Strike a Match 3

by Frank Tayell

  “Then I’m in the lead,” Isaac said, and moved into the forest before Mitchell could stop him.

  Isaac moved nearly silently. Mitchell was just as quiet, speaking of both men’s long experience of being pursuer or pursued out in the wilds of Britain and beyond. By comparison, and at least to her own ears, Ruth was like an elephant trampling through the undergrowth. The trees surrounding them were mostly deciduous, their leaves now dumped on the ground. Even so, little moon or star light reached the forest floor. She kept her eyes down, trying to spy the dry leaves and twigs before her feet found them. Whenever there was a particularly loud rustle or crack, she glanced ahead, but neither Isaac or Mitchell turned around, until, abruptly, they both stopped.

  As the wind whipped the clouds eastward, moonlight bathed a large commercial plot. A ruined one-storey building, ringed by a car park, was situated a paved-track’s length from a line of streetlamps that marked where the old road lay. Exotic vines trailed along the pocked tarmac, enveloping three rusting trucks in the car park and scaling the ruined building where a conifer’s canopy jutted above the collapsed roof. Beyond the building, and either side of the paved track, were dense fields of shadowy overgrowth occasionally broken by a splinter of metal frame. There were no people, no lights, and no way for any of those three trucks to ever move again.

  Ruth looked at Isaac, then at Mitchell. Both had their heads fixed towards the garden centre. Ruth turned her own towards it, trying to spot what they’d seen. There was a scrape of metal, and a shadow detached itself from a gaping hole to the left of a wall of ivy. The figure walked slowly across the car park, stopped, turned on a torch, and turned it off again, flashing the light six times in quick succession. The figure stood there, waiting for five minutes before they turned around. The figure walked to the wall of vines, and seemed to disappear into it. The vegetation had to be hanging over an old doorway.

  “Isaac, take the back,” Henry whispered. “I’ll go in the front. Ruth, keep watch for anyone who makes it out through that wall, or who comes up that road.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ruth said.

  “It might not be Illyakov. Assume they’re hostile,” Mitchell said. “But let them run if they want to.”

  That contradictory instruction given, he tapped Isaac on the shoulder. Isaac crawled into the forest, vanishing within a few seconds. Ruth was about to ask what the signal would be when Mitchell edged forward to the screen of low bushes, then darted through them, sprinting in a crouch to the edge of the building.

  Ruth re-gripped her revolver, uncertain what to do, though reasonably sure that Mitchell would be happy if she stayed exactly where she was. But she couldn’t. Either she was a copper or she wasn’t, and a copper’s duty was to protect the innocent, and they were best served by bringing an end to the conspiracy.

  She moved through the bushes until she felt broken tarmac beneath her knees. Looking at the building, she couldn’t find Mitchell’s shadow. Perhaps he was already inside. The nearest rusting truck was twenty yards away. She took a breath and sprinted for it.

  Glass crunched loudly beneath her feet as she ducked behind the engine block. As she caught her breath and tried to quieten her beating heart, she listened for any sound from the building. Still there was nothing. She edged towards the side of the truck, shuffling her feet forward, but even so, more glass broke beneath them. She crouched down, trying to peer under the truck, but the trailing vines blocked her view.

  She was about to run to the next truck, which had a clearer view of the front of the building, when there was a muffled shout from inside.

  “Police!” Mitchell yelled. “Put the weapons down. You’re surrounded!”

  There was a shot from inside. A yell. Another shot, and then a barrage. The ivy curtain around the door flew apart as a figure ran through it.

  Ruth stepped away from the truck, her revolver levelled. “Stop!” she yelled. “Police!”

  It was Illyakov. She had a rifle in her hands, and she didn’t stop. She swung the weapon up. Ruth fired.

  Illyakov’s gun went off. Bullets peppered the truck as Ruth ducked back behind its bulk, but the gunfire stopped almost as soon as it had begun. Cautiously, Ruth edged back around the truck. Illyakov was on the ground, the gun still in her grip. Just as cautiously, her revolver aimed at the woman, Ruth walked slowly towards her. Illyakov was dead. Ruth’s bullet had taken her in the throat.

