by Mark Leggatt
Montrose shoved the gun in his pocket and scrambled for the slope, then stopped. Do it, he thought, you won’t get another chance.
Sliding down the rocks, he grabbed the first suitcase and popped the locks. It sprang open to reveal a green missile section and red warhead, held tight by hard foam. Shoving the gun in his pocket, he pulled out the plastic green leprechaun and tucked it between the foam and the suitcase, then pulled out the warhead and scrambled up the slope, pushing the warhead in front of him. He pushed the warhead into the gap between the rocks and roof and wriggled behind it, dust choking him. The warhead slipped from his grasp and tumbled into darkness. He froze and heard it clatter to the floor, then pulled himself through the gap and slid headfirst down the stones and came to rest at the bottom, the cold metal of the warhead against his face.
He brought up the torch and blinked at a spider dangling inches in front of him. His eye was drawn up the silvery thread, to the metallic glint of a tripwire.
He stared open-mouthed for a moment, then tried to slowly edge back up the slope. Rocks rolled down past his head and settled just in front of the wire. The spider swung in the air, moving in the downdraught created by his rapid breathing.
Montrose rolled back and sat on his ass, then shone the torch around. The tripwire ran from a pin in the wall to the dull green plastic cover of a mine, half-covered by rubble. He let his legs slide down behind him, holding back the rocks, then gently brought them forward and got to his feet. He bent down and picked up the warhead. The phone buzzed in his pocket and the warhead slipped in his hands, but he pulled it close to his chest. He shoved a hand in his pocket and answered the call.
“Are you through? The tracker…”
“I’m through. And about one hundred years older, but I’m through. Kirsty, there’s some crazy… Listen, I’ve got the warhead and there’s someone trying to get in from the street, and I’ve got a guy down here with a gun and he’s on my tail.”
“Okay, go straight ahead. There’s an access ladder at the end. It goes directly up to the road. I’m waiting.”
Clasping the warhead to his chest, he lifted a boot to step over the tripwire, then froze as a red beam played around the floor at his feet and slowly lifted to his chest. It refracted off the warhead and lit up the rubble and dust around him in a starburst of red light.
“Put it down,” said a voice. “Slowly.”
The beam of a flashlight dazzled him. He tried to look down, but he couldn’t see the trip wire.
“If you’re thinking of a suicide mission,” said the voice, “then forget it. Sure, you’ll kill me, but you set that missile off and you’ll destroy the whole building. Think of the hundreds of innocent people above us. You don’t want to do that. Put it down.” The flashlight beam dropped to the warhead, then along to the tripwire. “You see, I will help you. Be careful.”
In the corner of his eye he saw a red beam flickering behind him, and heard someone scrambling over the rocks from the other room.
“You see, there is no escape. Put it down, and I will let you live. “
Kirsty’s voice whispered through his earpiece. “No fucking chance. Now, do exactly as I say, because I’m using full metal jacket ammunition and I don’t want to get two for the price of one, or that bloody warhead. I’m aiming in the dark at a shadow behind a flashlight. Ready?”
He heard her let out a slow breath.
“Bend over, Connor.”
He stepped over the tripwire, then bent over, lowering the warhead to the floor. A crack flew past his ears and blood sprayed across the flashlight beam. A man tumbled forward at his feet.
“Run!”
Dodging around the bloody corpse, he sprinted into the darkness, holding the warhead to his chest. A torch beam lit up in the distance and he saw the figure of Kirsty at the bottom of a ladder, leading up through the roof. “Go!” he shouted, and she climbed out of sight.
Holding the warhead hard against him with one hand, Montrose reached up to grab a rung when the stone wall splintered around him. He twisted to the side and the warhead slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the floor. A red beam flashed across his legs and the rungs on the ladder sparked into flame in front of him, sending hot shards of metal into his face. He lunged up and fixed a boot on the rung and pushed himself up towards the light. He felt a searing heat as a round grazed his leg and for a moment he thought of the warhead, then clambered upwards, desperately grabbing each rung, and hauled himself out and onto the street.
Kirsty pushed him to the side and pointed her pistol down the hole. “C’mon, you bastard, walk right into it.”
“No,” said Montrose, “the warhead!” He could hear the chopper overhead.
Kirsty lifted her weapon and shoved a metal plate over the hole.
“I couldn’t…”
The scooter stood waiting on the curb. “Get on the back. The cops are everywhere.”
The motor strained under the weight, but she twisted the throttle and set off fast down a narrow alley, then made a sharp turn into a dingy courtyard, then out again into a wider street lined with pedestrians and market stalls. She edged slowly past the people and at the end of the road he could see a busy street and a police car. Two policemen in crisp white shirts stood by the trunk, smoking and examining the crowd through their sunglasses. Kirsty pulled into the side and took the helmet from the catch by the seat.
“Put yours on. I don’t want to get stopped by some flatfoot. Shooting him would totally ruin his shirt.”
Napier leaned against the SUV, his eyes closed. He heard the thump of the explosion and waited for them to clear the sandbags, but he knew it was a waste of time.
