The Kompromat Kill

by Michael Jenkins

  ‘We’re leaving now but I’ll let you live.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch. Glad I could be of some help to you.’

  ‘You’ve been a great help Sean, and my country would be proud of you.’

  ‘You don’t really want to go through with this, do you? I can see the fear in your eyes. What is it Nadège? What’s fucked you up?’

  Nadège squatted in front of Sean. ‘Many things Sean. Too many things for you to understand. I have my way out now.’

  ‘Why the fuck don’t you let me fix this Nadège? Let me use the British. Turn to them, become one of them, for fuck’s sake. I can connect you quickly and they’ll have you secure like a shot. Save yourself.’

  Nadège’s face changed. She pulled back. She turned. Then she returned to kneel at Sean’s eye level. ‘My way will work. I’ve been planning this for years. It’s guaranteed.’

  ‘You know nothing is guaranteed in our world. Some treacherous bastard will shit all over you. And this time I’m betting it’ll be that asshole bomber or whoever your handler is.’

  Nadège stood and turned again. She paced the small cell, putting her hands on her head and pulling her fingers through her hair. She was becoming more and more histrionic, a demon inside. Sean sensed this was his last chance.

  ‘Turn to the Brits Nadège. Change your life. You’ll be on the run forever otherwise.’

  ‘I couldn’t kill you Sean,’ she said angrily. ‘It’s too late now though. I’m going to go through with this. Once I’ve deployed the bombs, I get free passage to South America from General Alimani. It’s all arranged. You’re Maxim’s father. I can live with lots but killing his father I cannot.’

  ‘How can you trust this General Alimani?’

  ‘I can’t but there’s no other way now. It’s all set. My life is nothing, never has been. My soul was destroyed a long time ago and I want my son to be brought up without the toxicity I had to endure. My mother will make sure of that.’

  ‘You mean ‘our son’. And you can’t just fuck off and kill yourself. That’s defeatist and savage. Get a grip, for fuck’s sake Nadège. Get me out of here and I’ll get you full protection and a new life. It can be planned and they’d want you. You’re more use to the Brits than I am but I can get you connected.’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid,’ she said, dropping to her knees, quietly screaming into the cell, quietly raging inside whilst she started to dig her nails into her wrists, tying to harm herself.

  ‘OK, calm down,’ Sean said sympathetically. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s been happening? Tell me about all these killings you told me about in Armenia. At least leave me with the truth.’

  Nadège sat cross-legged in front of Sean, holding her head in her hands, tearful and lost. ‘It’s all very bad,’ she said, pushing her hair from her face to reveal her tears. ‘Petra is special. A very special woman. My lover.’

  ‘I know that. Go on.’

  ‘She told me a secret she’d been holding onto since she was a child. She’s a broken woman like me. She confided in me. She’s the only person who can truly understand me. She’s the same as me. We suffer the same nightmares, the same dark moments, the same harming.’

  ‘Bloody hell. What was it that’s bonded you?’

  ‘An horrific episode in Bosnia that scarred her for life.’

  ‘Abuse as a kid?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘Go on. At least confide in me now. I can’t do you any damage any more. Look at me. I’m fucked again, and we now have a child, for God’s sake.’

  Nadège explained how she had met Petra. And how they became lovers. Petra had experienced similar traumas to Nadège, both having been sexually groomed and abused as children. But Petra had confided the precise details of her tormentors. They were American, Russian and British officers who had all been based in Tuzla in Bosnia way back in 1995. A bunch of senior and secretive officers who groomed young Bosnian girls, sharing them amongst themselves, and who had sworn to secrecy forever. They named themselves the High Chaparral. Senior officers who had been provided pubescent girls by a local gangster and politician called Franko Burrić, who became the Mayor of Sarajevo.

  ‘I hunted them all down and killed them one by one.’

  ‘Jeez.’

  ‘They killed the souls of many young girls who they were sent to protect.’

  ‘Bastards,’ Sean said, dumbfounded at what he was hearing. ‘How did you find them and kill them?’

