by L J Morris
On the other side of the fountain was another arch – a grand entrance into the house. There were two solid wooden doors, almost reaching the level of the top floor windows, flanked by palm trees that stood in terracotta pots. One of the doors opened and Jo Quinn stepped out. She rushed across the courtyard and threw her arms around Sinclair. ‘Ali, it’s so good to see you.’
‘You said if I was ever in the area I should look you up.’
Quinn smiled. ‘You should have come here sooner. I’ve been so worried about you.’
‘You’ve got more important things to worry about than me, Jo. How are you doing?’
Quinn’s eyes moistened. ‘I feel numb. I don’t really have anyone I can talk to.’
Sinclair placed her hands on Quinn’s shoulders. ‘I’m here now, you can talk to me.’
‘I’ve missed you, Ali. Where’ve you been for the last eighteen months?’
Sinclair could just make out a figure, standing to the right of the door, watching them as they talked. ‘It’s a long story, let’s get out of this heat and I’ll tell you all about it.’
The two old friends walked arm in arm towards the house and, as her eyes adjusted to the interior lighting, Sinclair turned back to look at the figure in the shadows. Even with shorter hair and clean-shaven, Bazarov’s face was unmistakeable. His light brown hair was now streaked with blonde, but the crescent shaped scar under his right eye was more prominent against his freshly tanned skin. It was him. Whatever was going on between him and Quinn, the meeting in London was no coincidence. Bazarov held her gaze then turned and walked off into the courtyard – he wasn’t happy that she was there.
The open-plan room they walked into had a vaulted ceiling with oak beams that rose to the full height of the house. On the left was a spacious kitchen with tiled floor, oak cabinets and professional grade, brushed steel appliances. In the middle, a dining table with room for ten to sit comfortably. The right-hand side was a sitting area where three luxurious, red leather sofas were arranged in a horseshoe round an expensive looking rug and the biggest flat screen TV Sinclair had ever seen. Matching staircases ran up the walls at each end of the room to a balcony that led to the rooms on the upper floor. Various pieces of artwork, paintings and sculptures hung from the walls or sat on podiums under individual spotlights. The whole house left visitors in no doubt that this family had money.
Sinclair stood on the rug, mouth agape. ‘Wow, this place is huge.’
‘It’s too big for me on my own.’
‘I’m sorry, Jo, I didn’t mean to …’
Quinn sat down on one of the sofas. ‘It’s okay, I just … the place is so full of memories.’ She shook her head. ‘I miss Liam and the boys so much.’ Her voice faltered as she fought to hold back her emotions, but it was no use. She held her hands up to her face as the tears began. Sinclair sat on the sofa and held Quinn in her arms, she was genuinely sorry for her friend but at the same time felt a sharp stab of guilt.
For the next hour Sinclair forgot the real reason she was there, and just concentrated on being Quinn’s friend, someone she could confide in, pour her heart out to.
* * *
After a shower and a change of clothes, Sinclair made her way from her room back down to the kitchen. Quinn was preparing a meal for them both. She looked much better, although her eyes were still a little red. She smiled at Sinclair and poured two glasses of wine. ‘Have a seat, I’ll bring the food over.’
Sinclair took their wine and sat at the dining table where Quinn had set two places. ‘Mmm, something smells good.’
Quinn picked up two plates of pasta and carried them to the table. ‘Nothing fancy, just quick and simple.’ She sat down and took a drink. ‘Now, enough of my problems, tell me where you’ve been hiding.’
Sinclair didn’t have to invent a backstory for this job – no legend or fake identity. She told the story exactly as it had happened, just leaving out the parts about Frank and MI6. When she spoke about the hell of the prison her emotion was real. She’d need a long time to get that out of her head.
Quinn reached out and held her hand. ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Jo, we were both stitched up.’
‘But it was my family they were trying to get at. If you hadn’t taken the blame, I would’ve been in there too. I wanted to help you.’
