by Mark Leggatt
For a moment Napier stared at the red and broken veins on Saitsev’s face. “If you think…”
Saitsev raised a finger and held it between their faces. “You bought that missile. You took it to the Palatine Hill. Your man was identified… Connor Montrose.”
“He’s not our…” He looked past Saitsev at the guard, who had moved his hand inside his jacket. “Hey, asshole. Don’t get all Hollywood on me.”
Faber opened his jacket to show a 9mm pistol in a holster. “Make your move or fuck the fuck off.” The guard let his hand drop.
Saitsev edged closer until his spittle flecked Napier’s face. “Focus. You have to stop this. I want to believe that you have been duped. I want to believe that the CIA have all the missiles and are selling them on the Silk Road in some elaborate ruse, some crazy, idiot scheme and that they are keeping you in the dark. I do not know who stopped the attack. Maybe it is also part of your madness. But right now we are closer to war than we have ever been.”
Napier looked down, shaking his head. “Dimitri, please, there is no way that we would attack your plane. Connor Montrose is…” He stopped and stood open-mouthed, then his voice came out in a whisper. “What… What do you mean, all the missiles?”
Saitsev’s face tightened. “If I think for one moment that you are going to lie to me, I will beat seven different colors of shit out of you. Right here!”
“Dimitri, you said all the missiles.” Napier could see his lips trembling. “How much is all?”
“We have Montrose identified by the police on the hill. And we are waiting for further information. Direct evidence of CIA involvement. Indisputable evidence. So, do not…”
“Please.” Napier held up his hand. “All. How fucking much is all?”
Saitsev half-turned away. “This is pointless. I believe Washington have sent me an innocent.”
Napier heard his voice becoming louder. “Dimitri. How many?”
The Russian laughed. Saliva flaked Napier’s suit. He grinned and turned to the guard. “He doesn’t know. Shall we tell him?” He faced Napier. “There are only two organizations on the face of this earth who could have stolen all those missiles. Yours and mine. And why would we break into our own secure underground missile storage, steal our own missiles, then irradiate the bunker to conceal your crime? Why? Why would we do that?”
“Dimitri, we…”
“It took us two weeks to clean that bunker and the rest of the armaments. We thought there was an accident. A radiation leak. But once we got inside, we found out what was missing.”
“Just tell me, please. How many?”
Saitsev shook his head and stared at the floor. “Why don’t you ask Washington? We tracked the truck to Ukraine. It would have been at a NATO base within hours.” He looked up. “You know, I believe you. I can tell when you are lying. So, why don’t you go back to your hawks in Washington and ask them, is there going to be another fifty attacks? Who will be first to die? Russians? Americans? Passenger jets? Which will be the attack that starts the war? Because they know. Ask them.” His words came out in a whisper. “Only they know.” He turned and walked towards the door, his shoulders slumped like an old man.
The clamor of the faithful around the Vatican became a hush as the armor-plated doors closed. Faber slid down in the rear seat.
Napier leaned forward to the driver. “Take a walk.” He waited until the driver had closed the door then switched on the LCD screen embedded in the rear headrest.
“Do you think he knows?”
Napier said nothing and stared straight ahead. Campbell’s face appeared on the screen. “Did you get all that?” said Napier.
“Yes,” said Campbell. “A very interesting man, Mr. Saitsev. Very impassioned. Very imaginative.”
“Cut to the chase, Director Campbell. Tell me this is a set up. Tell me we don’t have fifty missiles hidden somewhere in Italy.”
Campbell shook his head and looked down at his notes. “NATO defense chiefs have just concluded an emergency meeting. I’m sure you are aware that the original attacks were on a NATO plane, in a NATO country, and a direct violation of NATO Article 5. An attack on one member state is regarded as an attack on all member states. The Defense Secretary, the Secretary of State and the Vice President have been reminding the member states of their obligations. The point was firmly made that these were Russian missiles, being used against NATO. I’m afraid to say that there was not unanimous agreement on action, despite the overwhelming evidence that this is a Russian operation. They were, despite their own intelligence gathering, rather dubious about our conclusion.” Campbell looked up. “I can assure you, the government in Washington made clear their grave disappointment at this weakness.”
“Woah. Are they saying we set this up? We shot down our own plane?”
“They intimated that the evidence to prove or disprove this theory no longer exists, and if anything, it exists to the contrary.”
“What evidence?”
“Tell me, Napier, in the first attack, who removed any opportunity to capture and question the perpetrators? And who stole the missile from under our nose, then appeared at the top of the Palatine Hill? Who is the man I stressed should be executed on the spot?”
“Yeah, Montrose.”
“Exactly. The intelligence services of all NATO countries are talking to each other behind our backs. They know who he is. We have lost their trust, Napier.”
“Yeah, I wonder how that happened? History, eh? Like the man said, it’s just one goddam thing after another.”
