She shielded her eyes just as something hit her hard across her back. She tried to focus on her assailant but another blow, this time to her stomach, forced her to the ground. Two kicks to the ribs winded her and punch after punch slammed into her body.

  As Sinclair curled up in a ball to protect her head, the punches stopped and Junior and his sister stepped back to admire their handy work. Junior laughed, ‘You’re not so tough now, are ya?’

  His sister shouted over to the van, ‘Hey, Pa, you want a piece o’ this?’ There was no answer. ‘Pa?’

  The two of them turned round. Pa was on his knees in front of the van, vomit and spit dripping on to his chest as he gagged on the barrel of the pump-action shotgun that was in his mouth. Frank McGill cocked the weapon. ‘Get away from her.’

  Junior had already had his arse kicked once tonight and wasn’t in the mood to back down. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  McGill’s finger hovered over the trigger. ‘Get in your van and leave or I’ll blow fat boy’s teeth out through the back of his head.’

  Pa stared wide-eyed at his son and tried to speak, but it only made him gag more.

  Junior held up his hands. ‘Okay, we’re going.’ He grabbed his sister by the arm and climbed into the van.

  McGill led Pa round to the door of the vehicle and pushed him in, keeping the shotgun levelled at them as the van drove off.

  ‘You okay, Ali?’

  Sinclair was on her knees regaining her breath. ‘I’ve been better.’

  McGill took her hands and helped her to her feet. ‘We need to get out of here before they come back for more.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Frank? I told you to stay away, you’ve risked enough.’

  ‘And I told you I would never just abandon you like everyone else. I owe you at least that much.’

  Sinclair looked at McGill for a moment. They had a shared past; memories that defined their relationship, experiences that bound them together. She knew he would always be there to back her up. It wasn’t simply a matter of mutual respect; they were brother and sister, thrown together in adversity. The ties between them were unbreakable.

  ‘You don’t owe me anything, Frank. You helped me as much as I did you.’ She gave him a hug. ‘It’s good to see a friendly face though.’

  McGill kissed her on the forehead. ‘Grab your things, time to go.’

  Sinclair didn’t have many possessions, she had to travel light in case she needed to drop everything and run. As McGill kept watch outside her trailer, she threw some clothes and a washbag into a small backpack. The money that she’d managed to save was in an old leather wallet, which she tucked into her back pocket before re-joining McGill outside.

  ‘You got everything?’

  Sinclair nodded. ‘There’s nothing else here I need.’

  ‘Good. Follow me.’

  McGill led the way to the back of the trailers where he’d parked his small motorhome. He’d bought the vehicle for cash when he arrived in the US, it was easier than trying to find motel rooms to stay in, more anonymous. Sinclair threw her bag in the back and joined him in the cab. ‘So, where to?’

  He started the engine and pulled away. ‘We’re heading east. We’ve got a meeting.’

  After an hour McGill turned off the road and parked up out of sight. He switched off the headlights and pulled a curtain across the windscreen to cloak the light from the inside. ‘Time for a drink.’

  Sinclair took the mug of coffee that McGill had made and sat at one side of the small table in the back of the camper, ‘So, who’s this guy we’re meeting?’

  ‘His name’s Simeon Carter, ex-MI6, he ran a team of agents in East Berlin during the Cold War. He seems fairly straight, for a spook.’

  ‘He wants me to spy on Jo Quinn?’

  ‘Yeah, gather some intell on her and this Russian guy. See if she can be trusted.’

  ‘I trust her. She’s not involved in anything. Not knowingly anyway.’

  McGill toyed with his mug. ‘I know she’s your friend, Ali, but her family are missing. She must be in pieces, it would make her an easy target.’

  ‘Losing family does mess with your head. We both know that.’

  They stood up at the sound of a car approaching. McGill picked up the shotgun he had taken from the rednecks and switched off the lights. He opened the door and they both went outside.

  The car was parked fifty yards from them. The lone passenger, arms outstretched, was working his way round to approach from the north. Not the obvious direction to come from but the one they had agreed earlier.

  Carter stopped in front of them. ‘Evening, Frank. Captain Sinclair.’ He held out his hand for Sinclair to shake. ‘I’m Simeon Carter.’

  Sinclair kept her hands in her pockets. ‘I’m not a captain any more, Mr Carter.’ She turned and walked back to the camper.

  There was only room for two to sit at the table, so McGill made them all a coffee then stood in the kitchen while Carter and Sinclair talked.

  ‘Frank tells me you seem okay for a spook.’

  Carter smiled. ‘Does that mean you’ll listen to what I have to say?’

  ‘I might listen for a while but it doesn’t mean I’m interested.’

  ‘Well, it’s a start.’ Carter took a sip of his coffee then leaned forwards as if he was trying to avoid being overheard – a hangover from his Cold War days. ‘Okay, here’s the deal. You get close to Quinn and find out what’s happening, quick, simple and low risk.’

  ‘If it’s so easy, you don’t need me, why don’t you do it?’