‘You did help. Your lawyer visiting every couple of months, bringing me one of your letters and some money, made things a little easier.’
After finishing their meal they moved to the comfort of the sofas and talked and drank late into the night, both trying to forget their recent traumas. Sinclair kept Quinn’s wineglass topped up but drank only a little from her own. All the time she was gathering information: the locks on the doors, the alarm system. By the time she went to her bedroom she knew all the security arrangements inside the house and the location of Quinn’s home office; that’s where she would start.
* * *
Sinclair had the perfect view of the outbuildings as she stood next to the window of her room. There were no lights on in the guest house and no sign of movement; she assumed that was where Bazarov was staying. She couldn’t risk searching the bungalow until she knew more about his movements. All of the activity outside was close to the barn. The lights were on and guards were moving in and out of the large double door as they took their turn to patrol the property. It was obviously where they were stationed, and hopefully from where the external cameras were being monitored. The whole property was set up to detect and stop an intruder from outside, not from within.
She knew there was no one else in the house and Quinn’s room was on the other side of the building. Her friend had drunk enough wine to knock her out for the rest of the night but Sinclair still had to be cautious. Keeping as quiet as possible, she left her room and made her way down the staircase towards the kitchen.
Two corridors led from the open-plan area and gave access to the rooms on the side of the house. She crept across the kitchen and along the right-hand passageway, keeping her back to the wall. She stopped every few feet to check for telltale sounds or lights, or someone she might have missed. The office was the third room on the right. She turned the handle and pushed, the door wasn’t locked. She opened it an inch to check for any noises coming from within but it was empty. Sinclair was relieved there were no creaking floorboards or hinges to give her away as she stepped into the office and closed the door behind her.
She lowered the blind over the room’s only window and switched on a small torch. The lens on the torch had been changed so it only gave out red light – it made it less likely to be seen from outside and also preserved her night vision.
She panned the torch left and right. The room was set up as an everyday, small, home office. A simple desk with a phone, computer screen and laptop docking station, faced away from the window. She moved over to the filing cabinet in the corner and checked the first drawer. It wasn’t locked. It could be a lucky break, but most of the time it just meant there was nothing in there worth hiding. She was right; the filing cabinet contained nothing more secret than electricity bills and stationery. Wherever Quinn kept her work files, it wasn’t here.
From the corner of her eye she picked up the slow pulse of a green LED on the opposite side of the room, where a smaller desk held a stack of paper and a laser printer and copier. She lifted the lid on the copier, a single sheet of paper lay face down on the glass; someone had scanned a document and forgotten to remove the original. She turned the page over and shone her torch on it. It was a hand-drawn sketch of an island, showing a collection of buildings. Several numbered arrows pointed at locations on the map but there were no names to give away its location. This could be important, or it could be Quinn’s next holiday destination. She placed it back on the glass and pressed the copy button.
A light came on outside the room; someone was in the kitchen. Sinclair grabbed the copy and switched off her torch. Keeping one ey
e closed to keep her night vision intact, she opened the door just enough to see along the corridor. Quinn opened the fridge door and took a drink from a bottle of water – washing down two aspirin to counter the effects of too much wine. She didn’t suspect anything; she was trying to be quiet so she didn’t wake Sinclair. She put the cap back on the bottle and took it with her. She switched off the light and went back upstairs.
Sinclair finished her search of the office but didn’t find anything else. One hour after entering the room, Sinclair was standing back at her bedroom window watching the movement outside the barn. There were more guards than she had seen during the day. They were only coming out of the barn at night, disguising how many of them there were. Only some of Bazarov’s men were being used as security. Sinclair needed to get a look inside, but not tonight. It was too late and far too risky with so many people about. The guest house was an easier target, but first she had to make contact with Frank.