Faber came running to the top of the stairs. “Empty. Nothing. There is a tunnel. The men are checking everything, though according to the maps we’ve been sent, we’ll be down there for hours.”
Napier shook his head, and looked down as the phone buzzed in his hand.
The Director pointed to the TV mounted on the wall of the boardroom. A face filled the screen.
“Is that him?” asked the old man.
The Director smiled. “It is indeed our dear friend, Mr. Montrose, exploring ancient Rome.”
“And the missile?”
The Director nodded to the technician and the screen capture moved to a video. The image was in shades of grey, but high definition. “Infrared cameras,” said the Director. “He had no idea.”
Another camera showed Montrose walking over the cobbles and through a door. Another camera picked him up as he lifted the two suitcases and headed out of the room and back towards the street. The first camera picked him up again, hurrying down the cobbles, and stopping before the metal door.
“That’s all we need,” said the Director and the screen went blank.
“You are sure?” said the old man. “You are sure it is him?”
The Director pointed to the screen. The picture changed to the original screen capture of Montrose, then moved to split screen, showing alongside a CIA ID card with Montrose’s face. There were murmurs of approval from around the room.
The old man sipped from a glass of water. “There is no doubt. I wonder what the CIA will have to say?”
“Well, I think we will find out soon enough. I left the Silk Road account open just long enough for them to send a message. And of course, when they discovered there was no missile, they contacted me immediately.”
The fat Dutchman sat upright. “They contacted you?”
“They did, and I replied with a phone number connected to an IP address and sent through over a thousand routers across the globe.” He took out a cell phone from his pocket. “And here it is.” He handed it to the technician, who connected it up to a laptop. “All I have to do is switch it on.”
The Dutchman stared at the phone. “They are going to call? Here?”
“They have b
een trying for some time, but I wanted to wait until we had completed work on our fascinating video. I’m sure you all want to listen?” He smiled. “Relax, gentlemen, this call number and location are absolutely untraceable and we will be using voice masking. Are we ready?” He permitted himself a thin smile at the shocked faces around the table, then nodded to the technician who pressed a key on the laptop.
A low hiss came from the speakers and the Director lifted the handset and held a finger to his lips. “You will hear my natural voice, but all that they will hear is a metallic composite rendition, with no inflection. It is, like this phone, untraceable.” He pressed the button on the handset. “Speak.”
There was a silence for a moment then an American accent came over the line. “This is … the customer.”
“Talk to me.”
“You have set us up. There was no missile. Do you realize what we will do if you do not deliver that missile?”
“There was a missile. Two suitcases. And you collected it.”
“We collected nothing. The door was locked when we got there and the room was empty. So, you listen to me, I want…”
“That is not true. The door was open. Your agent entered. He collected the suitcases.” The Director pointed to the technician who pressed the enter key on the keyboard. He spoke slowly into the handset. “You have mail.” He turned and gazed out of the window.
“What do you mean…?”
“Mr. Napier, your voice has been recognized. I have sent you a video. Watch it immediately.”
There was no response.
“Mr. Napier, did you think you could collect the missile and then demand your money back? That is no way to do business. I shall remember that.”
“That man… Montrose,” said Napier. “He is not a CIA agent.”
“Mr. Napier, I have no more time for your games. Your agent picked up the suitcases. You were the only party that was informed of the location. The deal is complete.” He cut the call and handed the cell phone to the technician, then looked up at the table. “How did you enjoy your chat with the CIA, gentlemen? Isn’t technology a wonderful thing?”
The technician gathered up his equipment and hurried from the room.
“What about Montrose?” said the old man. “I hope very much for all our sakes that this time you have succeeded in killing him. Anything other than that would be failure.”
The Director felt his hands trembling and pushed his palms together. In a moment he recovered his composure. The old man would not see the end of the day. His next glass of water would be his last. It would be a pleasure to watch his heart stop. “No, I am unconcerned with Mr. Montrose.”
“The risk has not gone away. And it grows all the time. The task to kill him has been a failure.”
The Director gripped the back of his chair. “The risk remains the same. That has not changed. The likelihood may have increased, but not the impact. However, the mitigation against the risk has changed to our advantage, and utilizes the resources of all the Western intelligence agencies, and that of the mighty Russians. They are all about to expend a considerable amount of time and energy looking for Mr. Montrose, and I have no intention of getting in their way. I think Mr. Montrose’s life expectancy can be measured in hours, perhaps minutes.”
The old man opened his mouth but the Director held up a hand. “You see, after that phone call the CIA will be absolutely focused in preventing Mr. Montrose from committing another dreadful atrocity. They will shoot him on sight. And I, frankly, wish them well.”
“They think he has the missile? You’re sure?”
“Why would they think otherwise? They can see it with their own eyes. Let them chase around Europe in search of the elusive Montrose. I will do nothing to impede them. As Napoleon said, never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.”
“And the missile?”
