by Mark Leggatt
Lara smiled through tight lips. “No, it isn’t their country. This land, this whole street, belongs to the Queen. And as weak as the British Government are, they will not allow trespassing on Her Majesty’s land. Diplomatic protocol. Besides, the Israelis would shoot the shit out of them if they tried and they know it.” The Audi slowed to a crawl and turned right, past ornate stone pillars, into a driveway and along the side of a grand house.
Montrose noticed a Land Rover, sitting low on its fat tires and the armed guards inside.
A door opened as they approached. “Welcome to the Russian Embassy,” said Lara. “The ambassador is waiting for you.”
“Yeah,” said Montrose, “I’m sure he is.” He stepped from the car and walked around to Kirsty’s side, but she was already out of the car.
“I’m fine, Connor. Let’s go.”
He heard helicopters and looked up, but could see nothing.
“This way,” said Lara and led them up the steps. The door slammed behind them and a guard threw the bolts.
They followed Lara up a staircase towards the second floor and along a wide corridor lined with portraits. He could see an open door on the right-hand side, halfway down. The reek of sewage drifted up the corridor. Yeah, my bad. The Brits will be going ballistic when they find out about the pipe. When they find out? They’ll know. And so will Kane.
“Christ on a bike in house slippers,” said Kirsty. “What a stink.”
Just as long as they don’t send me the bill.
Lara stopped and pointed to an open door.
Montrose turned into the room. A tall, white-haired man stood with his back to them looking out of the high windows to Kensington Palace and Hyde Park. Montrose’s shoes sank into the thick Persian rug that stretched across half the length of the room.
“Hi!” shouted Kirsty. “Sorry about the fire alarm.”
The man turned around, Kirsty’s voice tearing him from his thoughts. He stared open-mouthed at them for a moment and then recovered, stuck out his chin and marched around the desk, holding out his hand. “My name is Nikolayevich Ilyich Ulyanov. Ambassador for the Russian People to the Court of St. James.”
Kirsty grabbed his hand. “I’m Kirsty. Do I have to curtsy? Or kiss your ring?”
The man’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “Ah, the British and their humor, especially in adversity.”
Montrose shook the Ambassador’s hand.
“These are my daughters, Lara and Mascha,” he said. “They are the only ones I trusted to complete this mission. Too many people have let me down today. Please, sit.”
“Any chance of a cuppa?” said Kirsty. “I’ve got a raging thirst.”
“Of course,” said the Ambassador, “but only if you don’t use it to swallow a cyanide pill.”
“Eh?”
“That’s Russian humor.” He shrugged. “But not very good. That is why I became an ambassador.”
“It’s my hearing,” said Kirsty. “Comes and goes. The fucking Yanks nearly blew my head off.”
The Ambassador nodded to Mascha.
“Actually,” said Kirsty, noticing a decanter at the side of the desk. “That’ll do.” She hefted up the heavy glass decanter of clear liquid and poured herself a glass.
The Ambassador held up a hand. “Wait, it is not water, it is...”
“Vodka,” said Kirsty and toasted him with the glass. “I’d just like to say I love your country.” She took a gulp. “Wow! You keep that on your desk and you’re my kind of fella. Oh and thanks for capturing us. Cheers!” She downed the glass in one.
He looked at her empty glass. “You know, I think you may have a career in the diplomatic service.”
“Well, if Wales ever opens an embassy in Moscow, I’m your man.”
Montrose cleared his throat. “What do you want from us?”
The ambassador sat behind his desk. He exhaled slowly, then reached over to the desk and refilled Kirsty’s glass and poured a drink for himself and Montrose. He sat back in his chair, downed the vodka and thumped the empty glass onto the desk. “Before I answer that, Mr. Montrose, I have to know. Can I trust you?”
Kirsty leaned over the table. “Frankly, mate, it’s not him you have to worry about.”
*
“We’ve found Montrose. And her.” Campbell pointed to the map on the iPad.