“Flippancy is…”
“Listen, Campbell, I’m at the end of my line with this shit. There are fifty…”
“No!” Campbell pushed his papers aside and jabbed his finger at the screen. “Montrose was with the two terrorists when they shot down the first plane, then he killed them. And when the attack on the Palatine Hill miraculously failed, he did so again. How many times does it have to happen before you understand? Montrose is working for the Russians, but they have given the game away. If they really wanted us to believe it was some mysterious terrorist organization that only exists in the minds of the madmen in Moscow, they would have shot down their own plane. But they didn’t. This is Moscow’s operation. One plane has been destroyed, yet the fabric of NATO has been irrevocably weakened. A classic Moscow operation.”
“Yeah,” Napier nodded slowly and fixed his eyes on the screen. “Trust in the US is at an all-time low. And Moscow has had some help from the succession of isolationist assholes in Washington.”
“I think you’ve been in Europe for too long,” said Campbell. “All that strong coffee is going to your head. You are thinking like many other NATO countries. It is a weakness. And the Russians are exploiting that weakness. Montrose is the key. Find him.”
The screen went black.
Napier slid down in his seat and gazed out of the window. “Tell me, what do you think would happen if Russia aligned with Mexico, then parked a dozen fighter-bombers on the border with Texas?”
Faber switched off the screen. “We’d go ape shit. Like Cuba and Kennedy. What do you mean?”
“Look at the Baltic. Estonia and Latvia. Former Soviet states, now full members of NATO, and up to their ass in fighter-bombers with tactical nuclear missiles that can hit Moscow in fifteen minutes. We have tank regiments and artillery right on their border. And Germany, Poland, Turkey, they’ve all got tactical nuclear missiles pointed at cities across Russia. The next war isn’t going to be a shooting match of ICBMs across the North Pacific and the Bering Strait. We know that. And so do the Europeans.” He pointed out of the window. “That square with the fountain. A thousand people were killed there. Right here in the heart of Rome. The entire history of Europe is a litany of wars and conflict. Europe is currently going through the longest period without war since the Romans. These people aren’t crazy. They’ve see
n it all before. And when it comes down to it, they’re not gonna be the battleground any more, especially not between Moscow and Washington. They’re not gonna let it happen. And you know why? Because it all comes down to one thing. No one believes us anymore.”
Faber felt sweat gather at the nape of his neck. “You mean the USA?”
“Vietnam, Afghanistan, South America. We’ve been fucking up Iraq since the 50s. Joe Public in Ohio thinks we are straddling the world like a colossus. But the Europeans have seen this all before. You know what they see?”
“No,” said Faber.
“End of Empire. Everything we touch turns to shit. It started in Korea, then really came good in Vietnam. The black ops in South America, protecting democracy by propping up fascist juntas and murderous regimes. Then a whole line of clusterfucks in Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria. I tell you, the Europeans are not gonna be the next in line. We fill Europe full of American tanks, and make them pay for the privilege, that is what we do. And it is very good business. But they are sick of being the front line for American foreign policy. Russia and Europe were allies before the USA existed and way before the Soviets came to town. No one teaches that any more. And one day, they’re gonna shake hands and that will be the end of the American dream.”
The board members sat very still, stunned at what they had just witnessed.
“Death will claim us all, gentlemen,” said the Director. The body of the old man was carried from the room like a rag doll. “I will have my staff ensure he is given all the respect he deserves.”
Another man came into the room and picked up the shattered glass where it had slipped from the old man’s fingers, before he had slumped in his chair and slid to the floor, his chin thudding off the edge of the table as he dropped from sight.
The Director had shouted for assistance and a guard had come into the room and applied CPR so violently that board members were sure if old age hadn’t killed him then the attempted resuscitation most certainly had.
“I shall miss him,” said the Director, “both his counsel, and his wisdom.”
The other board members said nothing.
“Now, let us continue. We have one more death to consider today.” The Director stifled a laugh at his own joke.
“Montrose,” said the fat man.
“Indeed, our good friend and unwitting ally. I have carefully reassessed his potential, given his latest activities, and I am not prepared to release the video of him collecting the missiles until I see his body.” He looked up at the table. “I do not underestimate his abilities.”
“Then we are a hostage to fortune. Where is our plan, Director?”
“We are no hostage to fortune.” He leaned over the table. “Do you think I have not planned for this? Do you think I would allow this operation to be jeopardized by just one man?”
The fat man said nothing.
“We will release the video at a time of our choosing.”
“I understand, Director,” said the fat man. “but I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say that Montrose is the wild card.”
The Director turned away. “He dies today.”
“You know where he is?”
“I am not concerned where he is.” He looked back at the puzzled faces. “Because I know exactly where he’s going.”
Chapter 16
“I’m only doing this for you,” said Kirsty, and rubbed sunscreen into her thighs. “I hope you’re grateful.” She arched her back and spread her arms over the stern of the boat.
Montrose poked his head out of the cabin, his eyes level with the deck, which thrummed with the two engines running at full speed.
She laughed when a spray of water burst over the deck and threatened to pitch her off the stern. “This is extreme sunbathing. How long do I have to keep this up for?”
