Piccadilly
London SW1
England
The United Kingdom
THE STREET OUTSIDE Ava’s house was deserted and quiet. Even though it was summer, the temperature had dropped, and she could see the dew condensed on the iron railings.
Swinton approached the blacked-out van, and Ava followed a few steps behind, still on her guard.
The vehicle’s side door slid open, and any lingering doubts she had fell away as she looked inside.
Instead of the usual sparse metal interior, she was greeted by an operations centre lit by LEDs from multiple banks of electronic equipment and several rows of screens.
Swinton nodded for her to climb in.
With a mounting sense of excitement, she stepped up into the van, and Swinton followed, pulling the door shut behind him. He tapped twice on the metal bulkhead separating off the driver’s compartment, and the van began to move.
“Show her,” he instructed a curly haired man in joggers and a t-shirt sitting at the controls, his lightly bearded young face illuminated in the electronic glow.
The tech began typing quickly, and a large video image appeared, spread across the entirety of the six screens mounted in a three by two configuration on the wall above him.
A series of time counters was running along the bottom of the footage, which appeared to show the inside of a rectangular building.
It took Ava a moment to realize it was a large Italianate church, viewed from a ceiling camera looking directly down.
There was no sound to the footage, but she could clearly see a group of black-robed Orthodox monks dragging an incapacitated elderly man down the nave towards the altar at the east end.
“Turin Cathedral. Five and a half hours ago. Twenty-one forty-five local time,” the tech announced.
Ava watched the screens closely, as two of the monks opened bags and took out weapons.
The tech froze the image and rolled a trackball, zooming in on one of the short angular submachine guns until it filled all six screens, clearly showing the Cyrillic military lettering stamped into the chassis: ПП-2000.
“Russian,” the tech announced. “PP-2000. High precision. Manufactured by KBP Instrument Design Bureau. In wide use across law enforcement and elite military units in the Former Soviet Union.”
A cold sensation gripped the base of Ava’s stomach as she saw in her mind the embassy building in Addis Ababa.
Bad memories.
She pushed them away. They were not going to help her now.
“Spetsnaz?” she asked. She recognized the style of the operation. It had the stamp of Russian Special Forces all over it.
Swinton nodded. “That’s our working assumption.”
“And they’re just letting the cathedral’s CCTV roll?” She did not buy it. “Unlikely, isn’t it?”
He shook his head. “They did a thorough job. The cathedral’s integrated surveillance system was comprehensively disabled at the time. The feed you’re watching is from one of our own cameras.”
“In Turin?” She raised an eyebrow.
Swinton nodded. “The city’s a hub for people traffickers smuggling migrants from North Africa into Italy, across the Alps, and on to the UK.” His face was set in a grim expression. “An unpleasant group of Libyan-Italians do a lot of their business in the cathedral. We like to keep an eye on them, to know when things are about to get busy. It’s pure coincidence we have this footage.”
On the screen, one of the monks took what looked like a power saw from his bag and moved out of shot.
“You can guess where he’s headed.” Swinton moved the trackball and the footage began scrubbing forward at double speed.
She nodded. “The chapel of the Turin Shroud.”
He stopped the feed to show one of the monks carrying a ribbed silver suitcase away from the chapel, while two others dragged the injured elderly man to the cathedral’s great carved font at the far left of the picture. As she watched with horror, the video footage clearly showed them murdering him.
“The Italian Polizia discovered the theft soon afterwards, when the cathedral’s camera system came back on,” Swinton explained. “All hell broke loose. The Carabinieri are now involved, and they’re working on the assumption that it was an inside job by the caretaker, Giovanni Raspallo. His fingerprints and blood were all over the Shroud’s smashed case. Also, he took a flight to Paris earlier tonight, along with all the cash from his savings account.”
“Leaving the Russians time to get away before the Carabinieri work out they’ve been had,” Ava concluded, watching as two men in fluorescent yellow high-visibility uniforms entered and put the caretaker’s body in a nondescript wheelie bin.
“As it happens,” Swinton continued, “we’re streets ahead of the Italians, because we know who to look for. We’ve tapped into Turin’s general CCTV surveillance feeds, which show the rubbish truck dropping the wheelie bin off at a local Russian restaurant, a known hangout of Kremlin operatives.”
“And the snatch squad?” Ava was intrigued. This was beginning to sound like a sophisticated operation.
The tech brought up a selection of still images, showing a black Mercedes at various piazzas, roundabouts, and traffic lights. Each image bore a time stamp within the last five hours.
“They headed north-east: through Milan, Como, and Lugano,” the tech explained, bringing up a fresh image. “This is real time. They’ll soon be passing to the west of Davos, then probably on to Liechtenstein.”
“It’s only a guess,” Swinton cut in, “but the roads are consistent with taking a north-east route to Moscow via Berlin, Warsaw, and Minsk. If that’s right, they’re going to be passing through Bavaria this morning.”
The tech punched up a map showing the two main routes north out of Milan, separating through Switzerland, and converging again at Warsaw. He zoomed in on the map. “Our guess is they’ll be on the E51 out of Nuremberg at around oh seven hundred local time.”
