‘It’s done.’ The man on the phone switched it off and dropped it into his breast pocket. Then he reached for the carafe and poured three measures of wine. Thomas Deakin was slim, fair-haired and tanned, with quick eyes and a way of checking his surroundings on a constant rotation. It was unsettling to anyone meeting him for the first time, but a habit those around him had come to accept. He had the antennae of a guard dog and his instincts had served him well since going AWOL – a useful function for a man permanently guarding his back. He hadn’t stepped foot inside the UK since walking away from his unit in the Scots Guards while in transit through Germany, and was constantly on the move from one country to another, regularly changing identities to stay ahead of anyone hunting him. Infrequent meetings in anonymous bars like this, with routes in and out guaranteed and locations never used more than once, were what had kept him out of trouble for so long.
‘Which one?’ The man to his left was in his early forties, whipcord thin, balding and ascetic-looking. Former Master Sergeant Greg Turpowicz, a Texan, had taken his own leave of the US 101st Airborne Division and joined Deakin after surviving too many close shaves in a job he had long ceased to care about.
‘Pike. The Signals wonk. They iced him on the way to Colchester. That’s the British Military Detention Centre,’ he added, for the American’s benefit.
‘What a waste.’ The third man was Colin Nicholls, once a major in the Intelligence Corps. ‘I was counting on getting Pike on board. What went wrong?’ His tone was soft but accusatory. He’d made it clear already that he considered Deakin’s general approach to deserters far too aggressive, and likely to frighten off those who really needed help.
‘He got cold feet, that’s what went wrong.’ Deakin’s lip curled in derision. ‘Maybe they’re all like that in Signals and the Green Slime: no guts when it comes to carrying through a decision.’
Nicholls ignored the nickname; he was long accustomed to it in a job where name calling was as much for self-protection as it was for denigrating other branches of the military. But the implied insult rankled and he took in a deep breath, eyes growing dark with dislike.
‘Hey, guys, cool it.’ Turpowicz tapped the table and looked from one to the other as an almost electric charge sizzled in the air between them. ‘Shit happens, right? We win some, we lose some. There’ll be others.’
Nicholls eventually nodded and relaxed. Deakin shrugged. He’d rarely shown any great liking for the former major, and they regularly disagreed on the tactics the group should use to earn funds. But he knew not to push him too far. Nicholls was older, but he’d worked undercover for months on end in Iraq and other dangerous locations, and a man didn’t do that without having powerful inner resources and a determination to survive.
The three men sipped their wine while the atmosphere returned to normal. Then Deakin said by way of explanation, ‘Pike turning us down I could put up with; but not after we’d transferred the money. That was taking the piss.’
‘We’ll get it back,’ Turpowicz said quietly. A former bank worker before enlisting in the US military, he handled the financial transactions on behalf of the Protectory and regularly fed a stream of funds through offshore financial centres around the world. It meant the Protectory could have access to money in numerous countries at short notice, for paying helpers, informants and contacts, as well as supplying cash to help the deserters they targeted. ‘I put a reversal code on all the transfers, operable up to seven days after confirmation. One push of a button and the transfer comes right back, minus an abort fee.’ He smiled at his own ingenuity.
‘So push it, then,’ Deakin muttered sourly. ‘Without the info to sell, we’re behind target.’
‘Will do. What about new leads?’ He was referring to their insider in the Ministry of Defence in London, a nameless voice who was their information feed to personnel on the ‘Failed to Report’ list. With the names came all the relevant information about regiments, background, rank and home addresses, allowing the Protectory to get a trace on the missing personnel before they went cold. The fact that only one in twenty FTRs were of a grade worth following up to the fullest extent did nothing to deter their efforts with the remainder. Any serving member of the military had something they could trade, given the right pressure, even if only about senior officers and force strength. The Protectory’s trade was in information, and there were many eager buyers out there.
‘I’m on it. Our man’s having to be extra careful going through the records in case he leaves an electronic footprint. For now, though, we’ve got a few to work on.’
‘How did they do it?’ Nicholls queried. He plainly hadn’t finished with the matter of Pike’s death.
