by Blake Banner
“Jesus, you have such a warped, dark view of human beings. Learning! Learning and growing are thrills that never grow old.”
“Have you ever been a thousand years old?”
“Not in this life, wiseass. But even if I lived to a hundred thousand, I would never grow tired of learning and growing.”
“Yeah? Well take my word for it, Helen. Nature created pain and death because people need to suffer and die. And as for learning and growing, the only way I ever saw a person learn and grow was when they suffered. Now shut up and let me focus.”
We had come to the turnoff and I was crawling steadily up the hill between high banks, looking out for the stone steps on my right. They showed up after a couple of minutes and I slowed to a crawl, seeing how they zigzagged up the slope toward a large house half concealed behind cascades of bougainvillea. I also spotted the security cameras and their strategic locations.
On the left the driveway went directly to a green, iron gate about fifteen-foot high, and beyond and behind it there was little to see but for a driveway snaking through dense forest.
I accelerated slightly and kept on going, following the winding road through dappled shade. A couple of left-hand turns brought me onto a broad dirt track that rattled and bounced us among olive groves for about fifteen minutes until we came to a broad lay-by with a decorative spring, in the shade of a dozen eucalyptus trees. There, there was a cream-colored Range Rover with a blond guy leaning against the hood smoking, wearing chinos and a blue shirt, who could only have been English. When he saw us arrive he dropped the butt, trod on it with his suede boots and smiled. I pulled in beside him in the shade of the eucalyptus trees and swung down from the cab. Helen climbed out the other side.
He approached me with his hand held out. “Don’t tell me you’re English. What are the chances of meeting an English couple all the way out here in Seville?”
I shook his hand and said, “My wife and I are Americans, and I think you’ll find we are in Cadiz. Seville is farther north.”
He laughed. “The brigadier’s passwords become more elaborate every day. Your goodies are in the boot, the trunk to you. The plates, as you’ll see, are identical to yours. We just swap keys and go on our merry ways.”
“Take it easy.”
We exchanged keys. He climbed in my Range Rover and I got in his. They were practically identical, except that the one I was now driving had an arsenal in it you could wage World War Three with, and his, within a couple of days, would be dark blue, have different plates and would probably be on sale in Secondhand Car magazine.
Though tonight it would have one last special job with Cobra.
Helen climbed in the passenger side and said, “What the hell was that about?”
I fired up the big engine and smiled at her. “Haven’t you ever been to a car-swapping party? They were all the rage at one time.”
“So this is your hardware? What are you going to do with it? What if the cops stop us and want to look in the back?”
We were rolling and bumping again, toward the main road that would lead us back to Olvera and the hotel.
“Stop asking questions and I might be able to answer some of them.”
“All right. Is this the hardware?”
“Of course.”
“What if the cops stop us?”
“If we behave like civilized middle-class Americans on holiday they won’t. And if they do, the brigadier will have to bail us out of jail.”
“And what are you going to do with it?”
“First I am going to check it’s all there. Then I’m going to leave it in the parking lot until midnight. And then you and I are going to go to a party.” I grinned at her. “Where there will be fireworks.”
Twenty-two
Five miles outside Olvera, in the midst of a wilderness of olive groves, ancient oaks and jagged mountain ranges, misty on the horizon, we came to an intersection in the road. Straight ahead took us back to the hotel, left took us deeper into the remote countryside and, according to the brigadier, to an old, disused railway line that had been converted, by the Andalusian Junta, into a long, narrow nature reserve called the Via Verde, or the Green Way. I could feel my Namastes curling just thinking about it.
I turned left and the narrow, deteriorated road began to climb steadily through broom, scattered pines, twisted shaggy oaks, rosemary and thyme. The bends were sharp, abundant and mainly blind, but eventually we reached the crest of the hill and began to descend into a broad plain with a few, scattered buildings: low, gabled haciendas with corrugated tiled roofs and porches thatched with pine branches. The late afternoon was growing in heat and there was a sleepy haze over the flat lowland, enhanced somehow by the large, golden fields of wheat stubble. High above us I could see two huge golden eagles, cruising on the warm thermals.
As we wound down out of the hills Helen asked me, “Are you going to tell me anything? Where are we going now?”
I jerked my head at the windscreen. “Up ahead there is a ruined, disused station. Very few people go there. I need to inspect what I have been given. Chances are it’s in perfect condition, but I need to look at it and make ready.”
We crossed the flats and turned in, up a dirt track, dragging an ochre cloud behind us, rounded a bend and there, startling in the afternoon sun, were two large buildings, held together by steel girders. What was left of the roofs pointed up at the sky in broken triangles. The walls were cracked, and a vast fig tree was growing out of the nearest of the two. The windows were either boarded up or gaped like the eyes of a skull. The platforms were made of crumbling stone instead of concrete and where the tracks had been was just a dirt path between narrow stretches of wilderness.
There was an empty, crumbling parking lot, but I ignored it and tucked the Range Rover between the two buildings, where the lines would have been, almost a century ago. I pulled it in close under the shade of the fig tree, opened up the trunk and climbed in. Helen turned and kneeled on her seat. She was small enough to do that.