Kane tried to lean over, but the pain in his ribs made him sit back and gasp. “Where?”
“Kensington Palace Gardens. The Embassy. They must have been smuggled in by the Russians.”
Kane twisted his head to look at Campbell. “You better be sure about this.”
“The parts of Project Orbital that are still functioning have recognized his voice. And that of the Ambassador.” Campbell held up the iPad for Kane to see. The red dot on the map moved around the screen and stopped. He flicked the map to a 3D grid. “Second floor. According to our plans, that’s the Ambassador’s office.”
Kane’s face turned bright red and his breathing quickened. “That piece of shit traitor. Okay. Let’s do it.”
“Sir?”
“Operation Spanish King.”
“If we initiate the attack, the consequences could be very severe. The Farmer was very clear, sir. But it’s your choice. He also made that very clear.”
“Spare me the blame game, you fucking weasel. Grow a set of balls. If Montrose and the girl are in that prick’s office, then the whole of goddamn Russia is going to know all about it any second now. We get this right and they’ll think the whole satellite attack shit is still being run by the Iranians. And they’ll have no evidence otherwise. So, we do this now or a whole world of shit will come down on me. And you.”
“But sir…”
“Shut up. The plan is ready. They’ll think it’s the Chechens, Muslims, Ukrainians or whoever else the Russians have managed to piss off. It’s a long list. Jesus, even the Dutch want to kill them. They’ll know who to look for when they trace the weapons back. You told me the team is trained and ready, yeah?”
Campbell stared at his iPad. “Standing by, sir. I had hoped it would not be necessary and that…”
“Yeah, well it is, so just fucking do it. I want to see them burn.”
Chapter 27
The Ambassador drained his glass. He slumped in his chair, eyes closed, then sat up and leaned forward on the desk, carefully placing the glass beside the decanter. “What I’m about to say to you is not the voice of Moscow. It is the voice of a Russian who lives in the real world. What is happening is not the action of a modern Russian nation. It is Cold War lunacy. We have a lot to learn in this new democratic age and there will be painful lessons before we become a free and just society. But this will put us back generations. When Arkangel discovered the access to the Red Star, something we had lost many years ago, Moscow thought we had regained control. And regained the power that it brings.” He dropped his eyes for a moment. “That prospect terrifies me. But that is nothing to the nightmare that is unfolding. There are people in Moscow who would let the world burn to regain control of near space. And they will.”
Kirsty refilled her glass.
The Ambassador tapped the tip of his finger on the desk. “There is an opportunity, right now, to save the Middle East from nuclear war.” He pointed to Montrose and then around the room. “Moscow may come to their senses, but it will be too late. There are those in the Kremlin who are drunk on power. They care nothing about death and destruction on a global scale. All of that is an acceptable price for power. But they are not the ordinary Russian, who just wants peace and a stable country to bring up his family in.” He stood up, staring at the far wall. He shoved his chair back and marched to the window. “Moscow will soon discover your whereabouts. My daughters will say nothing, but you know how these things work.” He turned around. “You must understand, I make no apology for the aspirations a
nd actions of the Russian government. We need no lessons from the USA in self-interest and hypocrisy. You are not the guardians of democracy, only of your fragile control of the world economy and self-interest, for which you will commit any crime. Right now, we have criminals fighting for the chance to initiate destruction. But it is not too late. We will find out who did this. And what we do with that information…” He shrugged. “That is for another, perhaps bloody day.” He cleared his throat. “Moscow has told me that another attack plan is ready and waiting in the Red Star. And despite the lunatics baying for blood in the Kremlin, I cannot believe our President would initiate an attack. But the Americans? Only God knows what you would do.”
Montrose began to rise from his chair. “Hey, hold on, fella...”
