by Mark Leggatt
When and where?
He hit the ‘send’ button and watched the progress bar. It shot to the left and flashed up:
Failed to send
Shit. No signal. He looked up and saw her blond hair in the crowd. Go back to the escalator. He turned to push past the tide of people when he felt a whoosh of stale air and heard the rumble of a train pulling into the station. He looked down the platform. Kirsty was staring at him.
She shook her head then ducked into a tunnel below a sign connecting to the Bakerloo line.
He shoved the phone into his pocket and pushed his way down the wall as the crowd moved to the edge of the platform.
She was waiting for him when he rounded the corner. “London Bridge and the Bakerloo Line is this way,” she said, pointing along the short tunnel to the other platform. “They will have every station on the Victoria Line monitored when they see us on the cameras.”
He heard another train approaching and saw the carriages shoot past.
She held out a hand and waited until the carriage doors opened. “Now!”
Montrose ran down the tunnel behind her and jumped on as the alarm sounded and the door slammed shut. “Kirsty, where are we going?”
“The Embankment.”
“But that’s still on the north side of the river. London Bridge is on the south.”
“I know, but if we stay on the train that long, you can be sure they’ll have worked it out by the time we get there. And they’ll be waiting for us. I don’t want to take that chance. We need another route.”
He reached up and grabbed the bar as the train lurched forward.
Kirsty held onto his jacket. “So, Mr. Connor Montrose. Those two guys outside the old lady’s house. You remember that?”
The two you cut down with a Sten gun. “How could I forget?”
“Both were armed, but one of them had a 9mm in his hand and a Taser in the other. Which means one of them was going to kill someone and the other was going to capture someone. They will have clocked me from the street in Soho.” She wagged a finger at him. “Me or you. Would you like to guess who gets to live?”
“Look, Kirsty...”
“I’ll make it easy for you. They were trying to kill me. But you?” She moved closer. “What do you know that makes you so important?”
Montrose shook his head. “I don’t know. I know as much as you do.”
Kirsty laughed. “Evidently not. So who are you, Mr. Hotshot?”
He stared over the heads of the passengers. “Me? I’m just an IT geek.”
“A geek? So, you’re not a gun totin’ super spy? A shadowy figure, saving ‘Murica from the infidel, leaving a trail of broken-hearted women across the globe? I can imagine them on a balcony at dusk, dressed in negligees, looking forlornly out into the sunset, searching for...” She leaned in closer. “Connor Montrose. License to shag.”
“Kirsty, please.”
“Oh, you’re such a wimp. So, an IT geek, yeah?” She leaned back and gave him a quizzical look. “What’s your specialty?”
“Networks. Firewalls, monitoring, security. Nothing special.”
Kirsty nodded slowly. “Maybe that explains why you didn’t kill them when you had the chance.”
Montrose turned to face her. “I’m not a killer.”
She held up a hand. “Okay, Mr. Geek, don’t get the hump.” She smiled and gently jabbed a finger into his belly. “Just as well I’m here, then.”
Montrose said nothing.
Kirsty nudged his leg once more. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But I’ll kill you if you don’t. Several times, if necessary.”
He had to smile. “I’m a whistleblower.”
“Yeah?” She glanced out of the window as the train slowed. “It must have been some fucking whistle.”
Moments later the train pulled into Piccadilly Circus and more passengers jammed themselves into the carriage. He resisted the urge to check his phone. I have to stop this before a whole world of shit comes down.
Kirsty lifted her head and whispered into his ear. “I have another idea. Get ready to go.”
The train lurched forward and he held on tight. Do the right thing. If some psycho terrorist gets their hands on that satellite... or the Russians? If the Soviets had lost the codes, they must have assumed it was under US control. Even if they knew Pilgrim’s brother was dead. But how? It had to be the other guy. Roger Warrender. A Brit? If the Brits had the access, they would have handed it over to the US, so who the hell is this guy Warrender?
He felt her shuffle closer and caught the scent of warm patchouli from her skin. He blinked and looked away. Jesus, how close were we to nuclear war in the Eighties? If Pilgrim’s brother hadn’t stolen those codes... but when he did, the Cold War was won. Game over for the Soviets. They must have really thought that the US could take out every satellite or missile that they had. Even if they believed Reagan’s bullshit about Star Wars and lasers. Yeah and after that, it was glasnost and they were all good ol’ capitalist buddies. That didn’t last long.
The train rattled from side to side in the tunnel, slowing as the signs for Charing Cross flashed past. She pulled two tightly-wrapped rain macs from her bag, both a lurid pink and emblazoned with the Liberty logo. “Sorry, they’re from the Ladies section. Put it on before we leave the station. We can ditch them later.”
“They’ll spot these a mile away.”
“It’s London. If you don’t like the weather, just wait five minutes. Look down there.”
He turned to the end of the carriage where he saw a group of Japanese tourists huddled together, all wearing blue disposable macs.
“Relax, Mister Fashion Icon, it’s only to get us out the station. Next stop. Embankment.”
“But this goes straight to Waterloo.”
