That had been twenty minutes ago, which was twenty minutes too long in Shin-Yang’s opinion. Should he radio his Control again? No. The man had been quite firm on that; with the massive security crackdown that had commenced after the attack, even a secure radio link could not be trusted entirely.
Should he try to escape on his own? In his nervous state, this was highly tempting, but he knew it would be fruitless – any person who appeared to be of even slight Oriental appearance would be rounded up and interrogated, and the Human Rights Act be damned.
Nobody at the hotel had seen him; the room was registered to a Jake Dolman of Canada, and he’d picked up the key from a safety deposit box at the train station the day before. No, his Control was right. He was better off where he was, riding out the storm until –
A knock on the door pierced his reverie, as short and sharp as the crack of a bullet. His heart rate increased in an instant, adrenaline flooding his body. He’d served as a Captain in the People’s Republic Army, which was why he’d been chosen to act as the coordinator for this particular mission; all the other members of the team had been enlisted men. But that had been different. He’d trained for open warfare, not the clandestine, nerve-wracking uncertainty of small-unit covert operations. He and his team had undergone a good deal of specific preparation and training for this mission, but this was the first time he had been truly tested in the field. His team had so far failed; how would he measure up? he wondered anxiously.
Moving to the door, his sweaty hand gripped around his pistol, cocked and ready to fire, he bent forwards to look through the eye-piece in the door’s centre. Looking through with one eye, Shin-Yang stifled a gasp of surprise.
The man on the other side of the door was his Control, in person, here in Stockholm. He had obviously wanted to monitor the operation more closely than Shin-Yang had been led to believe. Doesn’t he trust me? he thought uneasily. Does he blame me for the failure?
‘Who is it?’ asked Shin-Yang reluctantly, starting the code.
‘Fred Sizemore,’ answered the man on the other side of the door. Shin-Yang had tried to place the man’s accent before, but couldn’t. Still, all Westerners sounded the same to him.
‘Our meeting’s not ’til three,’ he continued.
‘Sorry, I thought it was one. Can I come in anyway?’
‘Of course.’ The code complete, Shin-Yang unbolted the door. He decocked his pistol, but didn’t holster it.
As the man calling himself Fred Sizemore entered the room, closing the door behind him, Shin-Yang started to instinctively defend himself and distance himself from the mission, a skill honed whilst serving in the highly politicized atmosphere of the PRA. The best method of defence was attack, and Shin-Yang reasoned that if his Control was going to try and lay the blame for the mission’s failure on him, then he was going to go down fighting.
‘Sir, there must be a leak somewhere, I can’t explain it, perhaps one of our own men – ’
Shin-Yang’s Control cut him off with a raise of the hand. ‘Don’t worry Lao,’ he said in perfect Mandarin. ‘Don’t worry. These things happen. Missions don’t always go to plan. Now we need to get out of here, but we need to take this gear with us.’ He gestured at the electronic communications equipment sprawled over the room’s small living area.
Shin-Yang nodded vigorously, happy that he wasn’t being blamed as he’d feared, and newly confident in their chances of escape. He even started to dare think that, despite the mission’s failure, his Control may yet keep the promises he had made about the future of Shin-Yang and his family.
Finally relaxing, he turned round to start getting his kit together, the pistol going back into his belt. As ‘Sizemore’ was presented with Shin-Yang’s back, he withdrew a Chinese-made Tokarev semi-automatic pistol from his own belt, a large and sinister Hakker silencer already in place.
Shin-Yang was still thinking about his family when his brains were blown out across the hotel room’s cheap beige carpet.
4
Cole was stymied by what he saw on the television. He had changed channels from the bemused BBC presenter to a live feed from ITN.
The scene was one of devastation; a huge crater scarred the roadside, emergency crews tended to the dozens of injured people, and there was a trail of dead bodies scattered around the area, unattended due to the chaotic melee that had ensued.
