The Silk Road

by Mark Leggatt

  “Don’t move!” Montrose advanced with the gun pointing at the fat guy’s head.

  He held on tight to his wound and pushed himself slowly to his feet.

  “On your knees!”

  He smiled. “No.”

  Montrose stood before the man and thrust the gun against his head. “Get on your knees. Do it now.”

  The fat guy closed his eyes for a moment, then turned slowly to look down at the valley. “Go to hell.”

  “Listen to me, you want to go and meet your maker, that’s fine by me.”

  The fat guy gave a sideways glance at Montrose’s gun. “I’m impressed you got here so quickly.”

  Montrose saw blood spill out through the man’s fingers and pool into the dust. He shifted his stance and pointed the gun at the man’s chest. “What the hell you talking about?”

  The fat guy thrust his chin towards the village. “Your friends from the CIA. I hope they give you a medal for shooting my partner.” Then he flicked his eyes at the valley. “Or maybe not, eh?” He began to laugh, and using his free hand to shield his eyes, he looked up at the sky.

  “Don’t move.” Montrose could hear car engines and the squeal of tires from the mountain road to the village. “The CIA?” If they find me here, he thought, I’m a dead man.

  The fat guy shifted his weight and stepped nearer the trees. “Tell them I said hello. If you’re still alive, which I seriously doubt.”

  “You stay right there or I’ll empty this gun into your head.”

  “Only one of us is going to leave this mountain alive.” He stopped, resting his wounded leg, and looked up to the sky. “You want to make a guess who that’s going to be?”

  “Get closer, I want to see his face.” The Director leaned forward on the desk and dipped his head towards the screen.

  The operator twisted the joystick. The view from the drone focused on the two men.

  “So, who’s our new friend?” said the Director.

  The operator checked a laptop to his right. “Face recognition is running. Nearly complete.”

  “Is the weapon armed?”

  “Yes, sir.” The laptop screen flashed and a name appeared.

  “Connor Montrose?” said the Director. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  The operator scrolled through the text. “Ex-CIA.”

  The Director heard chairs being pushed back from the boardroom table, and a voice behind him. “Ex-CIA? Is he a private contractor?”

  The operator shook his head. “According to the files he’s a wanted man.”

  The Director cleared his throat to stop his voice from shaking. “Wanted by whom?”

  “The CIA, FBI, DGSE, the Germans and quite a few others. Everybody, it seems.”

  A voice boomed behind him. “This is unacceptable! This was not part of your plan, Director!”

  The Director fixed his gaze on the man but spoke to the operator. “And where are the CIA?”

  The operator flicked through the screens. “Nearly at the village. They’re in a hurry now.”

  “Of course they are.” He slowly turned, then lifted a hand and placed a finger on the screen. “Kill him.”

  Chapter 3

  Blood spattered high up the sides of the church and the fat guy dropped to the ground, his chest a gaping, ragged hole. Behind him lay shattered rock where the high caliber round had burst through the man’s body and slammed into the ground.

  Montrose felt the spray of blood start to trickle down his face. He began to look up to the sky, then scrambled for the cover of the forest, his feet slipping on blood and dust. In front of him, leading into the trees, he could see a narrow furrow in the ground where generations of footsteps had worn away the rock. He sprinted for cover and ducked under the low branches.

  The furrow continued for a few feet, then the ground became covered in lichen and leaf litter and he could barely pick it out. He scrambled his way down the mountainside, grabbing branches to steady his descent as he ran. He saw the path level out in front of him, then turn sharply and drop out of sight. Through the trees, he could see the path continue twenty feet below. Leaping to the side, he pushed branches from his face and slid down the crumbling earth, throwing his hands up just before he slammed into a tree. The breath was knocked out of his chest, and he tumbled forward, branches tearing at his face as he fell onto the path. In his mind, he could still see the fat guy’s body explode in a cloud of blood and he knew the shot had come from above. That’s why he was looking up, thought Montrose. An armed drone.

