The Silk Road

by Mark Leggatt

  She saw him coming and moved out to block him. He pulled in just in time. “Son of a bitch!” He grabbed another handful of throttle, shot forward and booted her shopping bag. The contents spilled out across the street and she slammed on her brakes.

  Montrose swerved in front and glanced in the mirror to see the old lady holding up a torn shopping bag and giving him the finger.

  He stood up and saw Kirsty waiting by the side street. The traffic slowed to a halt, and he accelerated past the cars. As a car in front pulled away, he slammed on the brakes and turned in to the side street, seeing her move away from the curb. He wound open the throttle and held on tight as they careered down the white line.

  Kirsty pointed right and slowed, then headed down a narrow alley.

  He felt the skin cool on the back of his neck as high walls shaded them from the sun.

  She stopped and wheeled her scooter around a corner into a small square, bathed in sunlight. On each side, high walls were studded with small windows, each one with a washing line strung from it, where clothes hung like pennants.

  Montrose followed and hauled his scooter onto its stand, beside her. Beyond the washing lines, he saw the intricately carved doorway of a church and above, a bell tower that rose several stories into the air. He tried to look up, but the sun was directly behind the spire and blinded him.

  “Leave the scooters here,” said Kirsty. “We’ll know where they are if we need to get out fast.”

  “Where’s the place?”

  “Around the corner.” She pointed to a high building at the rear of the church. “That’s a government department, and below is an archaeological exhibition. The whole thing was built over old Roman roads, homes and streets. No one gave a shit in those days. And they’re still there. You can walk down them.”

  “We go in with the tourists?”

  “No, the directions are to a small side door, away from the main exhibition, though part of the same network. A lot of it is still being dug out, but it’s pretty big.”

  “Where did you get all this from?”

  “The email I sent from the limo, it was to my urbex pals in London. They’ve sent me back all the maps I need. They know all about it. A lot of the streets were filled in with rubble in the 18th century to support the building above.”

  “Wait, if we’ve got these maps…”

  “Yeah, I know, whoever gets the address might have them too. It’s not a secret, if you know where to look and who to ask. Anybody who studies Roman archaeology or urban exploring knows about places like this. Rome is full of these underground sites; it’s an urbex mecca. Places like this can go back nearly three thousand years. There’s a lot of old stuff under our feet.” She pointed to the ground. “It’s like a warren. We can do this. If that door is blocked, I have routes leading to the crypt of the church and to twenty other exits.”

  “Okay, how do we get in?”

  “We were given a code. Check out that street. There’s only one door that takes a code and it’s that fire exit with the metal doors. Those are the directions. Down the steps and through a door. End of the street turn left. Remember it’s a street from ancient Rome. Best of luck. I’ll be right here.”

  “And I’ve got to carry out two suitcases?”

  “I’m your lookout.” She handed him a Bluetooth earpiece. “Connect this up. We’re not the only ones searching for the missiles, remember. I see them coming, I’ll let you know. Don’t be a hero. I’ve got plans for you later, but I’m not talking dinner. Let’s just say nudity is involved.”

  He patted the gun in his pocket. “Okay, though what if…?”

  “I’ve got lots of ways to get you out. Remember, I’ve got the map. And not the official one. And put this in your pocket.” She pulled a cheap plastic leprechaun from her pocket and twisted its neck.

  Montrose heard it click. “For luck?”

  “No, you idiot, it’s a tracker. Then I can see where you are on the map. Your phone might not work down there, but that little bastard gives off a signal that could shatter a window at fifty yards.”

  “I hear you. Though if they are already down there I’ll be out of that place like a rat with its ass on fire.”

  “And I’ll be here to beat out the flames, just bloody go!”

  They ran towards the door. The side street was too narrow for cars and the government building stretched five stories high into the sunshine. A metal keypad was set into the wall beside a grey metal door.

  “The code is FC9000,” said Kirsty.

  “Got it.” He punched in the code. Nothing happened. He pulled the handle and the door sprang open and he jumped back.

  “Good luck,” she said. “Down the steps, end of the street, turn left.”

  He ducked in and raised his gun. There was no sound. To his right were steel steps. He moved down them as quietly as he could and walked into a low corridor with pipes above his head. In front was another grey metal door. He pushed down the handle and it swung open into darkness. He brought up the torch on his phone.

  The floor was thick with dust, and cables and pipes ran just over his head. The ground felt uneven beneath his feet and he kicked at the dust and saw the cobblestones. Yeah, he thought, this is it. Ancient Rome.

  The metal door swung closed behind him.

  Napier jumped as the phone rang in his lap. He checked the number. Campbell. “Fucking shit-weasel.” He leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Wait outside.”

  Faber lowered the window and spoke to the driver. He pointed to the line of Range Rover SUVs in front. “Make sure they do a full weapons check. I want everyone locked and loaded in thirty seconds.”