The ITN reporter, wide-eyed with shock, breathlessly tried to explain what had happened, before an armed security guard marched up to him and ordered him to move away. Only minutes had passed since the blast impact, but the area was already filled with more police and military personnel than Cole could count.
The scene changed back to the newsroom, where the studio commentators played back the video of the incident, which the ITN cameraman had miraculously captured in all its morbid glory.
Cole watched with anger as the destruction of the BBC crew filled his TV screen. As the Beijing News team started their attack on Danko, Cole could feel a burning hatred in his stomach; a hatred of terror, of violence, especially when visited on his fellow countrymen.
A Chinese attack on the Russian President? Cole wondered, dumbfounded. He knew Tsang Feng was against the formation of ERA, but this was just insane. As he considered matters further, his initial hatred and anger subsided, replaced by a cool detachment that had served him well throughout an operational career that seemed barely believable, especially to those who knew its full extent.
Anger wouldn’t help, he knew. And he could receive a call at any minute, although he accepted that this was unlikely; he was used less and less now, and only for the most important tasks. Still, an international incident like this may well result in some important tasks, he decided on reflection.
He took the remote control to start taping the news channel for future reference, but found that it was already recording. He had started it, without conscious thought, from the moment he’d seen the look of shock on the BBC commentator’s face.
Angry or not, the cool detachment was there with him, always.
5
Gregory returned to his seat, applause ringing out at his speech. Many of the leaders present couldn’t believe how pro-European the current UK government had become. And for a Conservative Prime Minister to be the spearhead of such a revolution! It was just unprecedented.
But other leaders, most vocally in the form of the French President, Henri Chalois, resented Britain’s too-close ties to the US, and declared that the UK could never be truly European until she suspended her military and political links with that rival superpower.
Nevertheless, the atmosphere in the auditorium was one of triumph in the face of adversity after the horrific attack, and everyone’s speeches were going down a storm; the intense stresses of the earlier events forcing everyone to rally together.
Indeed, it was something of a triumph that the event was going ahead at all; the various international security forces attached to the occasion, along with the Swedish DFT, were determined to cancel the entire thing and separate all the gathered leaders to different secure locations in case of further attacks.
But all the leaders had stood strong in their resolve to see the treaty signing through to the end. Had even one of them let themselves be swayed by the warnings of their protective details, and given into their natural feelings of fear, then ERA would have fallen at its first hurdle.
But everyone took strength from the example set by President Vasilev Danko who, even though he had been inches from death, seemed fearless in its presence; angered, even, at the affront to his power. Danko felt genuine anger over the attempt on his life, and truly grateful to his bodyguard. The FSB section chief had chosen well, and Danko would see that Alexei was properly rewarded. As the big man strode to the lectern, Severin watching closely nearby, all eyes turned.
Normally a quiet and thoughtful man, Danko was known by his colleagues to sometimes ‘turn’; frighteningly, alarmingly. As he advanced to the dais, he seemed imbued
with an impressive strength and an iron will.
To the cheers and applause from the gathered audience, he ascended the steps to the platform, his large, brutish hands gripping the lectern on both sides as he let the rapturous reception wash over him. He knew he had already earned the respect of the assembled leaders in front of him. Now, with the treaty about to be signed and with the Euro Russian Alliance about to become a reality, he would see if he could gain the respect of the rest of the world.
He desperately wanted to say something, to provoke a reaction, to project the strength of this new union. The rest of the world has to learn! he heard himself cry inside. But at the emergency meeting that had been called before the treaty signing was to go ahead, it was prudently decided to ignore what had happened. Each leader was to make an honourable mention of the dead, and to impart their best wishes to the injured, but that was all. Anything else would have to wait until it could be discussed in much more detail. There had to be a central, authoritative, single European voice now, and it was important that any statements were fully debated before being released. But still, Danko was tempted.