The blood gathered in the Ambassador’s face. “Do not dare to lecture me on the innocence of the United States. They would irradiate the entire Middle East if it suited their plans. Your presidents, your Congress, they come and go, but the hawks, they still circle Langley. They still lust for absolute, imperial control. They would create a blood-soaked desert and call it democracy.” The Ambassador closed his eyes for a moment. “Moscow will find you. They will know that you have talked to me. What happens now, well, I will live or die with the consequences.” He walked slowly to his desk and pressed the flat of his palms on the polished wood. “If you have the power to stop this madness then I implore you, in the name of humanity, do it now.”
Kirsty took a gulp from her glass and tapped her ears. “You know, I didn’t get a lot of that, but you’re kinda sexy for an old bloke, so what have you got in mind?”
Montrose leaned over. “He wants us to destroy the satellite.”
“Sorted.” She downed the vodka. “Give me the internet and ten minutes on a PC.”
The Ambassador dropped down into his chair and pointed to a door at the side of the room. “There is a computer in there. It is not connected to the network. It has unidentified internet access. I’m sure you understand.”
“Whatever,” said Kirsty and jumped to her feet. “Let’s do it.”
Lara opened the door and Montrose followed Kirsty through to a small room with only a desk and computer in it. Lara stood in the doorway. “I will prepare an exit for you. When this is done, you’ll have to move.”
Kirsty sat down and began to type. “Fast jet to St. Petersburg, baby. That’ll do for me.”
Montrose watched Lara close the door, then spoke directly into Kirsty’s ear. “Can we do it?”
Her head jerked back. “Fuck off, Connor, I got my hearing back ages ago. I just wanted to wind him up. Right, leave me alone and I’ll sort this out.”
“What are you going to do? Wipe the software?”
“No, that’s amateur shit. I’ll do much better than that. All I need is Google translate and the coordinates of the Red Star. And I’ve got those. So, what do you think will happen if I told the Red Star to target its own coordinates?”
Montrose stared at her blankly for a moment. “It’ll attack itself?”
“You win a coconut. Now, bugger off and leave me in peace. I’ve got to untangle all the changes I made in the café. I’ll try not to take out any friendly US satellites. Though if I can find the one that the BBC uses, I’m going to blow the shit out of that.”
“The BBC? Why?”
“I’m Welsh. Shut up and go away. Your sexy talk is distracting.” She hunched over the PC.
Montrose looked out of the small window and gazed over the Kensington Palace Gardens and beyond, through the trees to Hyde Park. She can do it. Maybe. What happens next? They just let us go? Maybe we’ll end up in Moscow. Because when we step out of here, Kane will be waiting. They’ll work it out. Maybe the guards on the gate saw something. Whatever, they’ll be waiting. He looked down to a concrete yard and a high wall and through the razor wire, to a track which led from the main road into the gardens. A pickup truck piled high with branches and logs trundled along the lane towards the park, a golden crown emblazoned on the door. He turned back to Kirsty, but she was staring at the screen while her fingers moved quickly across the keyboard. The blaring of horns made him turn back and he saw a white panel van behind the wall, blocking the pickup truck. The truck driver shouted out of his window and hit the horn.
A man stepped out of the panel van.
Montrose felt a stab of adrenalin as shock kicked up his spine and into his brain. Why is he wearing a mask?
The man brought up a pistol and fired two rounds through the pickup’s window. The driver slumped in his seat.
Montrose’s legs shook and his breath stuck in his throat. Four men jumped out of the van, each carrying an RPG. They crouched behind the hood of the pickup. Another masked man emerged from the van, carrying a square-shaped frame and trailing a cord. He disappeared behind the wall. Shaped charge. Det cord. They’re going to blow the wall. “Get down!” He spun around and grabbed Kirsty by the shoulders, throwing her to the floor. The chair slid sideways and clattered into the wall.
“Connor, what the fuck?”
He shoved her below the desk and held her tight as the blast hit the window. The glass shattered and spewed fragments across the room as plaster fell from the ceiling.
Kirsty shoved him aside and lunged for the desk. “I’m nearly there! Just let me finish this.” She tipped shards of glass from the keyboard and pulled her chair close.
