by Angus McLean
Cars were jammed up all around, civilians staring in amazement at the carnage on the bridge. He could see several holding up cell phones to film the action.
Archer leaned over the rail and saw Yassar hit the water in a plume of spray. The two wave runners he’d seen earlier were racing towards him, and it was clear to Archer that this was all planned. A high-risk, high-profile escape. Daring and exciting. Front page news and an inspiration to the faithful followers around the world.
He yanked his jacket off and tossed it aside, jumping up onto the railing. The wave runners were closing in down below and he saw Yassar’s head break the surface.
Archer holstered his weapon and took a deep breath then jumped, folding his arms up across his chest and keeping his knees together.
Just like freefall training.
14
The blue surface rushed up and suddenly he hit it, plunging deep and throwing his arms and legs out to slow his descent.
The water was like a cold slap, and he felt the current immediately tug at his body. He kicked hard, pushing up and craning his neck to see as he did so. Getting closer to the surface he saw the two wave runners floating there, a blur of movement and then zipping lines of bubbles as bullets flew into the water a few metres away from him.
Archer tugged his Glock free and extended it as he surged upwards, triggering a couple of shots as one of the wave runners raced away in a cloud of bubbles and white froth.
His head burst into the open just a metre from the second wave runner, and the rider swung towards him, the ugly snout of an Ingram MAC-10 following his gaze. Archer brought the Glock up and snapped out the last two shots, catching the rider first in the throat then the upper lip, throwing him backwards off the runner in a cloud of red, the sub machine gun loosing off a burst of rounds at the sky.
Archer struck out for the runner and hauled himself on from the rear, sucking in air as he watched the gunman roll onto his front and float away. He dropped the magazine and did a speed change, chambered a fresh round and re-holstered the weapon.
The other wave runner was nearly fifty metres away, heading towards open water, Yassar clinging to the rider. He was watching over his shoulder and Archer saw him lean forward to warn the rider.
Archer gunned the wave runner after them, ducking low and opening it up in a desperate bid to catch them. The surface was rippled with a light wind and the wave runner bounced across the top, spray kicking up around it with every slap down. The wind whipped at his wet clothes and Archer cleared the drips from his face with a quick wipe. He settled in for the ride, scanning about for other threats as he raced across the harbour, but didn’t see any.
They were motoring past other boats, mostly pleasure craft with fishing lines in the water. He glimpsed a girl sunbathing topless on the deck of a substantial cruiser as he flew by, large sunglasses shielding her eyes as she lazily watched him pass, making no effort to cover herself.
Archer turned back to the chase and focussed on the back of the escaping terrorist.
Unburdened by the weight of a passenger, he was gaining ground as they left the harbour and reached the open sea, and he began to plan his tactics on how to affect the capture.
Suddenly the wave runner in front of him cut power and spun in a tight turn, circling to confront the pursuer. Archer eased off on the throttle and waited to see how they were going to proceed.
The rider swung a MAC-10 forward on its sling from under his arm, answering the question with a burst of fire. There was a 30 metre gap between them, and the wave runner was an unstable platform, allowing the burst to go high.
Archer snatched the Glock from his hip and triggered a snap shot before gunning the runner away to the right. Even though the stubby sub machine gun had a very limited effective range, it carried a 30 round magazine against his compact pistol, and he had no desire to engage in a close quarter battle out here.
He turned again, seeing the other rider bringing the SMG up to eye level, trying to aim as best he could. Archer snapped another shot, firing one handed, and got close enough to make the gunner flinch and involuntarily jerk his barrel wide, wasting a good burst of ammo.
Archer moved again, cutting a tight circle and throwing up a curtain of water as concealment. The throb of rotors reached his ears and he saw the Police heli approaching from Mechanics Bay.
At the same time, he saw a lavish yacht ploughing towards them from the opposite direction.
