by Andy Maslen
BLIND IMPACT
The second Gabriel Wolfe thriller
Andy Maslen
Copyright © 2016 Andy Maslen
Published by
Tyton Press, an imprint of
Sunfish Ltd
PO Box 2107
Salisbury SP2 2BW
T: 0844 502 2061
www.andymaslen.com
The right of Andy Maslen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. Requests for permission should be addressed to the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover illustration copyright © Darren Bennett
Cover design by DKB Creative
Author photograph for the print edition © Kin Ho
Editing by Tom Bromley
Proofreading by Michelle Lowery, Polgarus Studio
Formatting by Polgarus Studio
ALSO BY ANDY MASLEN
The Gabriel Wolfe series
Trigger Point
Reversal of Fortune (short story)
Praise for Trigger Point
“Early Bond meets Jack Reacher – a thrilling debut for a new action hero.”
Damien Seaman, author of Berlin Burning and The Killing of Emma Gross
For Clare Allen
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Every writer should have a mentor - someone who will start off with the good news when reading that shaky first draft before suggesting, you know, a few little ‘improvements’ here and there. I am fortunate enough to have as both a good friend and constructive critic Katherine Wildman. Mine’s a Nurotini! My first readers offered brilliant advice and criticism that helped me sharpen up my writing, and the action: my particular thanks go to Giles Elliott, Merryn Henderson and Nicky Parker.
For his invaluable guidance on the lore, language and tactics of soldiers, I need to say a big thank-you to my friend, and ex-Irish Guard, Giles Bassett. For his generosity in briefing me on the best weapons for particular jobs, I must also thank Colonel Mike Dempsey.
The Gulliver drug was my own idea, but for helping me understand a little more about pharmacology, particularly its use by the military, I am indebted to Rod Flower, Professor of Biochemical Pharmacology at Barts and The London School of Medicine and Dentistry, and to Doctor Sian Lewis for referring me to his work.
To Anouchka Askew, a special thank-you for a great little piece of Anglo-Saxon. And to Alexander Avazashvili, thanks for helping out with the Russian transliteration.
As with my first novel, Trigger Point, I relied for their professional publishing skills, insights and expertise on a small team of incredibly talented people. Tom Bromley did a superb job of editing the final manuscript. He is also a very good teacher. My good friend and design partner Darren Bennett designed and illustrated the cover. Kin Ho took the author photograph for the print edition. Michelle Lowery, my proofreader, did a superb job and also offered invaluable advice on US Navy/Air Force ranks, and other military/intelligence matters. Jason and Marina Anderson at Polgarus Studio formatted the book for publication.
Finally, I thank my family: Jo, Rory and Jacob. Your patience, support and love sustain me each time I embark on another book. And the rest of the time too.
All of you helped make this book far better than it would have been had I gone it alone. The responsibility for any and all errors, glitches and infelicities remains my own.
Andy Maslen
Wiltshire, 2016
Table of Contents
ALSO BY ANDY MASLEN
Praise for Trigger Point
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
About the Author
Sample: CONDOR
Chapter 1
The call Kasym Drezna had been waiting for came in at 10.30. He went out onto the balcony of the hotel suite to answer his phone. The stars reflected in the screen matched the white headlights streaming along the road beneath him into the centre of Stockholm.
“It’s Erik. The Bryant women are here. They just asked for a car to take them back to the hotel. The Birger Jarl on Tulegatan. You know it?”
“No, I don’t know it, you idiot. And it doesn’t matter, does it? That’s what satnav’s for.”
“Oh, no. Sorry. How long shall I tell them?”
Kasym checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes. Give them a drink on the house.”
“OK. Text me when you arrive and I’ll bring them out.”
“No. Elsbeta will come in and get them. Just keep them happy. Oh, and Erik?”
“Yes?”
“Pack up some food for me. I haven’t eaten today.”
He ended the call and went back inside.
“Elsbeta! Get your jacket, we’re leaving.”
The woman he’d shouted for came out of one of the bedrooms. She was dressed in a smart, black trouser suit. Only a careful observer would have noticed that she wore combat boots under the well-cut trousers, or that the space under her left armpit was bulkier than that on the right. Together, they took the lift down to the parking garage. He thumbed the door-unlock button and pointed at a big black saloon flashing its indicators behind a square concrete pillar edged in black-and-yellow hazard tape. Clearly, the tape was insufficient warning for the hotel’s guests: it was rubbed away on the edge, and replaced with scrapes of blue, red and black automotive paint. He gave her the chunky black key for the Mercedes.