“Kirsty, come inside,” said Montrose.
“No way,” she replied. “I’ve always wanted to do this, just not at this fucking speed.” She wiped the seawater from her face. “Anyway, I’m not being hunted by every satellite above the Mediterranean. You hide down there and I’ll distract the operators. With boobies.”
“I can see the coast,” shouted Priti. “I’ll take her into port.” She looked down. “Stay out of sight,” she said, and leaned back on the throttle. “I don’t want to come in too fast. We are supposed to be rich layabouts cruising the Med, and I’m coming in like a commando at Juno Beach.”
Kirsty stood and walked back to the wheelhouse. “Talking of commandos, unless you have some underwear on board, that’s exactly what I’ll be doing.”
“All taken care of,” said Priti. “There’s a change of clothes in the cabin.”
Kirsty waved at the sky. “Hello, I’m just a naked rich bimbo arriving in Monaco, and not in any way about to start shooting people. Maybe. Connor, throw me a towel. And some dry clothes.”
Montrose grabbed a bag with jeans and deck shoes and pushed it out of the door towards her. The roar of the engines gradually subsided, and from the edge of the wheelhouse he glimpsed trees above a rocky beach and could hear traffic from the coastal motorway.
Kirsty shouted down into the cabin. “Hey, Mr. Pilgrim, you weren’t winding us up, were you? There really is a spy satellite up there?”
“I can’t be certain,” he replied, “but when the CIA orders all available resources to search the area, that includes surveillance. My sources tell me that they have redirected the satellite missions since the first attack. They will be looking for Montrose in all modes of transport. But I’m sure you gave them the impression that this was purely a leisure craft.”
“I hope so,” she replied, “since I’ve just spent the last four hours going across the Med like a dolphin with its arse on fire while half-naked and clinging on for dear life. Mind you, I’m going to have a cracking tan.” She squeezed past Montrose into the cabin. “Has this boat got a shower?”
“Over there,” said Pilgrim, pointing to a narrow door set into the cabin furniture. His wheelchair was fixed to a chart table, surrounded on three sides by computer screens. “When we have docked, I will hand over to Priti.” He pointed to one of the screens, showing a town square bordered by palm trees, with ornate white buildings on each side. “The principality of Monaco has more CCTV cameras per square foot than any other city in the world. We will require access to such cameras but that is not my specialty.”
Montrose looked out a porthole near the roof of the cabin. “The whole place is covered in cameras?” He heard the note of the engine rise and fall as the boat edged onto the berth.
“I’m afraid so. The government of Monaco is obsessed with security. They have the highest density of millionaires and correspondingly, the largest ratio of police to population in the world.”
“And we’re going in? What if the police have got my details?”
Pilgrim looked up. “I’ll be honest with you, Montrose, it would make for a very short visit. I will understand if you consider it too dangerous and I will leave it to Kirsty and Priti.”
Kirsty stepped out of the shower and pulled her jeans on over her wet skin. “I can do it alone. You can stay here and make a nice pot of tea.”
“Don’t underestimate the risk, Montrose.” said Pilgrim. “The Five Eyes are looking for you.”
“The Five Eyes?” said Montrose. “The British and the US, yeah, but the Canadians, Aussies and Kiwis too?”
“Mate,” said Kirsty, “You should do a World Tour.”
“If I ever get out of this shit, I’m going to India.”
“Namaste,” said Kirsty. “So, you staying or what?”
“I’m going,” replied Montrose. Through the porthole, he saw Priti step onto the pontoon with a rope in her hand to tie up the yacht.
“Just keep a baseball cap pulled down and keep your shades on. If the camera can’t see your face you’ve got a chance
.” The boat slowed to a crawl and waves slapped against the hull. “We’ll keep off the streets as much as we can. Priti has got us a room in a hotel, we can operate from there.”
“I think,” said Pilgrim, “from the information we have and the analysis, you won’t have too much time to settle in.”
“Okay,” said Priti, climbing down into the cabin. “Check the map.” She pointed to one of the screens. “I searched through the traffic camera records and found the original BMW as it left Monaco, heading for the Italian border. Then I checked the booking, but the names and credit cards led nowhere. But from the cameras, I found the BMW leaving an underground hotel car park. It was there for a day. I’ve booked you a room.”
“Just one?” said Kirsty. “Oh, Connor, you romantic old fool.”
Priti pulled open a drawer and handed them each an envelope. “Your new identities. Passports, Visa and Amex cards. Check your weapons.”
Montrose instinctively reached for the pistol stuffed into his pocket.
“You need more magazines?” asked Priti.
“Sure, whatever I can get my pocket without looking like an 80s rock star in tight jeans. Is it too warm for a jacket?”
“I’ll carry Connor’s ammo,” said Kirsty. “We need a change of clothes so you can fit right in and buy a man bag for your hardware. You can get away with it around here. Rich people have no style.” She dropped the magazines into her bag.