The other rider unleashed another burst, a line of bullets skipping across the water in front of Archer’s wave runner, and he threw a shot back to dissuade anything further. The rider raised the MAC-10 and emptied the magazine at him, hosing a spray of lead that sliced the air millimetres above Archer’s head.
Archer threw his weight sideways, tucking in tight to the chassis of the runner and letting it right itself as he clung to it, watching the other runner turn and accelerate away. The Police heli was skimming low as it got closer, and he turned his attention to the large yacht as it also approached.
A man on the bow was raising a tube to his shoulder, and turned it towards the heli.
Archer cursed and waved desperately at the heli, vainly trying to warn them off as the man with the RPG settled his sights. A rocket propelled grenade flashed forward and up, a smoke trail marking its path across the sky as it zeroed in on the heli. The pilot reacted at the last second and banked hard, the rocket whooshing past in a narrow miss.
The heli continued its evasive manoeuvre by pulling right back, ducking and weaving as it made its way to a safe distance. The gunner on the deck turned his attention towards Archer, slipping a second rocket into the tube.
The first wave runner was nearly at the yacht now and Archer cursed, cranked the throttle and leaped it forward, the nose lifting at the same time as he saw the gunner settling into his aim.
He snarled another curse and raised the Glock, emptying the magazine wildly in the gunner’s direction but to no avail. He saw the rocket launch and he dived right, plunging into the water a second before the wave runner exploded in a ball of flame, sending chunks of hot steel sizzling in all directions.
Archer felt a tug as a piece of shrapnel ripped across his left side and he clapped a hand to it, gasping for air as he surfaced. The yacht slowed enough to take aboard the two new passengers before turning in a wide circle around Archer as he bobbed helplessly in the tide, powerless to stop them.
Yassar came to the side rail and threw a rude gesture at him as the yacht powered away, an arrogant sneer on his face as he laughed at his opponent.
‘Better luck next time,’ he jeered.
Archer swore angrily and watched the yacht disappear out to sea.
15
The Service doctor had patched the wound on Archer’s hip and sent him on his way with clear instructions on wound care.
Archer hardly listened; partly because he was a trained medic anyway, but mostly because he was so angry with himself. He’d let his target get away on his first mission, there was a (fortunately) grainy photo from somebody’s cell phone of him at the centre of a media frenzy, and he’d received an immediate ‘forthwith’ to the Director’s office.
As soon as he shut the office door Archer felt the wrath of the man.
‘I thought you were supposed to be a bloody professional, Archer,’ the Director told him coldly. ‘All I’ve seen so far is amateur hour, and my balls are in a sling because of it.’
Archer stood stiffly in front of the desk, fixing his gaze on a painting on the wall opposite. It was a dark oil painting of some kind of old-fashioned English countryside scene with an effeminate-looking shepherd boy and his dog. Archer had never followed art at all and had no idea whether it was an original or a print. It didn’t matter much right now, as long as it kept his focus from the Director’s icy gaze.
‘The last thing we needed was to have this plastered all over the media, but that’s what I now have to deal with-and what I have to try and explain to the PM.’
> The Director wasn’t a pacer; he sat perfectly still behind his desk, hands flat on the surface. Somehow his physical calmness made the fury in his words more noticeable, and Archer suddenly felt very isolated and vulnerable.
‘I gave you three rules for this mission; no publicity, no collateral and four days to do it in. You’ve got us on the breaking news with a trail of wrecked cars and bullet casings behind you.’
‘In a timely fashion though, sir.’ Archer’s attempt at levity was poorly timed. The Director’s expression told him that a fresh turd on his dinner plate would have been more welcome.
‘This agency has made an excellent name for itself and in one fell swoop that’s been torn down by one man’s inability to carry out a simple task. Any fool could’ve embarrassed the Government like this.’
Archer bristled at the jibe, and the Director picked up on it immediately.
‘Did you have something to say in your defence, Archer?’ he inquired. ‘I’d love to hear it.’