The back seat had been folded down and there was a steel box under a tartan blanket occupying most of the space. I opened it and took careful note of everything that was there. It seemed to be complete:
There was the usual Sig Sauer P226 Tacops with two extended magazines, and a Maxim 9 suppressed semiautomatic. I checked them both, loaded them and stuck the Sig in my waistband behind my back. And there was the usual Fairbairn & Sykes fighting knife, which I strapped to my leg, tucked into my boot. Then there was the serious stuff.
There were two Heckler and Kotch 416s, which was still among my three favorite assault rifles, each with a telescopic sight with night-vision capability. Attached to one of them was the Australian Metal Storm 3GL, able to launch three grenades at a time in rapid succession without having to reload. I like that. The combo came with an ammunition belt with a very large number of grenades. There were four magazines, two sets of night-vision goggles, two mics and earpieces tuned to a dedicated channel, so Helen and I could communicate quietly if we wanted to. I tossed her a set.
“Put it on, go behind that ruin over there and say something to me.”
She put it on and jumped down from the truck. I watched her cross the hot afternoon dust, clamber onto the dilapidated platform and disappear behind the crumbling station house. I spoke first.
“Team A to team B, do you hear me? Over.”
There was a soft crackle. “Why do you have to be team A?”
I rolled my eyes. “This is team A. Identify yourself, give your message, then conclude with ‘over.’”
“Is that the rules? I thought you didn’t like rules. I thought you were the rebel, the anarchist. Serious, is it, with you and Colonel Jane?”
I closed my eyes and counted to ten.
“This is team A. Test is complete. Return to base, please. Over.”
I continued inspecting the hardware, loading it and making it ready, while she took her time coming back to the truck.
The mo
st important part of the hardware was lying at the bottom of the trunk, in the form of fifty pounds of C4 explosive contained in two rucksacks, twenty-five pounds each. There were also detonators of various types, mechanical and remote.
Helen appeared at the open trunk and leaned on the side.
“I’m sorry.”
I didn’t look at her. “You will be tonight if you keep up that infantile behavior.” Now I raised my eyes to meet hers. “We are here to kill people, Helen. Do you understand that? And the chances are very high that we may be killed while doing it. We cannot afford to fuck around with petty rivalries. We need to be focused on one thing and one thing alone. Like when you were developing the NPP.”
“Only then I was creating, and now I am destroying.”
“You listen to me, Helen.” I pointed at her. “You follow protocol on the radio and you do everything exactly as I say. One more act of childish defiance, one more adolescent sulk and I will smack you in the jaw, tie you up and gag you and leave you in the bedroom at the hotel. And if you think I am bluffing…”
“I know you’re not bluffing. I’m sorry.”
“Stupid, childish behavior gets people killed.”
“You made your point. I will play my part. Team B, my message, over. No more cracks about Colonel Jane.”
“Good. When we’re done you can do and say what you like, until then the job is everything.”
“Harry—”
“What?”
“One last question, then I promise I’ll shut up.”
I sighed and nodded. “Last one.”
“Are you in love with her?”
I frowned, squinted and screwed up my face. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I am serious.”
I was in uncharted territory and I didn’t know what to answer. If I lied and said I was it could lead into real trouble, but if I said I wasn’t, and Helen really was serious, it was equally dangerous. I felt like somebody had handed me a complex problem in advanced algebra and told me the answer was urgent and needed in ten minutes.
I shook my head. “Helen, I can’t do this now. I cannot think about that while preparing for this. You’ll get me killed. We’ll talk about it afterwards…”
“So you are then.”
“Helen!”
She shrugged. “It’s simple enough to say, ‘No.’ If you can’t do that then clearly you have feelings for her.”
“Stop it, Helen! I have feelings for no one! I am a killer! Nothing more. That’s my job. That’s what I do. Now focus or get the hell out of the kitchen!”
I slammed the case closed, slung the blanket over it and jumped down from the trunk. It was a ten-minute drive back to the hotel. On the way she was very quiet, but as we sighted the castle and the Renaissance church perched on the hill, she said, “I’m sorry, Harry. This has all been very strange for me.” She was looking at her lap as she spoke, fiddling with her fingers. “One minute I was living the dream, working for a dedicated team at the cutting edge of my field, head of project, believing my work was going to be applied to medicine, to save and improve lives…” She shook her head and shrugged. “Next minute I have plunged into a nightmare where people are dying all around me like flies, everybody, including my own government, is trying to kill me and I don’t know who I can trust.” She turned and looked at me. “And then you come along. Mean, ruthless, probably the most brutal man I have ever met, and yet the most human, too. I…” She closed her eyes. “I know you said…”
“Don’t, Helen!”
“But, I’m sorry. I can’t bear the thought that one of us might die tonight, perhaps both of us, and I will not have told you.”
“Helen, don’t, please…”
“I think I love you, Harry. I think I have fallen in love with you.”
I didn’t answer. Five minutes later we pulled into the hotel parking lot. I parked with the trunk up against the wall, in the shade of some tall pines, and we went up to our room for a shower and a very uncomfortable sleep.
Just before I stepped into the shower I took her by the shoulders and stared hard into her eyes.