  ‘There were eight of them in total. Petra told me how they’d have their secret parties in Tuzla and that there were five girls who were raped and abused incessantly for more than a year. She told me about the local gangster, Burrić, who I trapped, and I went from there.’

  ‘What about Petra?’

  ‘Oh, she killed too. She helped me. It’s helped to revive her life. She’ll kill again soon. It’s all planned.’

  ‘Who’s next then?’

  ‘There are two left and they will be the sweetest kills. One is a former CIA chief and the other a British diplomat. It will be good to make them both suffer.’

  ‘The name of the British diplomat is Edmund Duff, right?’

  Nadège’s jaw dropped. Her mouth opened. She went pale with shock. ‘How the fuck do you know about that? How do you know about him?’

  ‘It was splashed all over the papers in the UK. The kidnapping of a British diplomat when he was out drinking with his American mate. Lots of gossip about the Russians kidnapping him.’

  ‘Mmmmm. It took me a long time to get that name. A very long time. Barrington was the ringleader but he was always hidden and was protected by the Brit called Duff.’

  ‘Torture then? The Brit gave you Barrington’s name?’

  ‘None of your fucking business.’

  ‘Listen, I’ll bet there’s people onto you already Nadège. They’ve probably been following your trail for some time, linking the killings, possibly even knowing about Petra. It’s only a matter of time before they close in.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

  ‘Can’t blame you both though. These are evil bastards who deserve to die. But you know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s more to that man Fletcher Barrington than you know about. He’s also the man who killed my mother, way back in 1986.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘So you see, we have a common purpose. A common aim. To kill this bastard. A bastard who does not deserve to breathe the air we walk in.’

  Nadège started to relax, looking less fearful, engrossed now. ‘Who told you about your mother then?’

  ‘A very good friend. Was Barrington the kingpin in Bosnia then?’

  ‘Yes. He ran two grooming rings. One in Tuzla and the other in Sarajevo. I killed the Mayor of Sarajevo who supplied the girls.’

  ‘How did you get all their names?’

  ‘I traced them over the years using my Russian and Iranian contacts. I love her Sean. I had to do right by her. I might be evil in my own way but at least I have a heart of sorts. These bastards killed these young women. They are all now psychologically scarred for life.’

  ‘A little bit like you Nadège. I know you’re suffering. I know you’ve had that trauma too.’

  Nadège slid back, pushed her legs out and thrust herself forward to stand up. She paced around for a while before squatting back in front of Sean. Sean noticed that the fear in her eyes had gone, her face showed a grimace and she’d come back with a steely determination. Her volatile mood changed again.

  ‘Listen to me,’ Sean said purposefully. He raised both hands to pull them through his hair. The chains clinked against each other. ‘You’re suffering inside, and I have seen the signs. There are lots of them. Your emotional logic is shot and you’re just not able to think the way your brain is designed to. Hand it over. Let me help you. We now have a common purpose: to kill this bastard and look after our child, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Fuck off and stop trying to diagnose me. Only I know what I h
ave to deal with. No one else can ever know, so stop playing the doctor. I’m not completely fucked up, I’m more than capable of thinking logically and the logical part of my brain is telling me I should just slot you right now.’

  Sean had prodded her right where it hurt most. Right in her emotional ego. Her emotions were dysregulated by the severe trauma she had suffered in childhood, which had conditioned her brain and emotions to defend her in the most bizarre, almost alien, ways. For her and many like her, it was a means of survival. She had a deep self-hatred, no self-worth, was hard-wired to function at an incredibly high level, but had an inner rage that led her to kill. All stemming from trauma in early childhood, from being abused as a young child, from being abused by her father.

  Sean knew something was wrong. His psychoanalytical skills were good - but not that good. This was far too deep for him, but he wasn’t far off the mark. What he didn’t know was that her rage was turning black. Someone was sat in front of her and knew about her vulnerability, her inner scars, and now that someone was pulling back the cloak to expose her. That person was now turning into an evil being in her mind. The devil. Sean was taking off her mask, probing inside her mind, and that meant that Nadège saw him as the devil incarnate. It was a defence mechanism. She was blackening him. An effect that emotional intensity disorder sufferers use as a tool to protect themselves.