Archer stopped staring at the effeminate shepherd boy and looked at the other man.
‘You have a leak,’ he said flatly.
It was the Director’s turn to bristle and his nostrils flared. He pursed his lips and fixed Archer with a withering look.
‘And what the hell gives you licence to make accusations like that?’ he snapped. ‘You’ve got a bloody cheek!’
‘Well how the hell did that debacle happen then?’ Archer snapped back. ‘Those cops were gunned down in the elevator-they were ambushed. Yassar had help to get out of there, and if the details were kept so secure then it shouldn’t be too hard to find out who talked.’
‘You watch your tongue!’
‘And you watch your back!’
The Director stood now and glared across the desk at him. Archer glared straight back and for several moments neither man backed down.
‘You’re an arrogant son of a bitch,’ the Director said frostily. ‘You think I don’t realise that? I’ve been living in the shadows since you were jerking off to Commando comics son, so don’t come in here shouting the odds and stating the obvious. You’ve spent your adult life as a blunt instrument, a sledgehammer for cracking nuts, but you’re in a different world now. It’s a world of shadow dancers and half truths, where more often than not the easy way is the wrong way, where you don’t trust your enemies and you certainly don’t trust your friends. Nothing is what it seems until you’ve triple-confirmed it, and every move we make is calculated for a purpose. Our actions can bring down Governments, so we don’t have the luxury of a practice run.’
The Director paused to let that sink in.
‘People told me you were the right man for the job, but it appears they may have been wrong. Were they wrong, Archer?’
Archer took a slow breath and rolled his jaw to ease the tension before speaking.
‘No sir,’ he replied softly, ‘they weren’t wrong.’
The Director considered him for a long moment, as if mulling over his decision.
‘I sincerely hope not. But for now, the mission is not over. Get out there and finish it.’ He paused before continuing. ‘And if you get it wrong again, I’ll have your bloody guts for garters.’
16
The light plane landed at 10pm, and Yassar was hustled into a blue Toyota Surf with blacked out windows. Not that anyone was paying attention anyway; money had changed hands and that was that.
The driver of the Surf was a tall Samoan who introduced himself as Afa. He moved with the lean smoothness of an athlete and had a pistol tucked into the waistband of his ragged jeans. His partner was shorter and stockier and had the shoulders and arms of a power lifter.
He didn’t bother to introduce himself, just roughly frisked Yassar and put him in the backseat.
Afa drove and Yassar switched off, letting tiredness take over as the Surf hummed through Apia city centre and into the mountains. He had no idea where they were and it occurred to him that if it all went south he would be in a very sticky situation indeed. But he was anyway, so what did it matter? He closed his eyes and leaned against the window.
It had been a frantic day and a half-the yacht had been met at sea by a chopper which winched Yassar up like a worm on a fishing line, flew him back to a private landing strip in Northland, and transferred him to a light plane. They had flown to Sydney first then somewhere in the remote Northern Territories, and on from there on the last leg.
It seemed like only seconds later that the Surf slowed and turned off onto a bumpy road, rolling and dipping a good couple of hundred metres through a tree lined avenue until they burst forth onto a wide expanse of open land.
The headlights swept across the facade of a wide house as the Surf turned and parked at the front door. The building looked like something from days gone by, like the mansion of a Georgia plantation owner in the days of slavery and cotton picking, big wooden shutters and an expansive porch with a rocking chair and swing seat.
A man was silhouetted by the light spilling out the open front door. Average height and long in the body, short stocky legs, and curly auburn hair. As Yassar took the steps to the porch the man extended his hand and broke into a broad smile.
‘Hello my friend,’ Yassar enthused, reaching out to pump the other man’s hand. Boyle’s grip was strong but brief, and Yassar got the first inkling that things were not quite going to go as he’d planned. ‘It is so good to see you again.’
Boyle nodded and gave a non-committal grunt as he released the hand shake. He appraised the newcomer silently. ‘Ye’re in a spot of bother, wee man.’