She tapped a finger on his chest. “Remember, this is my turf. Waterloo Station is one of the most secure places in the UK. It’s swamped by hi-res CCTV and has its own police station. And cells. You really don’t want to go there.”
“Then how are we going to...?”
“Go!”
The doors shot open and he followed the crowd out onto the platform, unwrapping the mac and pulling it over his head. He kept behind her and took the steps into the sunshine. Across the road, a high stone wall bordered the Thames and the cool, damp breeze washed over his face. What the hell is Pilgrim up to? Whatever shit he’s got planned, he doesn’t know the scale of this. There is a clear and present danger to the US. Time to end this game.
Kirsty walked fast as she headed west alongside a garden and he hurried to keep pace. “Keep to the side and under the trees,” she said.
“They’ve got cameras here?”
She pointed across the river to a four-hundred-foot-tall Ferris wheel. “Oh yeah. The London Eye and all the high buildings along the Embankment. And up there.” She nodded to the left.
Montrose looked up to the Savoy Hotel. They could spot us any minute. It’s not a chance I can take. I have to tell them. Get them onside. Yeah, before they kill us all. That would be good. He held his phone as he walked. How many satellites have to go down before homeland security is compromised? Or the international payment systems? Either one and the US is fucked. He brought up his phone. This shit is over. Do it. He hit resend on the text message.
Kirsty stopped and backed against the railings to the hotel garden, then ducked under the low hanging branches of a tree. She pulled the plastic rain mac over her head and stuffed it through the railings.
Montrose stood beside her and began to pull off his mac with one hand.
She looked down at his phone.
“I can’t get a signal,” he said.
“You don’t need one. I’ll run comms. Switch it off. It’s not secure.”
“How are they gonna...?”
“Connor, see that?” She pointed to a streetlight in the middle of the road. “The grey box under the CCTV? It’s for mobile phones, right?”
“Yeah, but...”
“Yeah, but it’s not from a phone company. Those are radio monitors set up by the government. This isn’t some conspiracy shit just because it doesn’t have a phone company’s logo on it, those receivers are real. The police and MI5 can put them anywhere they like. There are no rules. And they can see every email, text, call and internet connection. There are hundreds of them across London. Thousands across the country. If you think you can have a private conversation in the UK, you’re bonkers. You might as well stand outside MI5 headquarters with a megaphone.”
He hurried behind her. “Where are we going?”
“The Savoy Pier. We can get a taxi to London Bridge.”
“A taxi?”
“Trust me, Connor, they’ll never catch us.”
*
Kane looked up and saw Campbell approaching, almost running between the desks. A phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled out an old Nokia cell phone and held a hand up to the glass. “Maybe I don’t need you, you little shit,” he murmured.
Campbell stood outside the glass, pointing to his iPad.
Kane shook his head and held up three fingers. He turned his back and brought up a text message on the phone.
We have an agreement. Tracking of Red Star intruder underway.
He resisted the temptation to punch a fist into the air and typed Proceed into the Nokia, then slipped it into his pocket and pulled open the glass door. “You’ve got another chance at giving me good news. Go for it.”
Campbell brought up the iPad. “Montrose agreed to your text. He’s asking where and when. We’ve tracked his phone to the Embankment Tube Station.”
Kane felt a burst of adrenalin. He stared at Campbell, his mouth open, then recovered. “Get a fucking army down there.”
“We have two men in the vicinity. Do you want him alive, sir?”
“Yeah, I want to talk to that prick before I shoot him in the face. But if you bring me a corpse, I’ll still be happy. Do it now.” Kane turned away.
Campbell stood in the doorway. “Sir? What about the girl?”
Kane shrugged, but didn’t turn around. “Whatever.”
Chapter 10
“Stay under the trees, Connor.” She glanced up to a streetlight where two cameras covered their side of the road.
“Okay, so where’s the pier?” He scanned the wall bordering the river.
Kirsty pointed east along the Embankment. “Near that bridge, you can’t miss it. The Ladies Bridge.”
“Isn’t that Waterloo Bridge?”
“That’s the official name. My grandmother helped build that bridge. Hard hat and hammers.”
“Your grandmother?”
“Yeah.” She punched the air. “Girl power! It was built by women during the war, when the men were away fighting.” She lifted her phone into the air, holding it up as she walked.
“You looking for a signal?”
“Nope. As Elvis Costello used to say, I’m watching the detectives.” She screwed her face up at him. “You’ll never take me alive, copper!”
He smiled awkwardly. She took down two guys with a Sten gun. That wasn’t a lucky shot. It looked like two controlled bursts. Yeah, whatever. Kane agreed she’s not a target, so get your mind on the job at hand. Pick your spot. She said a taxi? Okay, then wait until it stops at the lights, then grab the iPad and jump out. This game is over. They can find out about Wolff and Warrender later. He looked up at her phone. “What do you mean, watching the detectives?”
She ignored him and concentrated on the phone. “Connor?”
“Yeah?”
She showed him the iPhone screen.
Is that video? Real time? Here?
“Connor, whatever is about to happen, I want you to keep a clear head and look for opportunities. One of us has to survive.” She looked quickly around. “Preferably me. Now, I need a tourist with some big fuck-off luggage.” She nodded at a Chinese woman walking towards them, dragging a wheeled suitcase.