  What Nadège would do now was anyone’s guess – but Sean had no idea of the danger. He was oblivious to the depth of her hate for him. The worst thing he could ever have done was to call her out for the psychological illness she carried. She was exposed. From this point onwards she would rage internally against him.

  Sean watched her stand and turn to leave. He noticed her face was red with fury. He knew he had blown his mission and his attempt at getting close to her.

  ‘Tell me where Maxim will be. If it all goes wrong I can get to him and your mum. You know I’ll do the right thing by them. Don’t go off and bloody kill yourself.’

  Nadège turned, drew her pistol from her jeans and fired a shot straight into the wall above Sean’s head. She was furious. The noise in the small cell was deafening, causing Sean to shudder and put his hands to his ears. She took one pace forward. Sean watched her eyes. He watched her aim the pistol right at his chest. Then she fired again. Right into the roof of the ceiling. Then she walked right up to Sean and pulled her right hand down before swinging her pistol with a fierce whip-like action straight into Sean’s face. He felt a searing heat as a massive cut ripped his cheek from his mouth to his eye.

  ‘Don’t ever hurt me again,’ she said, turning to open the metal door. She pushed it open. Sean’s ears were ringing. At that moment he didn’t know if she would turn and kill him. Being only milliseconds away from death had made him forget about the pain in his face. A final shot rang out as she fired down the corridor.

  He breathed a sigh of relief as he heard her final words. Words that told him her rage was a mask to protect herself.

  ‘If ever you get out of here, and I’m dead, look for a place called San Pelayo de Tehona. Our child will be there.’

  Chapter 40

  Kuwait

  Sean was left with nothing but his thoughts in the few minutes or so before all hell would be unleashed in the middle of the Kuwaiti Desert, as two helicopters made their final approaches to the partially lit compound in which he was incarcerated.

  His mind juggled intermittently with the chaotic goings-on of Nadège and, more widely, with the background to his mother and her death. In a short space of time he had learnt of his mother’s death and found out he had a child, and now he had a raging assassin on the loose looking to press the nuclear button and finish off a killing spree, with Barrington firmly in her sights. What’s next, he thought?

  His mind turned to Jack. What the hell was he up to back home? And when would he launch the interdiction operation to stop Nadège and her lunacy? He started to feel sleepy but, instead of nodding off, he found himself daydreaming, with his eyes closed and memories of his mother. It was the type of slumber where you have to make your mind work to dig deep and remember the years gone by, the small details, what she was wearing, what she had said and what images she had left in his memory of those younger days. He made his mind work hard, recalling his neuro-linguistic training for memory recall. Had he missed anything from those early teenage years? Or was it all just a blur? He delved deep into his memories, just as he had been taught to do all those years ago. It had worked miraculously with Melissa on his last job – one that led to him finding happiness with her. His mind drifted to Melissa. How was she, he wondered? Was she worried about him? What on earth would she say now that he’d found out he had a son? Would he ever have a child with her? Those conversations had come and gone after the death of his wife all those years ago and he didn’t want to reflect too deeply on having kids – he put those thoughts into his tidy little drawers. Closed them. But they kept bloody opening again.

  Concentrate, man. Stop thinking of Melissa, think of your childhood and your mother. Why on earth had he never latched on to the fact that his mother was a spy? He’d been too bloody busy being a lazy teenager was his response. Oblivious to her heroism and fortitude – just like his dad’s. God, he needed to learn more about his family – especially now that he too had a child. Or so he was told. For fuck’s sake came the response, as a second voice sparked in his head. Was he going mad? Had the shock of capture sent his mind into overdrive? He knew how his mind often played stupid tricks with him when he was under duress. Dreams and imaginings all caused by severe stress.

  Helicopters. Was he hearing helicopters? Was he asleep? Or in a stupor? He felt numb and sedated again. Why was his mother a spy and what on earth had she uncovered that was so big she had been assassinated? He was determined to find out if ever he got out of here. He had known there would be secrets in his family but, decades on, he wanted answers. Not stupid dreams rattling around in his head.