  There was movement from the building, Ruth swung her weapon up, but it was only Isaac, though he was carrying an assault rifle in his hands.

  “They’re dead,” he said.

  “Mister Mitchell?” Ruth asked.

  “Counting the evidence,” Isaac said. “Is this her?”

  “Yes,” Ruth said. “Yes, this is Illyakov.”

  “Then we found her before Emmitt,” Isaac said.

  Chapter 20 - The Garrison

  Folkestone

  “There are no vehicles out back,” Mitchell said when he finally came outside. “There’s a little food and water, but only enough for the night. They weren’t planning on staying here.”

  “The way that guy was signalling suggests they were waiting for someone,” Isaac said.

  Ruth bent down and searched Illyakov’s corpse. “There’s not much here. There’s some spare ammunition. Oh, a book. I think it’s in code.”

  “Let me see?” Isaac said. He took it. “Probably a simple cypher. Give me a few days and I’ll crack it.”

  “Anything else?” Mitchell asked.

  “Only this.” Ruth shone her light on the piece of paper. “It’s the telegram. One word, just like the log said. Run. Maybe they were waiting for the person who sent it.”

  “But who is that?” Isaac asked. “I thought, other than Emmitt, they’re all dead or in jail.”

  “Sir, earlier, what did you mean by us not having half of the pieces?” Ruth asked.

  “I meant the rest of the rifles and ammunition,” Mitchell said. He flashed his light at the weapon still gripped in Illyakov’s dead hand. “When we found Yanuck and Adamovitch there was one rifle and two thousand rounds. It’s an odd number. More than a person than carry, but not more than a person could fire in a brief battle. Yet Yanuck was a smuggler, and there were three of them in that cottage. The weapons we found with Emmitt’s people in those raids before we arrested him were SA80s, weapons used by the old British Army. These weapons are different, the ammunition a different calibre. We know, now, that the plan was always for Adamovitch to be arrested. It’s a safe bet that Yanuck didn’t know that he was destined to die in Twynham. In short, where were their weapons? Where was the rest of the ammunition?”

  “It’s inside?” Ruth asked.

  “And there’s a lot more than I was expecting,” Mitchell said. “I thought there might be ten or twenty-thousand rounds and a dozen rifles.”

  “How much is there?”

  “About a thousand AK-47 assault rifles, and around two-hundred thousand rounds of ammunition,” Mitchell said. “That’s not just enough to start a war. That’s enough to win it.”

  “A thousand rifles? Who were they for?” Ruth asked.

  “Albion, maybe?” Isaac suggested. “Those people up near Leicester might welcome the fire power.”

  “Hardly,” Mitchell said. “It would bring a war that would guarantee they were wiped out. Besides, if Albion were the intended recipients, then Yanuck would have brought them ashore further north. The only way to move this quantity of weapons is by truck or—” He stopped.

  “Sir?”

  “You don’t need to move the rifles if you can bring the people here,” Mitchell said. He started walking towards the road. “Our Marines are in Calais. Our Navy is all at sea. If we were invaded, the pirates could rampage through the country for weeks before we were able to redeploy our people.”

  “The pirates in Calais?” Ruth asked.

  “The entrance to the Channel Tunnel is only a few miles from here,” Mitchell said. “They moved quickly across Eur
ope to launch an attack on the garrison in Calais. When the garrison didn’t collapse, why didn’t they flee? Why did they dig in, and attack again? Sure, Emmitt might have threatened them, but they are as barbarous as he is. No, it wasn’t out of fear, but because they thought they could pierce our defences. Having done so, they knew they would be able to resupply here, in Britain.”

  Ruth jogged to keep up. “If they made it through, they’d attack Dover, wouldn’t they?”

  “Some of them,” Mitchell said. “They wouldn’t take the castle. They probably wouldn’t even take Dover, but they would cause more death and damage than we could afford. It would mean the end to any expeditions to France for two years, maybe five. Long enough for those pirates to consolidate their grip. Long enough for a new political order to take root over here.”

  “But under whose leadership?” Ruth asked. “Not Emmitt’s. Longfield’s dead. So is Wallace. How does Illyakov benefit from continuing Longfield’s scheme? She can’t have thought she would run for government.”