Chapter 8
McGill’s camper was parked away from the road, two miles from the ranch. To any casual observers he was just another tourist, or a wannabe survivalist out prepping for the end of the world. Either way, he wouldn’t have any curious visitors poking around. Too many people in this part of the world were armed to the teeth and no one wanted to risk getting shot by someone practising their right to bear arms.
The camper looked like a wreck from the outside. The bodywork was dented and rusted with a variety of paint colours from previous spray jobs showing through the latest flaking topcoat. Underneath though, McGill had made sure the engine was in good condition and had fitted a full set of new tyres. It wouldn’t let him down when he needed it. Beneath the floor, a previous owner had installed an extra storage compartment. Maybe it was for smuggling drugs, or just for storing camping equipment; but it was perfect to keep his kit out of sight and hidden from a casual search. If anyone was conducting anything more in-depth, he planned to be far enough away that it wouldn’t matter any more.
He knelt down, rolled back a strip of vinyl flooring, and lifted the compartment’s lid. Two Glock 17s, a Heckler and Koch MP5K sub-machine gun, spare magazines for both and boxes of ammunition all fit inside comfortably. He also had a daysack, radios, spare mobile phones, binoculars and night vision goggles; everything he needed to back up Sinclair. He also had a ghillie suit – the camouflaged clothing worn by snipers to blend in with their surroundings – in a canvas bag. McGill spent hours weaving grass, twigs and leaves from the local area into the netting of the suit. Once he was in position, the suit would blow in the wind and react to conditions in the same way as the foliage around it; he’d be almost invisible.
He holstered one of the Glocks and picked up the ghillie suit, binoculars and a backpack water pouch. He switched off the lights in the camper, locked the door and set off into the darkness.
McGill arrived at Quinn’s compound just before dawn and settled into a slight depression in the hard, dry ground, six feet from the fence. His camouflage blended in well and, unless someone tripped over him, he wouldn’t be spotted. He watched the coming and going of the guards and tried to work out their schedule; there was something going on in that barn – something for him and Ali to check out.
As the sun came up, the temperature rose quickly under his camouflage cover. He knew he was in for a long, hot day but he had to wait for Sinclair to make contact. If she didn’t manage it, he would be back every day until she did. He was used to this kind of operation. Acting as backup for undercover ops was long, boring work but it was absolutely necessary. He had to be there whenever Sinclair got the chance to pass him a message.
Sinclair left her room and went down to the kitchen for some breakfast. Quinn was already up, dressed and on her way out of the door. ‘Morning, Ali.’
Maybe it was just the effect of the previous night’s drinking but Quinn looked rough. Her face was pale and drawn and she had dark rings under her bloodshot eyes. Her hair and clothes were unkempt, by her normally polished standards, and a nervous tick pulled at the muscle of her right cheek. She was on the verge of a breakdown.
‘Are you okay, Jo?’
Quinn nodded. ‘I’m just a little tired.’
Sinclair knew there was much more to it than that but let it go, for now. ‘Where are you off to so early?’
‘I’ve got to go away on business overnight, is that ok?’
‘Yeah, sure. Where are you going?’
‘Nowhere exciting, just boring business.’
A car stopped outside with Bazarov sitting in the passenger seat. Sinclair gestured towards him. ‘Who is that guy? He looks a bit creepy.’
Quinn looked nervous. ‘Just a business associate of Liam’s, he’s helping me out.’ She put her hand up to her face as the tick pulled at her cheek again.
Sinclair could see her friend was lying to her. They’d always been open with each other, no matter what was happening. This wasn’t like her at all. She wanted to tell Quinn that she was there to help, that people knew something was wrong, but she couldn’t risk it. She needed Quinn to carry on as she was. Having her and Bazarov away overnight was the ideal opportunity to continue the search of the ranch.
Quinn grabbed her briefcase and headed for the door. ‘There’s plenty of food in the house and if you need any clothes just help yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She walked out of the door and got in the car.