‘Why?’ Deakin countered. ‘Will it help, you knowing that?’
‘He’ll find out eventually,’ said Turpowicz, ‘when it hits the news channels. And I’d be kind of interested, too.’
Deakin relented with ill-concealed reluctance. The Signals NCO would have stood no chance against Zubac and Ganic, the two Bosnian enforcers he’d sent to England to deal with him. They had learned their craft over years of turbulent fighting in their homeland and in a dozen different places since. Once locked on to a target, they were lethally committed and had no ‘off’ switch other than Deakin’s word. ‘They tailed him and took the car out on the A12 east of London. They got Pike with a head shot; one of the MPs died, the other’s not going anywhere. Clean job.’ He related the details with a clinical lack of emotion.
‘And Barrow?’
‘I’m waiting to hear about that. Ganic and Zubac flew to Berlin immediately after the hit on Pike and caught up with him heading for the Polish border.’
‘Are they going to bring him in?’ Nicholls asked.
Deakin stared at him without expression. ‘What do you think?’
‘There’s gonna be questions about Pike, though. Right?’ Turpowicz looked between the two Englishmen. The UK was their territory, but his question was clearly valid; had it been in the US, there would be a major investigation by both military and federal authorities. Nobody took out two military cops and their prisoner on a public highway without causing a firestorm. Surely the UK was no different.
‘Let them ask. Who cares? Our men are clear and gone. Point is, it works in our favour.’ Deakin spoke calmly, unaffected by what he had ordered done. ‘It sends a message to anyone else who thinks they can stiff us. The word is: don’t. And that includes our clients.’ He smiled and finished his wine, leaving the other two men with no doubts that he was extreme enough to go after anyone who tried to cross him, whatever their nationality or location.
The phone in Deakin’s pocket buzzed, and the sound of voices drifted through from the front section of the bar. Turpowicz and Nicholls stiffened instantly, but Deakin held out a hand to stop them getting alarmed.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘This is someone I want you to meet. He’s going to take our organization to the next level.’ He spoke into the phone. ‘Send him in, please.’
‘You didn’t think to warn us first?’ Nicholls looked angry. ‘What the hell are you playing at, Deakin? We’re all equal in this. We should each have a say about who we meet and when.’
Turpowicz nodded in agreement, his eyes bleak. He stayed calm, but said, ‘Not cool, man. You should’ve run it by us first.’
Deakin was unfazed by their reactions. He laid a hand on his chest. ‘Sorry, guys. It was a last minute thing and I didn’t have time. He was in the area, that’s all. I promise, this will be to our advantage.’
Nicholls leaned forward. ‘How do we know we can trust this man? Are you going to vouch for him?’
Deakin gave a flinty smile. ‘Of course, Colin. Why? Do you doubt me?’ He looked at them in turn as if daring them to object. ‘No? Good. We know where we stand then.’
Amid the stiff silence that followed, there was a knock at the door and a man entered. He was in his fifties, conservatively dressed in a suit and tie, with a light coat slung over one arm. He c
ould have been a simple businessman, his nationality northern European but not clearly defined by his clothes. He looked thin, as if he had recently lost weight, but fit and tanned, with neat, grey hair. He smiled at the three men with what looked like genuine pleasure.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said, his accent middle-class and English. If he sensed any hostility in the atmosphere, he ignored it. ‘Am I interrupting?’ He chuckled as he took a chair indicated by Deakin, who poured the fourth glass of wine. He took an appreciative sniff, raised the glass in salute and said, ‘My name’s Paulton, by the way. But please call me George.’
THIRTEEN
One kilometre north-east of Schwedt, a small industrial town on the German side of the border with Poland, a small white pickup truck churned along a narrow, isolated track riddled with muddy puddles and wallows. Darkness was coming in fast and the driver’s face was beaded with perspiration as he fought to control the steering wheel. He was praying that he didn’t get a puncture. Running on sidelights only, which were barely enough to show the banks on either side or the potholes in the surface, he was constantly having to wrench the vehicle back on course as he felt the bumper brushing against the tangle of overgrown grass and bushes bordering the track.