  He knew if the drone was fitted with an infra-red camera, he would light up on the screen like a roman candle. He scrambled to his feet and kept low. The path weaved between the trees but the ground started to flatten and the foliage and bushes became thicker as he approached the valley. Below the path lay a steep slope of grass and low bushes that dropped down to an edge. He jumped down the slope, holding his arms out for balance. His feet shot out from under him and he slipped on his ass, heading straight for a tree. He brought up both legs and took the blow feet first, pushing himself to the side. Wrapping his arms around his head, he tumbled through the bushes until he dropped off a ledge and slammed into the path.

  He lay on his back, the sky and tree tops swimming around his vision, then rolled onto his knees. He could hear the river. That was the way out. The air was thick with the stench of burning aircraft fuel. He got to his feet and could see fast-moving water through the trees. On the far side, burning wreckage lay scattered across the fields.

  He stopped at the tree line and ripped out a low bush and gathered up some fallen branches, held to them to his chest and ran for the river.

  “Stop!”

  Montrose slid to a halt.

  “Drop the foliage, old boy. You aren’t Robin of Sherwood, you know.”

  He let the branches slip from his fingers. He turned to see a man emerge from the trees, holding a gun. Montrose glanced back at the water, then up at the sky.

  “Now, just who might you be, my friend. And what’s the hurry?” The man flicked his gun towards the wreckage across the river. “Something to do with a plane crash?”

  Montrose held out his hands. The British accent had caught him by surprise. “Hey, fella, that’s got nothing to do with me. I tried to stop them but…”

  “An American, eh? I’m intrigued.”

  “I was following someone. One of the bastards that did that, I think he went…”

  “Of course, you were, old boy,” he smiled, “of course you were. Dressed as bloody Robin Hood.”

  “Listen, there’s an armed drone up there, and the CIA are right behind me, so why don’t we…?”

  The Brit pointed his gun at Montrose’s head. “I’m sure they are. And you’re running through the forest with your arse on fire.” He dropped the gun towards Montrose’s jeans. “Lose the hardware. Slowly. Don’t make me nervous.”

  Montrose pulled the pistol from his pocket with two fingers.

  “Drop it.”

  He let it fall to the ground.

  “Good lad. Kick it over here.”

  He pushed it over with the toe of his boot.

  The man kept his gun on Montrose as he bent down and picked up the pistol. “Switch your phone off.”

  “Look nobody is going to…”

  “It’s not for you, it’s for me. Now, listen very carefully.” He brought out a pair of field glasses from his pocket. “I saw the two men at the edge of the village square with the missile. One with a machine pistol. And I heard the firefight.” The Brit ejected the magazine from Montrose’s gun, cleared the breech then sniffed the barrel. “One man with an automatic weapon and the other with a pistol, by the sound of it. So, I am assuming that you tried to stop the attack.” He pulled back his arm and threw the magazine in a high arc towards the river. “Don’t make me regret that assump
tion.” He lifted his own gun and pointed it behind him.

  Montrose saw the tailgate of a Range Rover sticking out from the trees.

  “Get in the trunk.”

  He didn’t move.

  “If I had wanted to shoot you, I’d have done it by now.” The Brit pointed his gun at Montrose’s feet then flicked back the barrel and shoved it into his pocket. “Move.” The Brit turned away, then looked over his shoulder as he made for the Range Rover. “And one piece of advice: Hold on tight.”

  Montrose lifted the corner of the blanket and glimpsed the sun from the top of the tailgate window before it was blacked out by a passing truck. He closed his eyes and pictured the road on a map with the sun above and worked out they were heading south. He felt the speed drop and looked again, but all he could see was sky. He rubbed his head where it had taken a hit on the way out of the valley. The Brit seemed to have taken every mountain track in Tuscany before the road levelled and smoothed out, then picked up speed as it hit the autostrada.