Montrose scrambled to his knees and crawled to the window. A cloud of dust lifted from the scene and he saw the gaping hole in the wall, dust and rubble scattered across the yard and bricks embedded in adjacent cars. Two men rushed through the gap, knelt on one knee and pointed their RPGs towards the windows. “Down!” He grabbed Kirsty’s chair and pushed her to the far corner of the room, then pulled her to the floor as the door to the ambassador’s office blew out and landed on top of them. He held her tight as a fireball burst over them. He could smell the paint scorching on the door. They lay still as smoke and plaster dust settled on the floor. Then the screaming began.
“Stay there.” Montrose kicked the door aside and ran to the window. The panel van was gone.
Kirsty scrambled over to the desk. The keyboard lay twisted and smoldering and the PC was shattered and broken. “I was so close!” She grabbed her bag from the floor and slung it over her shoulder. “Connor, we’re fucking out of here. Go.”
Montrose kicked aside the broken doorframe to the Ambassador’s office. The room was thick with smoke and dust, the curtains and furniture ablaze. At his feet lay the twisted and bloody body of Mascha, her arms missing and her head twisted around, her features blackened and torn. Lara ran in from the corridor and dropped to her knees beside her father, trying to smother the flames from his burning clothes. She cried out and sat back, tearing her gaze away from his body. She looked up and saw Montrose, then got to her feet and slowly turned her head. “You,” she said, pointing at Kirsty. “You are the one. This is because of you. You must stop this…” She looked around at her sister and began to hyperventilate, screaming. “No! It stops now.” She skirted the remains of her father and stood in front of Kirsty. “You have to do this.”
“But I couldn’t do it,” said Kirsty. “I didn’t have time.”
“Then we will find a way. If they find out you survived, they will come back. They will kill us all. If they do this, they will never stop. Come with me.”
“Where are we going?” said Montrose.
“Safe house,” said Lara. “Not far. How long do you need?
“Five minutes,” said Kirsty. “And the internet.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah.”
“I will keep you alive for that long. After that, it’s up to you. We go. Not through the gates, they will be blocked. Follow me.”
Montrose ran after them into the corridor, past guards carrying fire extinguishers, and down the staircase. Lara threw the
bolts on the door and stepped into the car park, looking left and right. Montrose stood behind her. The Audi was still there, its windshield shattered and bricks strewn through its interior.
Lara pointed to the Land Rover. “We’ll take that. It’s armored. Get in the back,” she said to Kirsty. “And get undercover. There’s a blanket on the back seat. Remember, you are the target.”
Kirsty said nothing and pulled open the door, then dived into the rear, dragging the blanket over her head.
Montrose got in front.
Two men approached with machine pistols at the ready. Lara shouted at them in Russian. She listened closely then fired up the engine. “They’ve gone. We’ll go through the park,” said Lara and fired up the engine. “All other exits will be blocked.”
The two men ran to the gap in the wall and took up position. The Land Rover knocked the Audi out of the way, bumping up over the ragged stumps of the wall. The Land Rover crashed down, narrowly missing the gardener’s body, then spun right, heading down the lane, hemmed in by trees on one side and the high brick wall on the other.
Montrose could see the exit where the road emerged into Kensington Gardens. The lane narrowed and trees closed in behind them. The Land Rover picked up speed as they neared the gardens.
A black Mercedes appeared from the corner and slewed to a halt, blocking the exit.
Lara blasted her horn. The driver jumped out and crouched behind the hood of the Mercedes, waving an ID card.
“Who the hell is he? A Brit?” said Montrose.
“Not in a blacked-out Mercedes,” said Lara. She kicked open the door of the Land Rover and held up a pistol. “Get out of my way. I will shoot!”
The rear door of the Mercedes opened and a man with a machine pistol rolled out and brought it up towards the Land Rover.
Lara dropped him with a single shot to the heart, then turned and fired at the first man, who ducked behind the Mercedes. She fired several rounds into the hood, where they pierced the metal skin, disintegrating against the armor plating.