“We cannot think about this tonight, or we will get killed. I am an android. I am a killing machine. I have no heart, no humanity, no compassion. I have a purpose, and that purpose is to kill and destroy. Those are the only thoughts we can have tonight. Stay focused, and we might survive. You know how to focus.”
She gave a slight, ironic smile. “Of course.”
“Of course you do. Focus now, until the job is finished. Then we’ll talk. But in answer to your question, no. I am not in love with the colonel. Now put all of that out of your mind.”
* * *
Somewhere there was an owl. I knew he was calling for a mate, but his style sucked. Unless she owls like to be told all about how lonely and desolate the night is. Because that was all this guy seemed to be talking about.
The air was chill, but not yet cold, and a waning moon was casting a diffuse glow behind the hills and the forests in the east. We were parked two minutes from the lab, on a patch of dirt beside the lake. I handed Helen her headband-camera and her night-vision goggles, and fitted my own. Though I didn’t pull them over my eyes yet. I checked the Sig and the Maxim were ready for action.
The two HK416s, the GL3, a tinfoil package of eight ounces of C4 set with a remote detonator and the two rucksacks were all in place in the forest, a few yards from the fence.
I fired up the engine of the Range Rover and within a couple of minutes we were winding up the narrow road toward the stone steps that led to Dr. Julian Ferrer’s house. When we reached it, I rolled on a few yards, killed the engine and put on the handbrake. It was angled such that when I removed the handbrake it would roll and tumble down the drive, right into the iron gate to the complex.
I left it like that and sprinted up the steps toward the house. Helen had trouble keeping up, but that was too bad. As I approached I pulled the goggles down and the world became a sinister, black and green nightmare. Through the black railings I saw the front door a luminous emerald green, and to the right the black, liquid stencil of a dog, writhing and leaping on its lead, barking and trying to break free.
I aimed with the Maxim and shot the animal twice. Then I blew out the lock in the gate and continued up the steps. There was no time for sophisticated plans. I blew out the lock on the front door and moved quickly into the entrance hall. There was an alarm pad on the wall that was flashing red. I put a couple of rounds into it and sprinted up the steps to a galleried landing. It looked like there were four bedrooms and at least one john.
In the first bedroom a big man in a vest sat up and said, “What the…”
I shot him twice in the chest and Helen ran up to show his face to the camera. Meantime I was on my way to the next bedroom.
Here there was another luminous green man reaching for something on his bedside table. He took two in the back of his chest, gurgled and sagged forward. Helen went to him again and I ran to the next bedroom. It was empty, but the fourth was big and had an en suite bathroom and a four-poster bed. There was a man in it snoring. I shot him twice in the chest. Helen showed his face to the camera and said, “Yeah, that’s Ferrer.” So I shot him twice in the head to confirm the kill.
Then I ran down the stone steps three at a time. Helen was close behind me, but her breathing was getting ragged. We came out of the gate and I sprinted to the Range Rover. I had a pound of C4 in the back primed with a detonator. I released the hand brake and let the truck roll back. By the time it bumped into the drive and crashed into the gate I was already sprinting fast through the pinewoods toward the far side of the complex. When I heard the clang of two and a half tons of truck hitting the iron gate I pressed the detonator. Both charges went off simultaneously, but there were differences. Where the Range Rover was set to blow the gates open in a very noisy, visible way, the small, foil package was set in such a way that it would be barely visible and would blow out only a couple of fence posts, destr
oying the electrified wires and, with a bit of luck, a couple of cameras. Most important of all, though, it would sound like an echo of the first explosion.
That was the plan.
I skidded to a halt a few yards from the gaping hole in the fence, slung the two rucksacks over my shoulders along with one of the HK416s, and entered the compound at a run with the second assault rifle plus grenade launcher at my shoulder.
There was nobody visible. I didn’t try to keep quiet. I ran as fast as I could, loaded down with kit, with Helen close on my heels. Pretty soon I began to see the flickering light of flames, and the darting shadows of men trying to dowse the fire. I made a rough headcount and thought there were eight, plus a guy on a cell phone.
I hissed, “Stay behind me!” into the mic.
We were approaching the buildings and there were lights on in some of the upstairs windows. I made a dash for the cover of the nearest building, where I had a clear view of the gate and the burning truck. I dropped on one knee and counted more carefully. Seven men. Three had fire extinguishers, and one was shouting at the other three, pointing this way and that. He was giving them instructions on where to search. The fourth was, as I had thought, on his cell.
I gave them the three grenades in rapid succession and opened up on them with the Heckler and Kotch. Short bursts of three or four rounds carefully targeted at the belly and chest. They never stood a chance. They went down like flies in the dancing, crazy light of the flames.
Twenty-three
I reloaded the GL3, stepped out and blew the door of the nearest building off its hinges. The second grenade went in and so did the third and they detonated in rapid succession. I snarled at Helen, “Stay by the door!” and stepped inside. Through the clearing smoke I saw what looked like an administrative building with labs. I stepped out and ran, with Helen on my heels, to the next building, where I had seen lights in the top windows. As I ran I put three more shells into the GL3 and rammed a new magazine into the rifle.
