by Matthew Dunn
“Delta 1. The Paderewski’s slowing down.” The Q operative’s voice was a near whisper. “It’s about two-thirds of the way along the canal. Speed now about five knots. Four locals near us, all of them holding handguns.”
“Received.” Will dashed along a narrow gap between two warehouses, gripping his handgun tightly with one hand, searching for glimpses of the canal. But so far all he could see were more industrial shipping units. The air was even colder here; the whole place felt eerie. He ran alongside a stack of big freight containers before reaching a small road. On the other side of it were two large warehouses, between them an alleyway. Lights were visible at the far end of the gap. He entered the gap, nearly fell as his feet struck loose girders on the ground, staggered to stay upright, and continued sprinting. The lights belonged to lamps straddling the broad canal.
“Delta 1. The Paderewski’s now at a crawl and so is the SAR.”
Will slowed to a walk. Sweat from his exertions felt cold against his skin. He held his gun high with both hands, searching for sight of Russians or the local intelligence operatives. Reaching a road by the side of the canal, he stood still and looked left. Cargo boats were moored on either side of the waterway, derrick cranes beside them; a row of warehouses was adjacent to the road, larger ones on the other side of the canal. But here the icy mist seemed thicker and was moving slowly along the canal toward him. He was blind to anything beyond a forty-yard radius of his location. “I’m in position.”
“There’s a man who’s emerged onto the deck of the SAR vessel.” Delta 1’s voice was still a whisper, but urgent. “Tall, athletic, dressed in overcoat and suit, hand inside his jacket.”
Will saw lights draw closer along the canal.
The Paderewski.
“The tall man moves across the SAR’s deck, he faces the island bank, he looks at the Paderewski, he looks back at the bank, he runs forward, jumps, and lands on the island. He pulls his hand out of his jacket. He’s holding a pistol.”
Will looked sharply away from the encroaching Paderewski toward the road he was on. The big Russian was somewhere in the darkness ahead of him.
“The Paderewski’s pulling alongside the island. Four Polish sailors are on deck.”
Will watched the ship. “What’s the SAR doing?”
“It’s still right on the ass of the Paderewski. No sign of any other men coming out of it though.”
“They’re waiting. Everyone: stand by.”
“Delta 1. We’ve got two locals moving across the southern crossing onto the island. Their handguns are out. My men are following them.” Silence. “The Paderewski’s stationary. Two of the sailors are on the island, roping the ship to the berth. Four Delta and four locals are now on the east bank of the canal, close to the two vessels. Our locals have still got their guns trained on the SAR. Another man on the deck of the Paderewski. He’s not dressed like the sailors.”
Will took five quick paces toward the ship, but could not distinguish anything beyond the bow of the vessel. “That could be our defector.”
“Men emerging on the SAR’s deck! Four of them, now six, now . . . now eleven! All armed with assault rifles.”
Pistol shots rang out.
“The Poles have opened fire!”
The sound of machine gun fire was deafening. “Russians are returning fire. Some of them are jumping onto the island.”
“Take them down!” Will ran along the road toward the gunfight.
Four shots came from his left. One of the bullets ripped through the front of Will’s overcoat, narrowly missing his body. He spun to face the direction of the shots, saw two Poles emerge from the darkness pointing their handguns at him, dived to the ground as they fired again, rolled, got to his feet, and sprinted as they kept shooting. The noise of a different handgun came from behind the Polish operatives. Will looked in that direction while continuing to run, caught a brief glimpse of a man wearing a baseball cap and pointing his gun at the sky, knew that man had to be a Delta operative, saw the Poles spin around to face the Q man, and then saw him dash away into the fog. The Poles spun back to face Will, but the Delta operative’s distraction had enabled Will to get farther away from them and out of their sight.