‘Come on, come on . . .!’ he swore softly, as the truck failed to respond to his foot pounding on the accelerator. The worn-out engine was pinking in protest at the half tank of cheap petrol he’d been sold with the vehicle, a last-ditch attempt to stay clear of bus or train routes, and the noisy heater clamped under the dashboard sounded laboured and tinny. With the approaching night came a curtain of rain sweeping across the countryside towards him, and he was shivering with a mixture of cold and despair that not even the ancient camouflage jacket he’d bought in a market two days ago could stave off.
He checked the wing mirror, but the bouncing vehicle made seeing anything behind him impossible. He thought he’d caught a glimmer of lights back there earlier, but had seen nothing since. Maybe he’d lost the pursuers he knew were on his tail. Or maybe he’d been imagining it, a result of exhaustion. He flicked on the yellow interior light and risked a quick glance at the folded map pinned to the dashboard. Schwedt was behind him, and if he could believe the single dotted line showing just west of the town, the track he was on led towards the Polish border and the river Oder. He was counting on finding a way of crossing the water when he got closer, and avoiding the road where there would certainly be border controls. The pickup was barely roadworthy and would not stand close scrutiny if a bored official decided to give him the once-over.
He checked the mirror again and pulled to a halt alongside a clump of pine trees silhouetted against the sky. He climbed out and watched the track behind him for a moment, straining to hear the sound of a vehicle engine. But there was nothing. Satisfied that he wasn’t being observed, he then went round to the rear of the vehicle. Two sharp kicks and the tail and brake lights were smashed. If anyone was following him, they’d have nothing to fasten on. If, on the other hand, he ran into a border patrol or the police, he was already in deep enough trouble and broken lights would be the least of his problems.
He unzipped his pants and relieved himself against a rear tyre, eyes on the track behind him. It would be just his luck, he thought wryly, to be caught taking a piss. A couple of guys in his unit in Helmand had done the same, to their cost; one got taken out by a sniper, the other had stepped on an IED hidden behind the bush he was watering. Bastard insurgents.
When he was finished, he zipped up and walked away from the pickup, scanning the darkened fields and woodland for signs of life. Other than the up-glow of lights from Schwedt, and the furtive scurry of a fox or rabbit in the undergrowth, he was certain there was nobody about. He sniffed the air, catching a trace of pine sap and a waft of brackish water from the river. Then, as he stepped round to climb back behind the wheel, he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He stopped dead, overcome by a wash of despair.
A man was standing by the front wing, the thin glow of the sidelights reflecting off the gun in his hand.
FOURTEEN
‘You should have taken the deal, Sergeant Barrow.’ The newcomer spoke softly, his accent east European with a faint American inflection. He was from Bosnia, and Graham Barrow had met him before, in the company of the man named Deakin. His stomach went cold. This one’s name was Zubac and he was a killer. And wherever Zubac went, so did his mate, Ganic. Two halves of the same tool. ‘All you had to do was agree to trade what you knew,’ Zubac continued. ‘Now you have . . . no value.’
‘Wait.’ Barrow held up a hand. He was breathing fast, eyes sliding sideways as he estimated his chances of making it to the side of the track and the surrounding darkness. Once out there, maybe he’d have a chance. But he knew it was slim. He’d been a long time out of action, stuck behind a desk in GCHQ Cheltenham before his last posting to Sangin, Afghanistan. Quite apart from not being physically capable of taking on monsters like these men, he wasn’t combat fit. He glanced around, trying to see into the darkness. Where the hell was Ganic? ‘I got confused, OK? I thought Deakin was going to screw me and I couldn’t risk going back. Tell him . . . tell him I’ll do it.’
Zubac said nothing, merely stared at Barrow. He was of medium height and muscular, his dark hair peppered with grey, and looked exactly like what he was: an ex-soldier. Ganic was taller, with a shaved head, but they could have been brothers.
Barrow opened his mouth to say something else when suddenly a large shape flew soundlessly out of the trees right over their heads, flashing white in the glow of the truck’s lights. There was no sound, and both Barrow and Zubac ducked instinctively before realizing it was a night predator, a snowy owl, the qweck-qweck alarm call echoing through the trees.