“You drive,” he said. “They’re at Gro Restaurang. Waiting for a car to take them to The Birger Jarl on Tulegatan. Think we could manage that?”
Elsbeta settled herself in the driver’s seat and pressed a button marked “2” by her left thigh. They sat, not talking, as electric motors inside the seat brought it closer to the steering wheel, raised it by four inches, tilted the backrest more upright, and performed a half-dozen other movements, accompanied by a conversation of whirrs, hums and buzzes from inside the t
hickly padded leather.
“Are we ready now?” he asked.
“It’s not my fault you’re built like a giant,” she said. “I want to be comfortable.”
She selected Drive and rolled the car around the pillar and along the rows of expensive German and Swedish cars, then left the car park via the ramp that took them out onto Råsta Strandväg. The car was virtually silent inside. She spoke.
“When we get there, I’ll bring them out. Are they both going in the back with you?”
“It’s best, I think. Easier to watch them. I don’t want any funny business, grabbing the steering wheel.”
They drove to the restaurant without further conversation. Elsbeta was a good driver. Careful, nothing flashy. She slowed early for red lights and waved people out in front of her. Sometimes it drove Kasym crazy, but tonight it felt right. Appropriate. Luxury limousine drivers didn’t power-slide round corners like those stupid American cop shows, or streak away from traffic lights leaving trails of black on the road surface. The fact that she could do all those things was helpful, but tonight he felt the need for calm.
He looked out the side window as Stockholm rolled by. Such affluence. Such ease. These people didn’t know what they had. Back home the only cars like the one he was riding in were owned by the men at the very top of Government. Or men like him, he supposed. But here, in social democratic Sweden, they were everywhere. Perhaps not the top models like this one, but plenty of BMWs, Mercedes and Volvos for the common man.
“We’re here.”
Elsbeta’s short sentence roused him from his musings on the inequalities life dealt to different people, different countries. He fished out his phone and sent an even shorter sentence to the Maître D’.
Outside.
He turned to Elsbeta.
“Go.”
She opened the door and walked up to the front door of the restaurant. He watched her disappear inside, then got out, moved to the rear seats and squashed himself down on the extreme right of the soft, sculpted seat. God, those fat-arsed Germans loved their comfort. From the outside, the darkened glass would give no hint of his presence.
Then he saw them. Two western women. English women. Coming out ahead of Elsbeta, who had even found a cap with a shiny, black plastic peak from somewhere. She was smiling broadly and extending her arm towards the rear of the car. He noted with approval the foil-wrapped package in her other hand. Erik was nothing if not obedient.
He evaluated the two women. The older one, Sarah Bryant: the wife. Elegant, middle-aged, maybe late forties, early fifties. Blonde hair tied back away from her ears. Tanned skin. Light make-up. Grey skirt and cardigan. High heels. Bad for running. The younger woman, Chloe: the daughter. Still well-dressed, but not formal like her mother. Tall. Tight jeans, red leather biker jacket. Baseball boots. The women were laughing and talking. He watched as they drew closer to the car door.
Elsbeta moved in front of the daughter and opened the door. The young woman slid in, looking out at her mother. By the time she bumped into Kasym’s hip, it was too late.
He pulled her across and clamped his hand over her mouth. Elsbeta pushed the mother, not too hard, but hard enough to unbalance her so that she stumbled off the kerb and fell into the back of the Mercedes. The door slammed behind her and in another two seconds, Elsbeta had arrived in the driver’s seat and they were pulling away.
As often happens when you catch people out, Sarah Bryant had said nothing, done nothing. Chloe was quicker on the uptake and was writhing and kicking out.
Then Sarah Bryant found her voice.
“What are you doing? Leave her alone.”
Kasym needed to take decisive action to silence her and to end the struggles of the daughter, who was now kicking out at the back of the driver’s seat, threatening to unsettle Elsbeta.
He reached inside the jacket of his suit and withdrew a long-bladed knife. Keeping his left hand around the young woman’s mouth he brought it into her eyeline, where it caught the orangey-yellow glow of the passing streetlamps. The move worked. It usually did. She became completely still. The mother stared, open-mouthed, at the blade. It had a very narrow tip, and glinted viciously along its stone-whetted edge.
Slowly, so that his intent should not be misinterpreted, he uncurled his palm and freed the girl’s face from his grip.
She gasped and sobbed in one drawn out, halting exhalation.
Before either woman could speak, Kasym began his prepared words.
“Please listen and say nothing. Not until the end. Then you may ask questions. We are kidnapping you.”
Sarah Bryant caught her breath at the word and clutched her daughter’s left hand. She glanced down at the chrome door handle.