Gauging the right moment, he held up a hand to silence the crowd. ‘My friends,’ he declared in his smooth baritone, his English only slightly accented. ‘Along with our previous speakers and, I am sure, everyone seated here and around the world at home, I would like to offer my sincerest regret for those innocents who died here today. My heart truly goes out to both them and their families. May I also offer my best wishes for the swift and full recovery of all those injured.’
Danko left a pause for quiet contemplation before ploughing on. ‘I cannot help but feel partially responsible, as I myself was the target for the attack. But,’ he said after a pause, as if thinking further about the issue, ‘it is senseless to blame anyone but the culprits and the powers behind them, which is why the decision was taken to proceed with the signing of this historic treaty. To show the world that nothing – nothing – will sway the resolve of our union.’
Danko broke off again, scanning the faces of the audience. All eyes were directly upon him, although some of the other heads of state were looking slightly confused or – concerned? Had he already gone too far? He looked down at his speech, placed in front of him on the lectern, and realized he had already gone off-script completely.
Steady yourself, Vasilev, he reminded himself. There would be plenty of time for recriminations and shows of strength in the future, once the treaty had been signed.
‘But enough of dwelling on these unimportant matters. Let us instead look to the future, a bright future that has brought us all here together today.’
6
Cole was studying Danko’s performance carefully, Ben and Amy still helping Sarah in the kitchen.
On the television, Danko was drawing to the end of his speech and, although there was a small hiccup at the start – Danko injecting just a little too much of his own agenda into a carefully planned script? – it had been a perfect example of the orator’s art. Even better, thought Cole, than Adam Gregory’s speech, which had itself been so well received. Cole found himself impressed with the man.
‘And so my words are nearly at an end,’ intoned Danko melodiously. ‘But actions,’ he boomed, picking up the gold-set fountain pen and holding it teasingly poised above the treaty document, ‘do indeed speak louder than words.’
And with that, President Vasilev Danko of the Russian Federation became the first signatory of the Euro Russian Alliance. As another spontaneous chorus of cheers and applause erupted, Cole saw a dark look flicker across Danko’s face, and although he couldn’t help but be impressed with the man, he also couldn’t help but wonder what his true intentions were.
7
Three hours later, Gregory found himself alone once more with his aide and mentor, ensconced in the armoured flying office jokingly referred to as Royal Air Force One. A modified Boeing 747 jet aircraft used as the Prime Minister’s personal transport, the vehicle was known officially as ‘British Government International Transport Model A’. But the RAF One moniker had been attached straight after the press learnt that the government had ordered it. There had been much public resentment over such profligacy – the aircraft cost the British taxpayer over five million pounds a year – and Gregory had declared soon after he gained office that he would immediately decommission the jet. But that had been a promise that had been long since forgotten. Gregory found it to be a useful tool, saving valuable time in his international forays. And he’d discovered that, although frowned upon by the cynical public of the United Kingdom, RAF One had a certain cache when travelling abroad, and immeasurably increased his profile in certain areas of the world. But perhaps more important was the simple fact that he liked it; it confirmed his sense of importance, his place in history.
After the fraught day he’d had, he finally felt able to relax, sinking deeply into his leather armchair and allowing himself a contented smile. ‘So how did I do?’ he asked Hansard, who sat opposite him, back ramrod straight in stark contrast to Gregory’s slouch.
Although he didn’t look it in the slightest, Hansard was relaxed as well. But then again, he always was. It was just one of the many benefits that resulted from the complete confidence that he had in himself. But as he looked at Gregory, he knew that the man’s own apparent relaxation was a mere sham. Inside, he was a coiled spring wound up tight. Hansard knew Gregory’s confidence, with which he had pushed the country into continental Europe with near totality, was a mask; an external show for both the public and his political peers. In reality, he lacked Hansard’s self-assuredness, and needed constant reassurance from his close aide. In essence, Hansard had decided long ago, Gregory was weak, and easily manipulated by someone that knew how.