“Kirsty, what the hell?”
“There’s a car about to pull up on our right. I’ve been watching them behind me on my phone. Take care of the driver. And remember, we drive on the left.”
“Jesus, no. Run for the river.”
She gripped him by the arm. “Connor, a wee lesson from Napoleon Bonaparte. ‘Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.’” She lunged to the side and grabbed the woman’s suitcase, then spun around, lifted the suitcase into the air and launched it behind her.
Montrose jerked his head around and saw a man ten feet away pointing a bright yellow plastic gun directly at his chest. Taser! The suitcase slammed into the man’s knees and he pitched forward. Kirsty ran over and kicked the Taser out of his hand as he pulled the trigger. Montrose heard wrist bones snap and the barbed projectiles flew past his legs, trailing thin cables and fifty thousand volts sparking across the sidewalk as they hit the ground.
A black Jaguar squealed to a halt at the curb beside him. Montrose saw the driver holding a gun in his hand. The driver made to open his door, but a bus passed on his right and hemmed him in. He launched himself across the front seats and kicked open the passenger door.
Montrose turned but the door slammed into his ass. He dropped to the ground and twisted around, bringing up both feet. He booted the door back towards the driver, who fell back into the car, then pointed his gun through the gap in the door.
Montrose threw himself at the car, trapping the driver’s arm between the door and the roof. He reached up for the gun, but the door edged open as the driver slammed his weight against it. Montrose kept his head low, his sneakers slipping on the sidewalk as he pushed with all his strength. “Kirsty! Get out of here!”
She already had the Taser in her hand. The first man jumped up from the sidewalk holding his wrist, then went for his gun, but Kirsty stood her ground and fired the Taser into his face. The barbs pierced his eyes and his whole body convulsed as 50,000 volts coursed through his brain.
Montrose slipped to his knees, his weight against the door. A loud crack deafened him and he saw the sidewalk shatter as the round flew past him, missing Kirsty by inches.
She ducked and scrambled around the car, then leapt on the roof and threw herself flat, grabbing the driver’s gun and sliding backwards, wrenching it from his grasp. She rolled off the trunk and brought up the pistol in one move, her face a mask of cold rage.
“Kirsty, no!”
The driver wrenched his arm free, threw himself across the seat and shoved his hand into the glove compartment.
She shoved Montrose out of the way and emptied the magazine into the driver until the breech slammed back and the trigger clicked empty. Cartridge smoke drifted from the open door.
Pedestrians scattered in all directions. Montrose got to his feet.
Kirsty looked down at the gun. “Shit.” She released the breech. “I should have saved ammunition. I’ll check him for any spare magazines.”
“Jesus, no. They could be here in seconds. Move!”
“Okay, follow me.” She wiped the gun on her dress to remove any fingerprints, then threw the empty pistol into the car and took off down the sidewalk. She ran between the traffic and crossed the road to the wall bordering the Thames.
Montrose sprinted behind her and saw her dart through a gap in the stone wall towards the water. He caught up and turned onto a wooden jetty where she stood waiting for him.
“Walk,” she said. “We’re just a couple of lovers about to go on a romantic water taxi ride.” She pointed to a rigid inflatable at the end of the jetty and waved to the pilot. “Let’s go.”
*
Kane leaned over the technician’s desk watching the grainy video o
f the house in Soho and saw a figure bring up an old machine gun and take down two men. “Who the hell is that?”
“We think it’s the young woman seen with the target.”
“Hey, no shit, Sherlock.”
“Sir?” Campbell stood at the entrance to the glass-fronted office.
Kane strode over. “Bring Montrose to me. I want a word with this prick.”
Campbell closed the door. “No. They saw them coming. Two men down. One dead. One brain-dead.”
“Our men?” Kane looked out to the technician behind the desk. “I just watched the CCTV video from the house in Soho. That’s four men down. What the fuck is going on?”
“It seems Montrose is more than an ex-CIA technician, sir, and the girl knows what she’s doing.” He pulled the iPad to his chest as Kane advanced until their faces almost touched.
“Where are they?”
Campbell cleared his throat. “We’re searching right along the Embankment, but there’s no sign of them. We still have the signal on Montrose’s phone. It seems he’s on the water.”
“The water? You mean the goddamn river? What the hell is he doing, swimming? Hijacked a boat?”
“We’ve got men on the way. We’ll cover both sides of the river.”
“Shut the fuck up. Get the Blackhawks in the sky.”
Chapter 11
A squall of rain came in from the east. Kirsty stood up on the prow as the wind kicked up the spray from the dark waters of the Thames.
Christ, we’re not on a day out. He craned his neck to look back to the Embankment, but could see nothing behind the high wall. He heard sirens in the distance. “Kirsty, we better keep our heads down.”
“It’s only weather!”
“Yeah, I guess you London girls are born to this.”
“Not me.” She dropped onto the seat beside him and slumped against the side of the boat. “I’m a valley girl.” She turned and grinned. “The Welsh valleys,” she said, drawing out the vowels.
The sing-song accent caught him by surprise. “You’re a long way from home.”