  ‘I’m not her friend. You were at university together. Then there’s Mexico. Two months together in a Mexican prison will certainly forge a friendship. It would take us too long to get someone else close enough to be effective. There’s a time limit on this.’

  ‘Your time limit isn’t my problem. I’m not going to help you lock her up.’

  ‘I’m not interested in locking her up, that’s not my job.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  ‘I just need to know what Quinn’s relationship with Bazarov is. Is she actively passing on information to him, or is she being played? Was the meeting in London planned or just a coincidence? I pass the information to Whitehall, job done.’

  ‘And what’s in it for me?’

  ‘Whatever you want. Money, new identity, tickets home.’

  Sinclair stood up and jabbed her finger at Carter. ‘You think I’ll screw over a friend for money? You don’t know me at all.’

  She turned her back on him and stood in the kitchen shaking her head.

  Carter looked at McGill but his face didn’t give anything away. ‘Look, Ali, I know you think of her as a friend.’

  Sinclair spun round to face him. ‘You don’t know anything. We were arrested in Mexico on a made-up charge because someone was trying to get at her family. She had all kinds of fancy lawyers but they weren’t getting anywhere.’

  ‘So you took the blame.’

  ‘Yeah, I took the blame. It got her out and I thought that MI6 wouldn’t just leave me there. What a fuck-up that was.’

  ‘If we’d jumped in and got you out it would have blown your cover from your previous job.’

  ‘So I got seven years for something I didn’t do?’

&nb
sp; ‘The government would’ve got you out eventually.’

  Sinclair picked up a mug and threw it across the kitchen, smashing it against the wall. ‘Fuck you. If it weren’t for Frank, I’d still be there. The Firm would’ve left me there to rot. They didn’t want the embarrassment of claiming me as one of theirs.’

  Carter raised his hands. ‘I’m sorry for that, Ali, but I wasn’t involved. I’d retired by then. I spent my years in Berlin and I promise you that I never left anyone behind.’ He dropped his hands back to the table, took a breath, and let the tension diffuse. ‘Look, if you decide you don’t want to do this that’s your decision, but, look at this way, if Quinn is in trouble, you could be the only person who can help her.’

  Sinclair sat back down at the table, her hands trembling. ‘I need a real drink.’

  McGill took a beer from the fridge and passed it to her. She watched as the condensation ran down the outside of the bottle. ‘Okay. I’ll go in and see if there is anything I can find out, anything I can help her with, but I’m doing it for her, not you. When it’s over, you get me home.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’ Carter finished his coffee and stood up. ‘I’ll leave you two to work out the operational details, I don’t need to know them.’ He opened the camper’s door. ‘Goodnight, Frank, Miss Sinclair. I’ll speak to you soon.’

  Carter got back in his car and fired up the engine. He was quite pleased with himself; pleased with the way the meeting had gone. He still had his talent for persuasion. When he turned on the headlights he realised that McGill had followed him to the car and was walking round to his side. Carter lowered the window as McGill approached. ‘Did we forget something, Frank?’

  McGill bent over so his face was level with the open window, inches from Carter’s. ‘If I ever find out you’ve double-crossed Ali in any way, I’ll track you down and I’ll cut your fucking heart out.’

  As Carter drove off, he looked in his mirror. He’d had threats before but never one so cold, so matter of fact. If anything happened to Sinclair, Carter was certain that it would cost him his life.

  Chapter 5

  Carter arrived back at Heathrow only a few hours later. He picked up his bag from the carousel and headed for the taxi rank. After forty-five minutes he found himself, once again, back in the chaos of central London’s early evening traffic. Nothing ever changed. Cars and buses honked their horns and battled for room while cyclists zigzagged between them, risking life and limb just to save a little time. A seemingly endless stream of pedestrians poured into the underground to fight for space aboard already overcrowded trains. Carter couldn’t understand anyone wanting to go through this every day. Surely there were better ways to earn a living? At least this time he didn’t have to use the underground. Lancaster had arranged a hotel for Carter to stay in as long as was needed. The taxi drove him straight to the front door.

  The hotel was small, discrete and within walking distance of Vauxhall Cross, perfect if he needed to meet up with Lancaster in a hurry. Carter checked in and insisted on a room at the far end of the corridor, he didn’t want anyone to have a reason to walk past his door. The receptionist obliged and Carter walked over to the lift and pressed the button.

  Up in his room he pulled out his mobile and sent a text message to a number he knew by heart. There was another member of the team that he needed to recruit, one who Lancaster would know nothing about.

  One of Carter’s operatives in Berlin was Bobby Kinsella, a man who Carter considered to be a real friend. They’d been working together for a decade and had completed more successful operations than they could remember. Not just in East and West Berlin, but all over the Eastern Block. It was the late eighties, not long before the wall came down, things had eased off by then and it wasn’t as tense as it had been during the height of the Cold War. He and Bobby had been given a seemingly simple mission to pick up a Soviet Army colonel who wanted to defect to the West. It was something they’d done before, and it had become routine. Looking back, Carter would say they had become too complacent, too cocky.