There was a pause, during which the tech brought up an image of the haunting face of the Turin Shroud, and began altering the contrast, throwing the dramatic features into ever-sharper relief.
Swinton broke the growing silence. “So, Dr Curzon, you now know exactly what we know.” His expression was grave. “Do you want to go and get it back for us?”
Ava did a double take. She was not sure she had heard correctly.
She had assumed he wanted to sound her out on an aspect of the relic, and that she would be back in bed in an hour.
“What? Are—”
He cut her off. “We don’t have time. We’ve wasted enough already. Do you want to get tooled up and go in? Yes or no?”
Ava stared at him in disbelief.
“Unbelievable,” she replied, astonished. “I couldn’t have been more clear. I left. I’m out. I have a normal job. I don’t want anything more to do with you.”
But as she said the words, she knew they were not the whole story.
She had left MI6. That was true. And she had been disillusioned enough to cut all ties. In the race to war in Iraq, her advice to be cautious about the aftermath had been ignored. It had left her feeling isolated, and she did not want to be a part of what followed.
But what she also knew was that MI6 had been her whole life, and her home. It was all she could remember from her earliest childhood. It was her father’s world, and then it had become hers. Walking out after his death had been the hardest thing she had ever done.
After leaving, she had thrown herself into the role she found at the British Museum. It was a dream job. She got to handle some of the world’s most exciting objects, research them, piece together ancient puzzles, and share the results with international audiences.
The Museum had sent her to Amman, then Baghdad, where her role in charge of tracing the objects looted in the war had been a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a Middle East archaeologist like her. For seven years she had worked from an office in the Baghdad Museum, where she h
ad thrived on the excitement and danger of living in that ancient city.
But she had never been very convincing at lying to herself.
She had been good at intelligence work. And she missed it. She had even recently started some private investigations of her own, on the side, looking into the flow of looted Syrian and Iraqi antiquities flooding the London market in the wake of the current sectarian anarchy in the Middle East.
Swinton opened an envelope on the console in front of him, and pulled out a small plastic card, which he laid before her.
She looked down at it, taking a moment to register that it showed her name and photograph under the bold words: ‘MINISTRY OF DEFENCE’.
“You can stay on full-time at the Museum and do your job there. You’d just be a consultant to MI13. I promise we’ll keep you out of the political stuff.”
Her pulse accelerated.
Was that even possible?
She took a moment to let what he was saying sink in.
“You’ll be part of the team, and have a desk at HQ. We’ll call you when we need you. Or,” he smiled, “you call us. You can choose what you work on.”
She tried to slow her thoughts down.
Was he seriously saying she could do archaeology and intelligence? And it would be up to her what she got involved with?
Her performance reports had consistently said that she needed to watch her reckless streak.
Back in her kitchen, Swinton had mentioned a recent encounter with MI6 and the American DIA. That had seemed exciting at first. But as he reminded her, it had ended in a number of funerals: one of them very nearly hers. When it was over, she resolved that she would never again say ‘yes’ if her former colleagues from MI6 came knocking.
The van stopped abruptly, and Swinton slid open the side door.
They were at the top of Green Park.
In the distance, through the trees, she could see the faint lights of Buckingham Palace glinting where the tended lawns met the drama of the Mall.
But much more significantly, immediately in front of her, parked on the grass, was a large helicopter.
Even in the moonlight, she recognized its unique profile, and knew exactly what it was – one of the Special Forces Dauphins from the Army Air Corps squadron at Credenhill, painted in bland civilian colours to deflect attention.
“The pilot will only wait sixty seconds now we’re here.” Swinton held out the plastic MI13 pass. “You need to make up your mind.”
Ava shut her eyes.
Did she want to get involved with the clandestine world of intelligence again?
And – more urgently – did she really want to face the Russian military again?
Ever since the incident in Ethiopia she had spent her life avoiding them.
It had been the end of a normal school day. Her father had brought her to the embassy for the rest of the afternoon. At the time she had believed the faded sign on his office door that stated he was in charge of the embassy’s passport division. Years later she had discovered that he was a senior MI6 officer. She went to the embassy with him most days after school. It was the only place for her to go. Her mother had walked out on them years earlier.
The first half hour in the tranquil embassy that day had been normal. She had been sitting with her father’s secretary, who was helping her with a school project.
Then there was panic. Shooting. Mangled bodies. Dead glassy eyes, and floors slippery with blood. Adults she had counted as friends, slain at their desks.
Years later, she had understood. The Cold War had gone hot in Afghanistan. America and Britain had been funnelling weapons to the mujahideen in the front line against the invading Russians. Ethiopia had been part of that lethal supply chain, and the Russians had intervened.
It had left her with psychological scars and unresolved feelings towards infantrymen wearing the hammer and sickle.
She snapped back to the present and stared at the Special Forces helicopter – menacing in the moonlight. She watched the rotors start to turn, feeling herself being pulled in different directions.