‘It was a great performance, Adam,’ replied Hansard finally. ‘The only person who came close to you was Danko, and I feel sure that was only because of the attack, which allowed him to be more forceful than would normally be the case. No, Adam, you did very well. You should be proud of yourself.’
Gregory beamed at the compliment, as would a dutiful student after receiving praise from a favourite teacher. ‘Thank you,’ he said, adding after a short pause, ‘I was good, wasn’t I?’
In response, Hansard just nodded. Like a child, he thought silently. So easy.
8
Geoffrey Huntington leaned over his large, leather-faced oak desk and lifted the handset of his secure telephone. Entering his encryption code, he then dialled the direct line of James Dorrell, the American CIA’s legendarily straight-talking Director. As the Head of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, Huntington was one of the few people in the world with direct access to the CIA chief, a remnant of the transatlantic ‘special relationship’ that, despite the best efforts of some EU members, was still going strong. Although Huntington didn’t personally approve of Gregory’s headlong dive into European governance, he was pleased that the man had not yet caved into the pressure to dissolve the UK/US partnership. In fairness, Huntington knew, Britain got a lot more out of the arrangement than did America. And he was about to ask for more.
‘Geoff, how are you?’ Dorrell greeted him effusively, picking up on the first ring.
‘Splendid thanks, James old chap,’ Huntington replied cheerfully. ‘Except, of course, for that unfortunate little incident earlier today.’
‘Little incident, huh?’ Dorrell could never quite get used to Huntington’s incredibly well developed sense of understatement. Typical Brit, he supposed. ‘Looks more like a potential nightmare if you ask me, and one that might very well bite everyone in the ass. I take it that’s why you’re calling me?’
‘Straight to the point as usual, I see,’ Huntington said in response. ‘You’re quite right though of course, that is why I’m calling. We’re going to have to work pretty damn quick to identify these gents and I know that you have some, how shall I say – resources? – in the Orient that we lack at the moment, so –‘
Dorrell cut
him off. ‘Geoff, whatever you need, you can have. I know the Boss may have a few issues with the EU at the minute, but we’re still okay with you guys. Send me whatever intel you get, and I’ll see what we can do with it.’
‘That’s splendid, James old chap, really quite splendid. Thank you, I’ll be in touch.’
‘I’m sure you will. Take it easy.’ And with that, Dorrell broke the connection.
Huntington had only just replaced the receiver when the phone started to ring, and he picked it back up immediately. ‘Geoffrey,’ he heard the Prime Minister say on the other end of the line, without preamble, ‘what do you have for me?’
9
Even after six years on the islands, Cole still found it strange to be celebrating Christmas Day in 24 degrees Celsius heat. Not that Christmases before his move had been exclusively in the depths of an English winter; many had been spent in even hotter climates, whether on exercise with the Australian SAS in the bone-dry deserts of the Northern Territories, or on operations in the sweltering jungles of Bolivia. It was just strange to be enjoying a family Christmas, at home, in such balmy weather.
For the children, they’d never known any other way, and Cole watched with affection as Sarah kicked a ball to them on the hundred metres of white sand beach that had come with the property, the deep azure of the Caribbean stretching out from it as far as the eye could see. Cole was playing goalkeeper, and his over-the-top play-acting of trips and dives as Ben and Amy took their shots had both children in constant fits of giggles.
As Cole dived again onto the warm sand, the sight of his family warmed him immensely. He’d managed to avoid watching the news all morning, not wanting to spoil the fun his kids were having opening their presents. The simple joys of his own childhood Christmas mornings had been brought back to him, and he let himself think for a time about the family of Mark Crosby – for he now thought of Crosby as a separate person, entirely unrelated to himself. Since his official death in Pakistan, he accepted that he would never again see his parents, his brothers or sisters, or any other member of his old family, ever again. He knew they were all still alive and well though, and that would have to be enough. At least he had fond memories of them.
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