  “No, and she didn’t send that warning telegram to herself,” Mitchell said. “Think about the time it was sent. Think about where we were.”

  “On the train,” Ruth said.

  “Yes, but more specifically we’d stopped to collect those cargo wagons. Illyakov had no food, no water, no truck in which to escape, and she wasn’t running. No, she was waiting for someone, for something, but the only thing around here other than Dover is the Channel Tunnel.”

  “You mean someone on the train sent the message?” Ruth said. “They were going to smuggle her through to France?”

  “Not exactly,” Mitchell said. “For one thing, I think they’d have killed her.”

  “Who?”

  “He means Rebecca Cavendish,” Isaac said.

  Hedges encroached on the road turning it into a narrow path only a few feet wide. Thorns and branches snagged at Ruth’s clothing, but she didn’t notice.

  “Rebecca? But I thought she was your friend,” Ruth said.

  “So what?” Mitchell said. “The counterfeiting, the assassination, the sabotage, we were meant to discover all of those crimes. All of their plans were about sowing discord, confusion, and fear. The prize was Britain, won in an election. For it to work, the crimes had to be discovered. The clue was there from the beginning, from that first crime, the murder of Charles Carmichael. We found him in a field near a wrecked plane. And not just any plane, but one whose passengers I buried myself. One near a section of railway I helped to lay. There aren’t many people who know that story, but Rebecca was one. I don’t know if she was taunting me or giving me a clue. It hardly matters.”

  “The telegraph wires, they all run along train lines, don’t they?” Ruth said. “And Emmitt knew which train Fairmont was on.”

  “And why were the other five Luddites killed?” Mitchell asked. “Because they knew something that we could never be told. Five telegraph wires were cut that day you stopped Ned Ludd from cutting a sixth, but who actually cut them? Who in Britain can announce their candidacy the day before the deadline and know they would win, and on winning, be selected as prime minister? Rebecca Cavendish.”

  “She has her own army, Henry. All those guards and railway police.”

  “Yes, but right now, she’s surrounded by the garrison at the Channel Tunnel. We have to stop her getting to France. She knows too much. She knows everything, from where the munitions are kept to the disposition of every garrison.”

  They turned their run into a sprint.

  The hedges vanished as they reached a section of road where vegetation had been cut back. After ten yards, that clearance extended far beyond the kerb. The fields either side had been emptied. A few solitary stumps marked where ancient trees had once stood, but even the trunks and had been taken away. The battered multi-arrowed road sign for the Channel Tunnel was redundant, because, ahead, were more lights than Ruth had seen outside of Twynham. There were even four suspended from a reconnaissance balloon a hundred metres up in the air, shining their spotlights down on the compass-point gates of the garrison. One of those lights abruptly changed direction, and came to cast a wide circle around the three of them, tracking them as they ran.

  A minute and fifty metres closer, eight small lights appeared on the road, quickly getting brighter until they came to a halt at the edge of the searchlight’s circle. It was eight Marines, each on a bicycle. They quickly dismounted, leaving their bikes propped on the road.

  “Halt!” the sergeant yelled.

  Mitchell raised his hands above his head, and slowed his run to a walk.

  “I said halt!”

  “Police! Police,” Mitchell yelled, slowing fractionally more. “Has the train left? Is Cavendish still here?”

  There was a clatter behind the Marines as a bike toppled over, knocking down the one next to it. Half the Marines swung around, two pivoted to the right, as they searched the darkness for some new threat. Only the Marine who’d spoken, and another next to her, kept their gaze on Mitchell, Isaac, and Ruth. They were older, Ruth realised. Rather, she realised just how young the rest of the patrol was. Recent recruits, she thought, just like Weaver had been using, though the reason was very different here.

  “Eyes front!” the sergeant barked.

  “We’re police,” Mitchell said. He reached a hand towards his pocket. At the sudden movement, one of the recruits swung his rifle up, aiming at Mitchell’s face.

  “Easy,” the sergeant said, the words spoken both to her recruits and to the captain.

  “Password of the day is Valencia, tomorrow’s is Cadiz. My warrant,” Mitchell said, taking out a folded piece of paper. “Signed by the prime minister. We’re tracking a killer, one with a connection to Calais. Has the ammunition train left?”