  It was the sound of helicopters. Louder. He opened his eyes. He couldn’t focus in the dim light of the cell. Then he heard the crack and thump of a firearm outside. A volley of controlled shots. Snipers? An assault? He listened intently. He knew he was awake.

  Swartz watched the orange tracer shots stream into the grounds of the mansion located next to the main entrance of the huge courtyard. His night-vision goggles showed one man fall to the ground as a special forces sniper fired from a helicopter positioned about forty feet above the wall and at three o’clock to the main entrance. The sniper helicopter had flown in ahead of the other two air platforms and had smoked the ground at just thirty feet above the sand before rearing up at the last minute to rise sharply into the air, giving the sniper a perfect view of the two armed guards. Neither would have known what the hell had hit them until the last moment of their lives. They’d have heard the ‘wocker, wocker’ of the chopper blades for about ten seconds, but the low-level flying would have confused them. They’d have had no idea where the sounds were coming from until they saw the platform appear from nowhere and the tracer rounds were fired straight into their chests. The tracer gave the other helicopters a sight of where the action was before twelve elite soldiers fast-roped out of the airframes straight into the compound.

  Jugsy was providing high-definition imagery from his fixed-wing drones, which had been loitering silently at eight hundred feet above the target location. The helicopter’s navigator and snipers had perfect imagery of the target site on their ruggedised tablets as they approached, and it allowed the pilots to be steered directly to where the first kills would happen. Swartz watched the first two men fast-rope out of the helicopter and make their way to the target building. Phil ‘The Nose’ was standing in the gaping void, locking his hands onto the three-inch-diameter rope, ready to go next. Swartz watched the air loadmaster tap him once on the shoulder before Phil swung out on the black rope, dropping to the ground using nothing but the friction of his gloves to control the descent.

  Swar
tz grasped the rope and twisted his gloved hands to form a lock and grip on it. He felt a tap on the shoulder and stepped out of the helicopter, feeling the rip of the downdraught from the rotors. He twisted his shoulders as he exited the aircraft and then accelerated his descent by gently releasing his lock on the rope. His knees were bent and spread to absorb the crush on his legs as he landed. He couldn’t see anything below him and had to work on touch and feel as he pummelled into the ground at twenty-odd miles an hour.

  The first thing that caught his eye was the sight of a Malinois attack dog being unleashed by a special forces handler and propelling itself, quietly and with no barking, at the lone gunman stood outside the main entrance. The poor bastard would be dead in seconds. The canine went straight for the man, who had now turned and started to run, but it was too late. The guard had no chance. The canine launched itself, striking the back of the man’s neck, and he crumpled to the ground. The canine adjusted its head, furiously ripping at him before thrusting its teeth into his throat and killing him in seconds. The screams of death scythed through the still air.

  Three down. Two by snipers, one by a canine, more to go. Swartz had no idea how many more men were inside, but he knew the dogs would find them.

  The infrared imagery from the two drones sitting above the assault team allowed Swartz to receive direct radio commentary from Jugsy, who was now directing troops towards any movement he saw on his screens as he sat in the warm offices of an American airfield some one hundred kilometres away.

  ‘One runner on the purple face of the building,’ Swartz heard across the radio. ‘He’s heading towards a Range Rover with a red-hot bonnet. Looks like the vehicle is primed and ready to go.’

  ‘Whisky two four,’ Swartz barked into his helmet radio. ‘That’s your side of the building, take them down.’ Seconds later he heard a volley of automatic fire smash into the vehicle before he sprinted into the open courtyard. He heard a rasping sound across the radio from Whisky two four, indicating that the action was complete and that two occupants had been killed. Five down. No real fightback. Swartz, sweating now, adjusted his helmet and then rode the adrenalin surge, knowing that the most dangerous part of the mission was about to come: clearing out the building and finding any occupants within. He had three teams of four assaulters, two attack dogs and two snipers hovering above the site to make the place safe before Phil conducted his target-site forensics. He wondered if Sean was inside.