He reached the side of the Paderewski. Two sailors were lying on the ground, immobile and moaning in pain. He was about to move to them when he felt a tremendous force on his shoulder blade. He collapsed to his knees in agony. A man emerged from behind him. He was tall and dressed in an overcoat and suit—he had to be the SVR officer. Will tried to raise his arm to shoot him, but winced in pain from the movement and involuntarily lowered it. The Russian ignored him, walking quickly to the sailors. He grabbed one of them, hauled him onto his shoulder, carried him twenty yards away from the boat, lowered him onto the ground, and then did the same with the other sailor.
Over the sound of near continuous gunfire, Delta 1 screamed, “The defector’s jumped onto the island. He’s somewhere close to you.”
Gritting his teeth, Will forced himself onto his feet, this time managing to keep his arm moving upward. Pointing his gun at the Russian, he saw the man turn to face him. He was holding something in his hand.
A detonator.
Four explosions happened in quick succession to his right, causing Will to twist and fall back to the ground. Shards of metal flew through the air; smoke and fire seemed to cover everything. Will covered his head and lay flat on the ground, feeling small pieces of debris fall over him. He turned his head, his ears ringing from the explosions, and saw that the Paderewski was ablaze and beginning to sink.
He looked at the Russian. The man was facing Will and firing, but not at him. The SVR officer began running and by the time he passed Will’s prone body he was at full sprint while still shooting. Will rolled onto his side, ignored the intense heat from the fire in the canal, saw an unarmed man disappear down the road and saw the Russian chasing him. He looked back and frowned as he saw that the two sailors had not been hurt by the explosion because the man who had blown up the boat had moved them out of harm’s way.
Getting to his feet, he began running after the Russian, but after a few paces he heard a hail of machine gun fire. He threw himself sideways onto the ground and rolled away until he was behind the cover of a warehouse. More bullets hit the wall by his side, causing chunks of brick to fly off it.
Will clutched his mic against his throat. “Delta 1: I’m going after the big SVR guy. He’s pursuing an unarmed man who is almost certainly the defector.”
“Delta 1.” The Q man was screaming over the sound of gunfire. “Men have just taken out my two Poles. There’re six of them, and they’re firing at us as well. But they’re not the Russian SVR men.”
“What?”
Delta 1 did not answer, and before Will could speak again, another voice shouted in his earpiece. “Delta 9. My two locals have just engaged four SVR men on the island. I’m going to get on their flank and assist the Poles with . . . What the hell?”
Will shouted, “Delta 9? What’s happening?”
The noise of automatic gunfire was continuous.
“Delta 9: my locals and the SVR men are dead. Killed by the other team. I can see you, Zulu. I’m thirty yards behind you.”
Will got to his feet just as the Q operative got alongside him. Both men began running east, in the direction of the big SVR officer and the defector, their guns pointing at the darkness and fog ahead of them. Muzzle flashes were visible coming from the other side of the canal on their left.
“No, no!”
Will grabbed his throat mic. “Delta 1?”
Nothing.
“Delta 1?”
“Delta 1: They’re . . . they’re dead.”
“Who?”
“The Russians, the Poles, my men. Fucking everyone!”
Incredulity struck Will. “Get onto the island! Head west. We’re pursuing the defector.”
Will and Delta 9 suddenly stopped. In the distance ahead of them they could see the long road
that led over the western bridge. Lights straddled it, and easily visible were three men running at full speed toward the crossing. The defector, the SVR officer, and the last remaining Polish operative.
Will raised his gun and moved its muzzle so that it was pointing slightly in front of the Russian’s body. Tensing, he pulled back the trigger. But the moment his gun fired, the SVR officer stopped. Will’s bullet passed in front of him. Will looked beyond the officer to the far side of the bridge. A van was heading fast toward the defector. The Polish operative and the SVR officer began firing at the oncoming van.
Will and Delta 9 sprinted and fired at the front windows of the vehicle. As they did so, they saw the SVR officer raise his gun and fire one bullet. The defector stumbled, then carried on moving toward the van, one of his legs limping. Nine men poured out of the van. They were dressed in fire-resistant black combat overalls, upper body and head armor, and night-vision goggles, and were carrying submachine guns.