  The sound of emergency vehicles and screaming sirens had punctuated the whole journey. The Range Rover slowed again and moved down a fast incline, then came almost to a halt. Traffic fumes drifted into the trunk. Montrose checked his watch. It was too soon to have reached Rome, so they must be in Florence. And Mr. Pilgrim would be waiting, even though this wasn’t the way he had planned to arrive. He felt the phone in his pocket but ignored the temptation to switch it on and check the map.

  Car horns blasted around them and the Range Rover took off fast, throwing him sideways. When he lifted the blanket he could only see the rooftops of terraced buildings. The Range Rover came to a sudden halt and Montrose pictured a typical Italian scene; drivers gridlocked at a four-way, squeezing through, blasting their horns. He fumbled around for the interior emergency tailgate release. There was nothing. He lifted the blanket to look and realized it wasn’t fitted on European trucks. He lay back again. The headrests made climbing over onto the rear seats impossible. He was trapped. He searched around for a toolkit to use as a weapon, but the trunk was bare. The Range Rover slowed once more, then turned a sharp left down a steep descent. The traffic noise drifted away and Montrose peeked out. Everything was dark. Here we go, he thought. MI5 reception committee. And I bet they won’t be offering me a cup of tea.

  Chapter 4

  He heard the driver’s door open and felt the suspension rise as the Brit got out. A moment later, the tailgate rose and Montrose lifted the blanket and looked out to a dimly lit underground garage. In front, several battered Fiats were parked in a line, each with a fading apartment number stenciled on the dusty concrete floor.

  The Brit stepped back with Montrose’s gun in his hand. He grinned and spun it around on his finger, then offered the pistol grip to Montrose. “Welcome to Florence, old boy. Sorry there wasn’t much room for you in there, but you know, safety first and all that jazz.”

  Montrose took the gun. “Yeah.” He swung his legs around and sat on the tailgate.

  “And sorry about the roads too, I had to take a rather unorthodox route out of the mountains.”

  Montrose got to his feet and the Brit closed the tailgate.

  “Well, Mr. Montrose, that was all rather exciting. Damn shame about that plane. Poor buggers. But right now, I need a drink. This way.” He turned towards the far wall of the garage and gestured at the latticed door of a tiny elevator.

  Montrose walked beside him. “How do you know my name?”

  “I heard a little chatter on the grapevine. Seems everybody wants to talk to you. And not for a pleasant conversation, I think.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not flavor of the month right now.”

  “Indeed. Your suitors seem to consist of the entire CIA, FBI, NSA and other acronyms that even I hadn’t heard of. Just about everyone, it seems.”

  I don’t need reminding, thought Montrose.

  The Brit stood in front of the elevator door, grabbed the handle and hauled it back hard. The metal lattice squealed and rattled as it folded to the side.

  Montrose looked into the cramped space, the deep dent in the floor and the cracked wood lining the sides. One fat guy, he thought, and this would be full.

  The Brit stepped in. “This won’t take long. Which is just as well, because I hate the bloody thing.”

  Montrose edged in alongside him.

  The Brit squeezed past and grabbed the cage door handle, taking several attempts to slam it shut. “This stupid door will be the death of me.”

  “That’s the door?” Montrose looked out through the metal lattice towards the underground car park. The Range Rover stood gleaming beside several tiny, battered Fiats.

  “Going up!” The Brit jabbed a button and the elevator lurched to the side, then rattled upwards. “First floor, haberdashery and lingerie.”

  Through the lattice, Montrose watched the car park disappear below his feet. Grinding noises came from all sides as the lift housing scraped the elevator shaft.

  “I’d take the stairs, but it means walking across the lobby. And I’m not in the mood for a conversation with the concierge. Stand behind me. He’s a nosey bastard and I don’t want him to see me taking strange men to my apartment.”

  Montrose shuffled past the Brit and stood back hard against the wall; he could feel it rolling against the elevator shaft. The lift scraped past the ground floor, and he saw a marble-lined lobby with a uniformed concierge at a desk. The Brit moved forward and raised a hand to the man as the elevator rattled upwards, past two more floors showing empty hallways. It slammed to a halt at the third floor.