“On the way to the final location, unhindered by the CIA or any of their little helpers. Each suitcase will be taking a different path. I have chosen a location with an uninterrupted view of the flight path over Rome.”
The old man tapped a fingernail on the table.
“You have a concern?” said the Director.
“Yes,” said the old man, and took a sip from his glass. “You quoted Napoleon. Let us hope that this is not your Waterloo.”
Chapter 13
“This is going to hurt,” said Kirsty, “and I’m going to enjoy it.”
“I thought it was a good idea,” replied Montrose.
“It was a good idea, but you scared the crap out of me.” She dabbed his leg wound with disinfectant, then smeared on a pungent pink cream. “That’ll keep it clean. No need for a bandage.”
Priti stood in front of the high open windows looking out over the Spanish Steps. “What has he done now?”
“He placed his tracker in one of the suitcases. I thought he was still trapped and about to get his ass shot off. Just as well I went down to check.”
“Bad luck,” said Priti.
“Any sign of the tracker?” said Kirsty.
Priti shook her head.
Pilgrim entered the room in his powered wheelchair. “Ah, Montrose. I’m getting a report that there are quite a number of CIA operatives searching for you. Any reason why?”
“Well, according to my record, I’m a psychopathic terrorist and traitor to my country, but you know,” he shrugged, “no more than usual.”
“Perhaps your MI6 friend has been talking.”
Montrose walked to the window. He looked over to the steps, crowded with tourists. The sound of someone murdering a Beatles song on a cheap guitar floated into the room. “It has to be Linden. If they link me to the attack in the village, I’m screwed. There is no other way they could know I was involved.”
“Perhaps. I shall endeavor to find out more. In the meantime, I’d stay away from the window.”
Montrose turned away. “Yeah, for the rest of my life.” He felt someone squeezing his hand.
Kirsty laid her head against his chest and smiled. “You’re a fucking jinx.” She pulled her hand away and patted his butt. “But you’ve got me to look after you. Well, maybe for the next few days. Then you’re on your own, big boy.”
“I have checked for the tracker everywhere,” said Priti. “I can see nothing. They would have to be far underground to block the signal, or be entirely cased in metal.”
“What about the trunk of a car?” asked Montrose.
“No, I have used them in a trunk before, and under a car. They work well. The metal suitcase may affect the signal, though perhaps it is a combination of all three.”
“It’s not likely,” said Kirsty. “That would mean the suitcase is in the trunk of a car and in a deep underground car park. That might weaken the signal, but not stop it completely. The trunk would have to be lined with material specifically designed for that purpose. Do you think they discovered it?”
“It’s possible,” said Montrose.
Pilgrim looked up from his phone. “There’s nothing we can do in the meantime. Yet my sources tell me two important things.” He nodded towards Montrose. “The CIA are desperately searching for Montrose, and they do not have the missile.”
“Yeah,” said Montrose. “The guy that Kirsty dropped didn’t sound like a homeboy.”
“European?” asked Pilgrim. “Perhaps East or West?”
Montrose shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”
Pilgrim returned to examining his phone. “We cannot discount the possibility that the Russians have recovered the missile, but it does not explain the CIA activity in the search for Montrose. Unless they think you are working for the Russians.”
“Oh, yeah, that would be the cherry on the cake.”
“But I think that is unlikely. I have reports of CIA agents being sent out to airports across central Italy.
Whoever has the missile, the CIA suspect that they may use it.” Pilgrim maneuvered his wheelchair to look out of the window at the sky over Rome. “But I cannot believe the threat comes directly from Russia, and I suspect neither do the CIA. Even for a false flag operation, they would never attack a civilian airport in the middle of Rome. That would be, quite simply, an act of war. It has to be a terrorist attack that the CIA are expecting.” He looked back at Montrose. “Therefore, I am convinced that neither the CIA nor the Russians have the missile.”
“Okay, then who does? The guys in the village were Middle Eastern. Who are they working for? Moscow could be using these guys at arm’s length. And Langley are not so innocent. You know that.”
“Perhaps, but Langley is not the most likely of options. At the moment, we can only assume that someone is about to commit an act of terror, the like of which has not been seen for many years.”
Kirsty stood by Pilgrim’s wheelchair and gazed out the window. “If it is terrorists, they are the best organized team I’ve ever heard of, and they’ve got to be getting that from someone. They have resources. Washington or Moscow.” She turned back to Pilgrim. “Let me call the Englishman. We need to know what he knows. Or what he’ll tell us.”
Pilgrim nodded. “If we can do so safely, it may be our only chance. Priti?”
“I’ll monitor everything,” said Priti, and pulled a cell phone from her sari. “They gave themselves away last time, so I know what to look out for. Unless they try something different.” She held up a hand. “I won’t warn you. I’ll just cut the call.”
“Understood.”
She held out the phone. “Use this, it’s connected to my laptop.”
“I’ll take that,” said Kirsty. “Because I’ve got a sexier accent and I’m going to wind him up.” She dialed the number and pressed loudspeaker, then placed the phone on the table.
Linden answered immediately. “Hello? Montrose?”