  The sergeant glanced at the letter. “The train’s still here,” she said.

  “Good. Send three of your people south. There’s an old garden centre about a mile from here. There’s a body outside, and two corpses inside along with about a thousand assault rifles. There’s a platoon coming from Dover, they should be there by now. Send three of your people to make sure the platoon’s secured it. Send word back to Dover to expect an attack, then one of them is to return here and confirm the message has been received. We’ll take their bikes.”

  While the sergeant was still issuing the command, Mitchell pushed his way through the group of Marines, grabbed a bicycle, and started cycling towards the lights. Ruth mounted a bike and followed the captain.

  Half a mile further north, they came to the depot. Giant wire gates ran across the road. Set on rails embedded in concrete, they were closed.

  Mitchell yelled at the figure in the watchtower, but it was only when the sergeant of Marines caught up with them and barked a command of her own that the gates were opened.

  It was almost as bright as day inside the depot. Lights streamed from scores of log cabins and a handful of pre-Blackout brick structures. They shone inward from the gate tower and down from the balloon. Even the Channel Tunnel entrance was brightly lit. On the tracks in front of it was Cavendish’s train. Around it were her railway guards, but nearby were scores of Marines.

  “We need to get closer,” Mitchell said. He turned to the sergeant. “Call out the guards. Call out the regiments. Call out everyone. On that train are people who are in league with the pirates in Calais. That train can’t be allowed to leave, but the cargo wagons are full of artillery rounds. An unlucky bullet could destroy us all. Go!”

  The sergeant sprinted away. Mitchell turned to the remainder of the Marine patrol that had followed them. He looked at each young face in turn. “Don’t shoot unless you’re sure of your target.” He hesitated, shook his head, and cycled downhill, towards the train.

  As the road curved away from the tracks, Mitchell jumped from his bike, skidding down an incline of gravel and sand. Ruth followed, her eyes fixed on Mitchell’s back. She tried to keep one hand on her holstered revolver. She slipped, but there was an arm at h
er elbow, lifting her up.

  “Watch your step,” Isaac said.

  Ruth nodded, turned her attention back to the train, and her focus to catching up with Mitchell.

  They were four hundred yards from the train. Outside it were five people wearing the uniform of the Railway Company, but three wearing that of the Marines. On the platform, near a grey-clad building, were a score more, now watching the running figures.

  Ruth wondered if Mitchell would shout a warning, or even shoot; he didn’t. He just kept running.

  One of the two railway guards at the back of the train saw them. He raised a shout. The guard at the middle of the train sprinted along the side of the cargo wagons. When she reached the carriages behind the locomotive, the guard jumped aboard. At the front, the two railway guards by the engine climbed on. The Marines they’d been talking to turned around, looking confused.

  Five, Ruth thought, there were at least five. There were two more in railway-green on the platform, but they were acting as confused as the Marines. Perhaps that meant that not all the Railway Company were in league with Cavendish.

  The two guards at the rear of the train climbed aboard. One stayed on the narrow platform at the rear of the wagon, the other went inside. A moment later, he came out carrying two rifles. He handed one to his comrade. He raised the other and fired a burst at Mitchell, Ruth, Isaac, and the running Marines.

  A scream came from behind her, but Ruth didn’t turn to look. Instead, she jinked left then right. The guard adjusted his sights and fired again. Dirt sprayed up in front of Ruth. The other guard brought his rifle to bear, and both of the weapons' barrels seemed to be pointing straight at her. There was another shot, but this one came from Ruth’s left. One of the railway guards collapsed. The other edged backward into the doorway as Isaac, his rifle still held tight to his shoulder, ran past. Mitchell was already twenty yards ahead of Ruth, and fifty yards from the train. Fifty-one yards. The train was moving.

  More shots came, but these weren’t fired from the rear of the train, and they weren’t aimed at Ruth, Isaac, or Mitchell. Most of the Marines on the platform, there to help load the trains, were unarmed. When the firing began, they’d grabbed shovels and picks, knifes and poles, and had charged at the train. They were cut down by machine-gun fire before they got close.