“Please don’t bother. Child locks,” he said. “We do not intend, at this point, to harm you, but you must behave yourselves. This is a delicate business, and we have some travelling to do tonight. We need you to encourage your husband to carry out certain actions for us. When he has done as we ask, and we have achieved our objectives, we will let you go. We will even drive you to the airport and give you first-class tickets back to London. But please know this. If you do not behave as required, I shall kill you. In war, one must be prepared to take difficult decisions. Perform unpleasant duties. You would think women would always be safe, but, sadly, it is not so. Now. Question time.”
The mother had been rendered speechless by his monologue, but the daughter was less scared. Brave girl. He liked her spirit.
“What war? What actions is Dad supposed to do for you? Why are you doing this? Who are you people?”
“My name is Kasym. Your driver tonight is Elsbeta. We are Chechens. We have our own resources - money, guns - but we need outside assistance from time to time. Your father will be assisting us.”
“How? He runs a publicly-owned pharmaceutical company. He’s not a banker. He can’t just give you money to buy guns or whatever.”
Kasym grunted his approval at her smarts.
“We have someone on our payroll at your father’s company, in the R&D department. He has a . . .” he paused briefly, “. . . a fondness for young girls. Very young girls. We discovered this, and now he is our inside man at Dreyer Pharma. He is making certain modifications to a drug your father’s company is working on. For the British Royal Air Force. Then there is a very evil man in Moscow called Oleg Abramov. He is what you would call an oligarch, though this is a polite word for an ex-KGB commander who gets fat by stealing state assets. We heard he plans to buy this drug and sell it to the Russian Government. We cannot allow that to happen.” And after telling you this, I’m afraid your freedom won’t happen either.
The mother had regained her composure and asked the next question.
“Promise you won’t hurt us? Promise! Chloe is only twenty-five. She has her whole life in front of her.”
“Dear lady,” he said. “You have only to cooperate and everything will be fine.”
“And where did you learn English? If you’re really a Chechen.”
“I know, amazing isn't it? A savage terrorist from a place you couldn’t even point to on a map, able to speak the Queen’s English. I learnt while at university. UMIST. You know it?”
“University of Manchester Institute of Technology,” Chloe said. “I studied at the University of Manchester.”
“Coincidences, eh? Such an amazing thing. I studied aerospace engineering there. Plenty of time to pick up the lingo. Your Radio 4. Very educational.”
Elsbeta spoke. “We’re here.”
They had pulled up outside the Birger Jarl Hotel.
“Ladies,” Kasym said. “Your room number, please.”
“It’s a suite,” Sarah said. “749.”
“Very good. A suite. So, Elsbeta will go inside and fetch you some things. We will stay here and get to know each other a little better. Keycard please.”
Ten minutes later, Elsbeta exited the hotel’s front door carrying two weekend bags. The thumps as she dropped them in
to the boot were barely audible inside the soundproofed cabin, felt, rather than heard. Then she was back inside the car, and they were pulling away into the traffic on Tulegatan.
“Where are you taking us?” Chloe asked.
“All in good time, young lady,” Kasym said.
“And all this. This is for your cause, is it?” Chloe asked. “You’re, what, nationalists? Separatists? You want to get out from under Russian control, is that it?”
“You are a clever young lady,” Kasym said. “Yes. No doubt they don’t teach Chechen history in your English private schools, and I will spare you the details. But let us just say that I have no love for Russians, and nor do my countrymen.”
“Actually, I do know some history. You fought in the war for independence?”
“I fought in many wars. I even fought for the Russians in Afghanistan against the Mujahideen. It was . . . expedient. Then, yes, in 1994, against the Russians for a free Chechnya, and once more in 1999. Now I fight once again to free my country from the yoke of the oppressor. I would not expect you to understand, as a child of a great colonial power, but Chechens were not born to be slaves to the Soviets, or the Russians.”
The car swung right at a roundabout, leaving Birger Jarlsgatan for the 277. It wasn't the most direct route, but safer. They had to wait while a blue and white city bus pulled past them, its rubber concertina joint flexing as the double-length vehicle negotiated the tight turn.
Without warning, Sarah Bryant leapt forward from her seat and clawed wildly at the back of Elsbeta’s head, tearing out a hank of her dirty-blonde hair.
“You take us back right now! Take us back!”
The car swerved as Elsbeta yelped in pain and swung her free hand behind her, landing a glancing blow on Sarah’s cheek.
“Shit! You bitch. You could have killed us all. Kasym, do something or I’ll stop the car at the next junction and deal with her myself.”