But as her mind fixed on the image of Swinton sitting in her kitchen pointing a loaded handgun at her, a feeling of clarity emerged.
He was asking for her help because she had been good at what she did for MI6.
It was true she loved her job at the Museum. But, deep down, she also knew that she wanted more. There was something missing from her life, and – if she was honest – she knew exactly what it was.
She gazed at the card.
Life was short.
Without saying anything, she took it, and caught a flicker of triumph in Swinton’s eyes.
For a moment, she felt a rush of uncertainty.
Was this a game to him?
Was there something he was not telling her?
She pushed the thought aside.
Time would tell.
She had made her decision, and the adrenaline was already starting to flow.
Stepping out of the van into the cool night air, she ran towards the waiting helicopter, ducking under the mounting rotor wash as the large cargo door slid open for her.
Climbing in, she saw the impassive faces of the four-man SAS team already strapped into their seats. One had mutton-chop sideburns meeting in a moustache. Two of the others had trendy civilian haircuts. The fourth was nondescript. None of them had shaved for a few days. They were not wearing uniforms – just jeans, hoodies, and cagoules. They could not have looked less military. But the atmosphere of intense focus and planned violence left no doubt who they were.
As the rotors increased speed, an armed woman in the seat nearest the door passed Ava a small khaki holdall. The zip was partly open, and inside it Ava could see a black SIG P228.
“For you,” the woman shouted over the noise of the rotors building speed. Her accent was West Coast American. “I’m Mary. Vatican liaison.”
Ava nodded an acknowledgement as she took the bag and, for the first time in several years, sensed a familiar tingle.
She felt alive.
Chapter 4
La Goutte d’Or
18e arrondissement
Paris
The Republic of France
AMINE’S BODY WAS strung out with fear.
He sprinted for all he was worth – his only thought to get away from the car.
He had first heard the engine when leaving his mother’s apartment. Initially, he simply assumed it was someone else making their way home. But when he realized it was deliberately following a few yards behind him, he knew something was wrong.
He had tried to lose it by turning down a minor side street. But as the car swung around the corner after him, he started to feel real fear.
What did they want?
Had they been waiting?
It was gone 3:00am.
With a burst of speed, he started to run.
As he fled down the street, he glanced over his shoulder, and registered that it was a new-looking dull silver BMW, not the sort of banger driven by dropouts looking for easy cash to shoot up and pass out.
Who followed someone at this time in the morning?
There were four figures inside the cabin.
He slammed into the boarded-up windows of a bar-tabac that had closed years ago – the rusted metal shutters now daubed with a jumble of aerosoled obscenities in Arabic and French.
He ran faster, smelling the fear coming off his skin.
Bravery did not come naturally.
Cannoning off a wall plastered in tattered posters for North African rai dance nights, he bounced headlong into an alleyway, where he prayed the car would not be able to follow.
For a moment, he was overtaken by a cold dread that he might have been funnelled into a dead end. But as he hammered down the dark rubbish-strewn lane, he saw light and an opening at the far end.
Emerging into the deserted street, he continued running as he again heard the car accelerating – this time from a side road.
&nb
sp; His body was soaked in sweat.
He scrambled up a graffiti-covered footbridge, and crossed the broad bundle of railway lines pushing north from the Gare du Nord, under the Péripherique ring road encircling the city, and on into the warzone suburbs of the Seine-Saint-Denis.
Jumping down off the last step, he again heard the engine accelerating at the end of the street.
He cursed.
There must be a parallel road bridge.
The adrenaline was spiking so hard he had no idea where he was. The chase was a blur. All he could think of was to keep his legs pumping faster than they ever had.
From the corner of his eye he saw the street sign said he was now in the nineteenth arrondissement. He could not remember ever having been here. This was Belleville – yet another poor immigrant neighbourhood. A distant memory surfaced that it was where Edith Piaf had grown up.
His lungs were burning as he spotted the hills of the Parc des Butte-Chaumont rising to his left.
Up ahead, the car emerged from a junction, with the beam of its headlamps falling full onto his face.
His shirt and jacket were stuck to his back.
He had never known fear like it.
What did they want?
He spotted a gap between a bakery and a café, and darted into it.
Were they after what was in his bag?
He clutched the brown leather courier-satchel closer to his body.
It was impossible.
How could they know?
Arriving at the end of the alleyway, he collapsed against a large metal rubbish bin, sucking in deep lungfuls of air.
Whatever athleticism he had once possessed had long ago dissipated in lecture halls and libraries.
He stared around, petrified, expecting to hear the sound of the engine any time.
Up ahead was a narrow street with a pair of dark green Morris columns placed a few yards apart – their wide advertising-wrapped cylinders rising beneath imposing oriental-rococo domes.
He did a double take, frowning.
Coming from the wreckage of Algeria, he noticed that sort of thing. Two advertising columns so close together was the kind of bad planning that blighted his old country – not what he expected of the Parisian authorities. But as he stared at them, he felt an unexpected tingling.
The Apocalypse Fire (Ava Curzon Trilogy Book 2) Page 3