  The Brit grabbed the handle with both hands and hauled the door back. It stuck halfway open, and he gave the lattice metalwork a hefty kick and shoved it into the wall. He jumped out. “Someday that bloody thing is going to cut me in half.”

  Montrose stepped out and the Brit tugged the door shut. “Nineteenth century technology. Deadlier than the plague and lasts just as long.” He turned and pointed down the corridor. “This way.”

  The walls of the corridor were painted in faded, classical frescos. “Beautiful, aren’t they? Typical Florence. Over-the-top decoration at the slightest opportunity and painted in a heady cocktail of arsenic and lead. I’m surprised anybody makes it out of their teens in this country.” The Brit marched down the hallway towards a door at the end.

  Montrose’s rubber-soled boots squeaked on the marble floor.

  The Brit stopped and pulled out a blackened key.

  The door opened onto a wide, sunlit salon. Montrose stood in the doorway, looking up to the high wooden beams of the roof and tall windows facing out onto a river.

  The Brit checked the corridor then closed the door. “I have inquisitive neighbors. They think I’m a visiting art professor. Frankly, I couldn’t tell Canaletto from cannelloni, but there we are.” He weaved around various pieces of period furniture, wood gleaming and cloth and gilt faded and worn. He stood in front of an ancient bureau and opened the door to reveal a bar which seemed to be solely stocked with bottles of gin. The Brit held up a tall glass. “G&T?”

  “Why not.”

  The Brit grabbed a handful of ice cubes from a refrigerated bucket, then cut through a lime and dropped a slice into each glass. “No lemons, I’m afraid, I haven’t gone completely native.”

  “I don’t give a shit as long as it’s strong enough to kill a horse.”

  The Brit splashed some tonic into the glass and offered the drink to Montrose.

  The cold gin hit home and he felt the rush of alcohol and the sharp tang of juniper in his throat.

  The Brit stood before him, holding out a hand. “Linden’s the name. George Linden.”

  Montrose took his hand. “MI5?”

  Linden smiled. “Good Lord, no. They are purely internal to the sceptered isle and are generally concerned with running around after whatever flavor of religious or po
litical fanatics are trying to blow up our civilians this week.” He sipped his drink. “MI6 deal with anything outside our borders, Mr. Montrose.”

  “Understood. My name, how did you know?”

  “Like, I said, a little bird told me.” Linden smiled and tapped his nose.

  “Listen, I don’t want to get all formal here, but let’s see some ID.”

  Linden laughed. “My dear boy, I’m not the mystery man here! But, if it makes you feel more at home, why not.” Linden pulled out an ID card. “And you?”

  “Not even a swimming certificate.”

  “Quite right too. One can’t be too careful. And so, Mr. Montrose, to business.” Linden pointed to the door. “That door is unlocked. I’m currently the only man in MI6 that knows you are in Florence. In fact, other than your own organization, I’ll bet I’m the only man on the planet who knows you are in Italy, or that you were anywhere near the earlier unfortunate incident.”

  “Good. Your point?”

  Linden sipped his drink. “The point I am making is that I want to find the bastards behind what happened today. And I’m prepared to take extraordinary steps, and extraordinary risks to make that happen. Which is why I returned your weapon.”

  Montrose said nothing.

  “I pride myself on being a good judge of character. Let’s hope that is not a conceit.”

  “So, what do you want from me?

  “Well, I hope that we share the same objective.”

  “If you mean kill the assholes that were behind that attack and kick over any rocks to crush the vermin beneath, then we do.”

  “Yes, quite. You Americans certainly have a marvelous way with words.”

  Montrose took another drink. “Yeah, listen, I’m familiar with British insults, so if you…”

  “No offense intended, old boy, I’m just a little less Hollywood in my stating of the obvious. Though I can quote Shakespeare that would keep you awake at night.” He pointed to the door again. “Open, remember? I am not your jailer, Montrose. I want to find out who did this, and I will kill any bastard that gets in my way.” Linden downed the remains of the gin. “And that includes the CIA.”