  Napier waited until Faber had raised the window then hit the speaker button on the phone. He sat back in the reek of expensive leather and gun oil. “Director Campbell,” he said. “We are ready to go.”

  “Have you cleared a route to the airport?”

  “Yes, and we will use the police helicopter if there are any major traffic jams. I’m expecting the pickup location any moment.”

  “Good, then we look forward to hearing of your success,” said Campbell.

  Napier watched the men closing the doors of the SUVs. A police car in front waited with its blue lights flashing. “What about the others?”

  “The others, Napier?”

  “The others, Director Campbell. I have no doubt there are more than two missing. I’ve seen the latest raw intelligence report. There is no confirmation that there were only two missiles stolen. I understand the immediate priority, and we will recover this missile, but what next? I think the president should know we have a very great deal to be concerned about.”

  There was a pause on the line. “But I do not.”

  Faber’s mouth dropped open.

  Napier stared down at the phone. “Could you repeat that, Director Campbell. From where I’m sitting this makes very little sense.”

  “Exactly, Napier, from where you are sitting. I think you are getting caught up in the drama of the events. The raw intelligence did not confirm there were only two missiles stolen. Similarly, it did not confirm there were more than two missiles stolen. The ludicrous story that someone broke into one of the most secure missile bases in Russia and stole a large number of missiles is absolutely laughable. The Russians have fooled you, Napier. But not me. I have no doubt that Moscow has planned this to show the effectiveness of the missile, and hugely increase its market value. The Chinese, the Iranians, everyone will be lining up as a customer.”

  “No, there’s more to this…”

  “Napier, despite your vast experience in operational matters, you are woefully lacking in strategy. Why on earth would the Russians allow the missile to be bought by the CIA? They could have bid five billion dollars. That’s nickels and dimes for an oligarch. No. They let us buy the missile because they know that w
hen another goes on sale, we would make sure that one way or another, we will have developed a counter measure against it. They must be enjoying the panic they have created. But the Russians always play the long game, Napier. This is not about these missiles. This is about the next generation. They sell missiles to Syria and Iran and we counter the threat. Then they sell an upgraded version, and again, we counter the threat. The Russians will have customers for life. After all, they’re just following the USA’s lead. We have already created our own market for the Patriot missile system. We’ve sold it to over twenty friendly countries, and each upgrade brings the USA billions in profit and tax dollars.”

  Napier spoke through gritted teeth. “They shot down a USAF C-130. Our servicemen and women died.”

  “I understand. We will retaliate in our own time. We don’t dance to Moscow’s tune.”

  “Campbell. Listen to me. I saw the look on Dimitri Saitsev’s face. There are…”

  “I think you’ve been reading too many spy thrillers. Just do what you’re….”

  A message flashed up on the phone’s screen. “The location. It’s coming through. Old Government building. Next to the Jewish quarter, near the via Arenlua.”

  Faber hammered on the window and the driver spun around. “Go!”

  “Get that missile,” said Campbell. “Don’t let the president down.”

  Napier cut the call. “If he’s as crazy as you then he can go fuck himself.” He grabbed a mic from the radio between the seats and thumbed the button. “All stations, listen up. I want the area around Via Arenlua sealed off.” He let the button go and turned to Faber. “How many cops we got?”

  “Two hundred, twenty cars and two helicopters. More if we need them.”

  “Get all the cop cars rolling and the choppers in the air. I want that missile. And I want to take it back to the USA and shove it straight up that shiny-faced bastard’s ass.”

  Chapter 12

  “Kirsty?” There was no reply. He checked his phone, but the signal was gone.

  Keep moving, he thought, the steel door had cut the signal. Just get this done. He took off down the ancient road. Above him, low hanging cables brushed his head, and dust played in the torch beam.

  Steel brackets holding the cables stretched across the roof, and he saw a video camera set into the wall. He leaned in close. There was no power light on the camera. It seemed to be dead. Yeah, he thought, I’ll bet they’re all switched off. The last thing they are going to want is evidence. Fine by me.

  He picked up the pace. Dark doorways opened up along the wall in the torch beam. He ducked his head and began to run. The walls on the other side changed from smooth sandstone blocks to small, crumbling bricks. Damn it, he thought, I’m in ancient Rome. The torch found the wall at the far end and the cobbled path stopped dead, against an eighteenth-century foundation of thick blocks of stone. He saw a warped wooden door set into the wall. He pushed it and brought up the torch, entering warily. At the far side of what appeared to be an abandoned storeroom, the beam flashed onto a pile of rubble that reached to the roof, then down and played across the dull metal of two aluminum suitcases.

  He checked the signal. One bar. “Kirsty?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve got them.”

  “Then get the hell out of there.”