Yassar’s smile faltered and he shifted his feet uncomfortably. ‘I guess you could say that...’ He turned and waved an arm at their surroundings. ‘What a paradise, I must say, hey? Beautiful.’ He clasped his hands together and shook his head, gazing with admiration at the Irishman. ‘Absolutely beautiful.’
‘Don’t suck my dick, pal,’ Boyle said softly, the tiniest hint of a smile playing at his lips. ‘This is business. We have a lot to talk about.’
Yassar’s smile faltered further. Things were most definitely not going to plan, he reflected. Still, perhaps he could talk his way through this and come out the other side. After all, he was Yassar, he was Saudi royalty. No Irish village-idiot was going to outsmart him.
But despite his bravado, as he stepped across the threshold into the old house, Yassar couldn’t help feeling he was passing the point of no return.
17
Air New Zealand’s NZ2 flight landed at London Heathrow at 1:45pm.
On this Wednesday among its passengers was Craig Archer, a management consultant who was travelling alone and on his own passport. He joined the throng at one of the busiest airports in the world, shuffling to collect his luggage then jostling for position to get through Immigration as quickly as possible.
The Immigration officer paid him no particular attention, but Archer was certain he was being watched. His background and previous travels would have ensured he was on the international watch-list, even before the Service had organised the visit and notified their British counterparts of his impending arrival.
He'd left Auckland twenty eight hours ago, transited Los Angeles for five hours, and spent the entire flight sat next to a muscular young Indian man who smelled of curry and wore far too much hair product. He also noted with a sneer the paperback that the guy was reading. It was one of a plethora purportedly written by an ex-Regiment soldier who had left under a cloud and publicly touted himself as a hero. Archer had met him once and the guy lived in a fantastic parallel universe. His bestsellers were ghost written and Archer refused to read him on principle.
He’d done plenty of covert trips overseas before and rarely had issues with security services, but he had a feeling time would be different. Sure enough, in the Arrivals hall of Terminal Four he spotted a watcher lurking near the door, a sporty looking young black guy with ear buds in and a carry bag over his shoulder. He ignored him and stopped to buy a bottle of water bef
ore joining the queue for a cab, waiting seven minutes before climbing into a black cab and giving the driver the name of his hotel in Marble Arch.
He settled back for the journey, not even bothering to check his tail for the watchers he knew would be there, but instead happily reflecting that on most previous trips to London he’d either been picked up by a mate or caught the tube into Victoria.
The joys of travelling on the Government’s ticket, he thought.
Twenty five minutes later the cab pulled up at the kerb and Archer handed over his credit card, added on the appropriate tip-against his natural instincts-and carried his own luggage into Reception.
The girl at the front desk was Eastern European-probably Polish, he guessed-and checked him in with minimal fuss and even less personality. Archer didn’t care-all he wanted was a drink, a shower and a warm bed. The meal onboard had been sufficient and he had slept briefly.
He took the lift to the third floor, noted that the neighbouring rooms were silent, and as soon as he unlocked the door he detected the presence of someone in the darkened room. His senses went instantly to full alert.
He stepped to the side and was about to slip the access card into the power slot, when the other person spoke.
‘Calm down Arch, it’s just me.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘Oh, and Han Solo.’
It was a man’s voice, calm and with a touch of amusement, and it came from the armchair by the window.
‘Millennium Falcon,’ Archer replied, wondering who the hell came up with these ridiculous code words. He hit the lights and immediately recognised the man sitting watching him, a glass of beer in one hand. His face split into a grin and he crossed the floor to shake hands.
Rob Moore had served the last 15 years of his 20 year military career in Special Forces before retiring and dropping out of sight. He’d been an exemplary soldier, and had been a troop Sergeant in Mountain Troop when Archer had taken over as the OC. The experienced NCO had taught him many things and eased him into life in the Group.