Outside the compound, McGill watched as the car drove away from the house and out through the gates. It was followed by two four-wheel drives and a van full of guards. He checked the barn, only a couple of men had been left behind. If he could pick out a blind spot in the security, he could get in, grab all the evidence they needed and get Ali out of there, but he’d promised her he’d wait here until she contacted him; he wouldn’t let her down.
Sinclair changed into shorts, T-shirt and trainers, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and headed out for a run round the perimeter fence. Once she’d passed the map to Frank she’d search the guest house – the guards who were left were staying in the barn so it shouldn’t be too difficult. She set off, at an even pace, down the drive and turned right just before the gate. All the cameras were pointing outwards from the property, no one was watching her; they weren’t interested in anything she was doing. Ten minutes into her run she stopped by the fence to take on some water and do some stretching. ‘You okay, Frank?’
From somewhere under the foliage came the reply, ‘I’m sweatin’ my arse off under here.’
She tried not to laugh. ‘I checked out Quinn’s office last night and found a map. It shows an island with some buildings on it, but no location or name.’
‘Do you think it’s relevant?’
‘It only has one word written on it. Kraken.’
‘That’s the code name for the missile system.’
‘Yeah, we need to know the significance of the island.’
‘At the bottom of the fence is a rock, that’s our dead letter drop. There’s a phone in there, I’ve checked but there’s no coverage. Use it to take pictures of anything you find then put it back in there.’
Sinclair bent down, as if to tie her lace, removed the phone from under the rock and replaced it with the map. ‘I’m going to search the guest house now. There doesn’t seem to be any guards about.’
‘I’ve been watching, there are only two left. I’ll create a diversion tonight. As soon as you see the guards leave, you’re good to search the barn.’
Sinclair took a drink of water and set off again, McGill kept an eye on her as she looped round the barn and approached the bungalow from the north. There were no cameras watching the pool, this area was kept private and was shielded from the gates and the barn. She took off her trainers and left them beside the pool. The bungalow’s glass door was open and she stepped in.
The layout and décor inside was similar to the main house, just smaller. The kitchen and lounge shared a single, open-plan space with a small dining table. There was no desk or home of
fice that might yield some evidence and no drawers or cupboards. She had a feeling that this search would be pointless. The bathroom was no better, just an empty medicine cabinet above the sink. Next to the sink, another door led to a walk-in wardrobe – nothing there either. The other end of the wardrobe opened into the bedroom, where a double bed was positioned below a four-bladed fan that turned slowly in the centre of the ceiling. On the other side of the bed was a bay window with thin curtains that blew in the breeze from the open window. As the curtains parted she saw a figure standing outside.
Sinclair dropped to the floor behind the bed; she didn’t know if the guard had seen her or was just on a routine patrol. Keeping low, she crawled out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, crouching behind the cooker. The guard walked across to the pool and stopped at the patio door, he must have seen her trainers. He came through the door and stood in the lounge. Sinclair needed a weapon; if she was caught now, Bazarov could have her killed. She slid a knife out of a block on the shelf beside her and readied herself for an attack.
The guard went into the bathroom and through to the walk-in wardrobe, this was Sinclair’s only chance. She stood up, ran out of the bungalow and slipped into the water. The guard came out only a few seconds behind her. As he stood at the poolside, Sinclair surfaced, shaking water from her hair and wiping it from her face. She looked at him and gasped. ‘You scared me.’
The guard had a thick Eastern European accent. ‘I see you come here. Want to know what you do.’
‘I’ve been for a run and wanted to cool down, is there a problem?’
He looked back at the barn then shook his head. ‘Stay at main house, okay?’
Sinclair nodded. ‘Okay, keep your hair on.’
The guard turned and walked back towards the barn. Sinclair puffed out her cheeks and let out a long breath. That was too close, she needed to switch on. She hadn’t done anything like this for a long time and it showed. Tonight would be much more difficult, but she knew the barn was more likely to yield results. She climbed out of the pool and went to dry off.