  He shoved his phone between his teeth, grabbed the handles and hefted the cases up, pushing one in front of the other through the door and onto the ancient road. The walls were too narrow and cobbles too uneven to drag them along on either side, so he grabbed the handles and lifted them into the air, holding one in front and one behind him, then ducked his head and ran. The torch light bounced off the cobbles and the steel door came up quick. He let the first suitcase drop and grabbed the handle.

  It didn’t move. He leaned down with all his weight and pulled hard.

  It was locked. He dropped the other suitcase and took the wet phone from his mouth and shone the torch around the frame. There was no keyhole. There was no number pad.

  “Kirsty?”

  There was no answer. He hauled at the door, but it didn’t move. He booted the door. “Kirsty!” He checked the signal on his phone. No bars. He felt sweat begin to gather at the back of his neck. He grabbed the suitcases and ran back down the corridor. “Kirsty!”

  There was a crackle on the line, then her voice. “I hear you. Where the hell are you going?”

  “The door’s locked. The door to the steps. It was open before. There’s no lock I can see. It won’t move. It’s fucking locked!”

  “Shit.”

  “Kirsty, this could be a trap. You better move.”

  “Understood. Go back to the room, there’s another way out.”

  He got to the end of the road and threw the suitcases through the door. They slid to a halt at the foot of the pile of rubble that stretched across the room and rose up in a steep slope to the roof.

  “Connor, I’ve got a cop car at the end of street and a chopper in the sky. I’ve got to move, but I’ll talk you out, okay?”

  “Understood.” He heard her revving the scooter engine.

  “I’m heading for the Jewish quarter. Are you back in the room?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s a blockage at the far end.”

  “I see it.”

  “At the top is a long, flat stone. Behind it is a gap. Crawl through and into the next room.”

  “Got it.” Rubble slipped under his feet and dust kicked up around him when he began to climb. He saw the flat stone and pulled it hard. It slid down the rubble and landed beside the suitcases. He scrambled back down, picked up the first suitcase and ran up the slope again, shoving it through the gap. Then he returned for the other and shoved it against the first, pushing it deeper into the opening. He held on tight to his phone and used his elbows and knees to propel himself along, pushing rubble away from his face, his chest flat on sharp rocks. He shoved hard on the suitcase which slid easily and he heard the first suitcase drop down the other side, clattering onto stone. Launching himself forward, the second suitcase fell away and Montrose dropped head first down another pile of rubble.

  He brought up his phone. Before him the cobbles of a Roman alley stretched into darkness, with shadowy doorways on either side. “Kirsty?” He checked the phone. The call had dropped. He hit redial and she answered immediately, the sound of a screaming scooter engine in the background.

  “Connor, where are you?”

  “Other side of the rubble. I’ve got both suitcases.”

  “Good. Move forward. Look out for a brothel sign. Left hand side.”

  “What?”

  “Two people fucking. It’s a clue. Although, to be accurate, it’s a sign.”

  He peered into the darkness. “What about the alley?”

  “It’s a dead end.”

  “What kind of sign?”

  “Jesus, Connor, I’m reading the description on a phone from an internet blog and riding a scooter. It’s been written by a guy who obviously didn’t have a girlfriend judging by the length of time he’s taking to describe exactly what the sign looks like, but it’s detail you don’t need to know. Just imagine a menu for a brothel, in pictures, on the wall. With people.”

  “I hear ya.” He kicked a suitcase forward and dragged the other, shining the torch down each doorway. Then he saw the faded sign, and he could just make out the various couples. It didn’t leave anything to the imagination. “I got it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He booted the suitcases into the doorway and brought up the torch. Another pile of rubble stretched to the roof. “I’m in. But it’s blocked.”

  “That’s part of the eighteenth-century foundations. The urbex guys have cut a path through the top, just like the other room. Go to the top and find the biggest stone and pull it down.”


  “I see it.” He scrambled up the rocks and hauled at the stone. It slid to his feet. He lifted the torch. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not like the other room. I can maybe squeeze through, but there’s no way I’m going to get two suitcases through.”

  “No way?”

  “I’d have to dig it out. We haven’t got time for that. It would take me an hour.”

  “Okay, wait there, let me check.”

  He felt his pulse thumping in his neck.

  “Connor, you have to…” The call dropped.

  The sound of hammering on the steel door sent a shock through his spine and the phone fell from his hands. He grabbed it from the earth and stood up. They’re locked out, he thought. It’s the one I came through. They have to get through that to get to me. He looked up at the narrow passageway over the rubble. He made to hit the redial when he saw a thin red beam flicker across the doorway and he clasped the phone to his chest to shut out the light.

  The hammering on the steel door became louder.

  His eyes were transfixed on the red beam as it bounced across the doorway. Focus, he thought. That beam’s not close or it wouldn’t be moving all over the place. But how far? Fifty yards? A hundred? He pulled the gun from his jeans and couldn’t stop a nervous laugh. He’s got a laser beam. I’ll bet he’s got infra-red sights too. All I’ve got is a pistol. Someone came prepared, and it’s not me.