Barrow reacted first, throwing himself off the track and running straight into the night in sheer desperation. He had only the vaguest impression of the layout of the trees, and aimed for where he thought there was a gap in the straggly trunks. He stumbled as he hit a hollow, his teeth snapping together with the shock as his foot finally hit solid ground. Then he recovered and continued in a mad dash, his breathing loud in the night and his chest heaving with the effort. He swore repeatedly without realizing, a litany of self-blame, regret and anger, but powered on by fear. He slammed through a growth of what he guessed was blackthorn, felt the skin of his cheeks and forehead laid open and a sudden coldness where the cuts were deepest. Behind him came a shout, and he knew Ganic had joined the chase. Two against one. Two killers against a tech. No contest.
He sobbed and turned instinctively towards the border, splashing through a muddy wallow. Coldness enveloped his lower legs, the wet cloth of his pants clinging to his skin, slowing him down. One of his shoes was coming loose, grating against his heel. He tried to remember what was in his camo jacket: passport, phone and some cash. Not much to shout about after what he’d been through. What a stupid waste. He was sure he’d heard the phone ringing earlier, but he’d ignored it, too busy concentrating on getting away to take calls from mates trying to convince him to turn himself in, or worse, the bastard Deakin trying to pinpoint his location. He wished he’d answered it now; maybe it was the cavalry, ready to jump in and save his skin.
Some bloody hope. He slowed just enough to rip off the jacket and, balling it up, threw it away from him and hoped his pursuers would miss it. Maybe someone would fasten on it later . . . afterwards.
He coughed as the pain of running caught up with him and his lungs fought to compensate for too long without exercise. He zigzagged in a vain attempt to throw the men off his trail and immediately felt his legs weakening. No good; it was too much effort and he was running out of gas. He heard a shout off to his right and instinctively veered left away from it.
Christ, this was a shit way to go, wasn’t it? Better to have stayed in Sangin . . .
Then he was running through lighter vegetation and his speed picked up. He felt a bust of exultation as he pictured the two Bosnians
left way behind. Perhaps they were no better at running through this shitty terrain than he was!
He swerved once more as he saw the distant glow of lights on his left. Christ, left? What was that? There was nothing on his left, only . . .
Schwedt.
He’d run in a circle.
Barrow retched and slowed, then stopped, and sank to one knee, his legs finally giving up on him, the muscles shaking with cramp. He felt beaten. In front of him, not thirty yards away, the truck lights came on. The motor was still chugging, the heater clinking like a line of tin cans on a wedding car.
And there was the tall shape of Ganic, standing by the front wing and grinning. Barrow heard a scrape behind him and knew without looking that Zubac was here, too, hardly breathing for all the running.
He felt tears of frustration and rage pulsing down his cheek. They’d herded him like a bloody sheep, forcing him to go round and come right back to where he’d started. Was this what happened to all deserters, to all those who couldn’t take any more and chose to cut and run? An ignominious end in a shitty backwater? Or did some of them actually make it and survive?
Fuck it. With the last of his resolve, he took a deep breath and charged right at Ganic, screaming with anger, wanting to pulverize that grinning face to a pulp.
He almost made it, too, catching the Bosnian by surprise. Ganic lost the grin, his mouth rounded with shock. Then Barrow saw a flare of light from the gun in the man’s hand and felt a hammer blow in his chest, and then darkness enveloped him.
Zubac walked forward and knelt by the body, checking for life signs. Nothing. Without waiting for Ganic’s help, he grasped the dead man’s arms and, huffing with the effort, dragged the body through the wet mud and grass until he was in a thin strand of pine trees. Even though he was sure the body wouldn’t be seen from the track, he felt around in the dark and scraped soil, grass and pine needles over it and brushed his hands together before returning to the truck. Then he stood for a moment, trying to recall whether Barrow had been wearing a coat. Well, if he had, he wasn’t now. Too bad. Time to get out of here, before someone came.
Deception Page 7