  There hadn’t been much of a plan, no need to pick up the defector from East Berlin and risk a border crossing. Their target was part of the honour guard at the Soviet war memorial in West Berlin’s Tiergarten. He would be taking all the risk.

  Once Carter had pulled up, in front of the memorial, Kinsella had planned to get out of the car and, using his best American accent, pose as just another tourist. Looking around and taking photos while making sure everything was good to go. Any problems and he’d get back in the car and abort the pick up. When Kinsella was happy, he would give the signal and the colonel would make a run for it. By the time any of the other Soviet guards realised what was happening it would be too late to do anything about it, he and the colonel would be in the back seat of the car and they would be driving away.

  The memorial was in the British sector, so a chase was unlikely, and once they were at the safe house they would have nothing to worry about; another successful mission for Carter and Kinsella.

  The mission had begun smoothly enough. They’d picked up the car and set off, chatting as they went. They’d talked about Kinsella’s plans for a family holiday during his upcoming leave. His wife and new-born son were waiting for him at home, life was good, and he was living it to the full.

  As the two men had approached the memorial, they’d quickly run through the plan for the pick up and what they’d do if it all went wrong, but it wouldn’t go wrong, they were feeling relaxed and confident. The one thing Carter and Kinsella hadn’t known, what they couldn’t have known, was that the KGB had been tipped off about the defection and had put one of their men in the honour guard.

  They’d arrived at the memorial and Carter had stopped the car, checking for any signs that they had been compromised. He’d made sure their backup team was in place, but they wouldn’t be needed. Kinsella had opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement, but something was wrong. The colonel hadn’t waited; he’d made a break for it and run towards the car. As soon as he had, the planted KGB officer had taken aim and opened fire.

  Carter had screamed at Kinsella, ‘Get back in the car, Bobby.’ But it was too late. The first bullet had hit Kinsella in the shoulder and he’d fallen against the side of the car. The second and third bullets had taken down the colonel before he’d gone more than twenty yards. Four, five, six shots, Kinsella and a member of the backup team were killed in the hail of bullets. Carter had got out of the car and returned fire but the Soviet agent had stopped shooting and dropped his weapon, content to surrender now that his mission was complete.

  The backup team had run past Carter and surrounded all the guards, disarming them. Carter had run to Kinsella but there was nothing he could do. A bullet wound in the side of Bobby’s head was the hit that had killed him. He hadn’t stood a chance. Carter had lain Kinsella down and covered his body with his coat.

  In the aftermath of the botched mission, Carter, his boss, the backup team, everyone was hauled over the coals. For some it was the end of their career, for others, Carter included, it was a black mark on their record that would never go away.

  The diplomatic fallout had disappeared amongst the usual background noise of normal Cold War relations. With the Soviets demanding their men back and MI6 keen to hush up their involvement, the whole thing was covered up. Kinsella was listed as being killed in a road traffic accident and his body was shipped home to his family.

  Carter had been given a series of shit jobs, so he was under no illusion how badly he’d fucked up. That hadn’t bothered him, but he would never get over the guilt he felt. He was supposed to be in charge; he should have looked after his operative, his friend. Carter was godfather to Kinsella’s son, Danny. He had been left to grow up without his dad and Carter was determined to do anything he could to look after the family. Not because of his guilt or as an act of atonement, but because he’d always promised Bobby that he would.

  * * *

  Danny Kinsella was bor
n just as computers were becoming commonplace and he grew up surrounded by them. He had an understanding that went far beyond knowing how to operate the equipment. The technology, devices and networks all made perfect sense to him. He could read computer code as if it were plain text and was writing and selling his own software while he was still at school. Put simply, he was a genius.

  After he’d graduated from Cambridge, he followed in his father’s footsteps and joined the security services. Not frontline operations like Carter but GCHQ. They’d spotted his potential while he was at university and he’d soon proved to be a valuable asset. He became a rising star of the intelligence community, able to hack his way into any system. The best security software in the world simply wasn’t good enough to keep him out. His career was going well and he was on the fast track to the top, until he was caught hacking the wrong people.

  Kinsella had never lost the need to get recognition of his father’s sacrifice, the fact that he’d died on active service. Carter had told him what he could but Danny wanted evidence, he wanted to know who had killed him.

  GCHQ were far from happy when evidence surfaced that Danny had been snooping around MI6 files. Some of the most senior people in the organisation had been involved in the Berlin cover up. They couldn’t afford to lose Kinsella but they wanted him warned off. Danny was having none of it, either he got the recognition for his father or he left. The organisation had declined; Danny Kinsella had walked away.

  A man with his talents wasn’t going to be out of work for long, companies were lining up to offer him work. He’d preferred to stay freelance – creating security software and charging major corporations a fortune for advice on what they needed to keep people like him out of their systems. After he’d hacked in and shown them just how vulnerable they were, of course.