Some of them fired at the SVR officer and the Polish operative behind him; others fired toward Will and Delta 9. Whatever handgun the SVR officer was carrying, it was obviously much more powerful than those being carried by Will and his team. The officer fired two rounds at two of the hostiles and dropped them both. Will dodged left and right, fired three times at three of the hostiles, and saw his bullets simply glance off their body armor.
“Delta 1: I’m pinned down! Center of the island.”
Will looked toward the end of the bridge. Three of the hostiles ran along the crossing, passed the defector, and fired their automatic weapons at the Russian and Polish operatives. Both men remained stock still, firing their handguns at the hostiles. Two other men ran to the defector, grabbed him, pulled him toward the van, and bundled him into the vehicle. Then five of the hostiles started slowly walking along the bridge, firing their weapons continuously. Will stopped. He felt useless. The hostiles knew that they controlled the ground. The Polish operative fell down as one bullet struck him in the face. The Russian’s powerful handgun boomed, flipping one of the hostiles off his feet and backward. The Russian then turned, looked at the prone Polish officer, looked back at the encroaching force, fired a couple more shots toward them, and ran to the stricken Pole.
Will watched the hostiles move back to the van and enter the vehicle. The van quickly reversed. Within seven seconds it was off the bridge, out of sight, and heading west away from Gdansk.
The defector had been kidnapped.
Though they all had different objectives, Will and his team had failed, the SVR team had failed, and the Polish AW and ABW men had failed.
Will watched the SVR officer. He had a clear line of sight and could easily shoot the man. But Will lowered his gun as he saw the Russian lift the Polish operative, carry him off the bridge back onto the island, gently lower him to the ground, lean down, pat his hand on the Pole’s shoulder, and stand before him for a few seconds before running away into the fog.
Will glanced at Delta 9. “Help the Pole!”
He turned east, ran across open ground toward the central road, sprinted harder when he was on it, tucked his handgun into his waistband, dashed between buildings, ran across more open ground, and barely slowed as he saw three men.
One of them was a dead hostile, lying still and awkwardly on the ground. His neck or back had been broken. Another man was next to him on the ground. He was Delta 1. Standing over him was the last hostile. He was very big, and his physique was made all the more imposing by the body and head armor. The man was grappling with the Q team leader, but clearly was on the verge of overpowering him.
Will slowed to a brisk walking pace. He felt overwhelming anger and frustration that everything tonight had gone wrong. Reaching the large hostile, he saw the man turn to face him. Will kicked his armored chest with such tremendous force the hostile was lifted off his feet. He looked at Delta 1. “Are you injured?”
Delta 1 shook his head and started to push himself off the ground. Will walked over to the prone hostile, stamped his foot on the man’s unprotected throat and pressed hard. He looked at Delta 1 again. “This has been a bloody mess.” He pressed harder with his foot and kept it firmly in place as the hostile grabbed his ankle with two hands and tried to wrench his leg away. Shaking his head, he muttered, “The defector’s as good as dead.” He looked down at the hostile. “Who sent you?”
The man tried to speak but was choking.
Will lifted his foot a fraction.
“We’re ”—the hostile coughed—“private contractors.”
“Who sent you?”
“Don’t . . . know. My boss did, but”—his eyes glanced sideways toward his dead colleague—“he can’t talk anymore.”
Delta 1 moved to the dead body, expertly searched the man’s clothing, looked at Will, and shook his head.
“You’re British?”
“Me and a couple of others. The rest of the team came from all over.”
Will nodded and stamped his foot down. The hostile arched his back, and his limbs thrashed for thirty seconds before he became motionless. Will looked away from Delta 1 toward the bridge. “Come with me.”
Will jogged back toward the western bridge, Delta 1 by his side. They reached the beginning of the bridge and saw the Polish operative sitting against a wall, his face covered in his blood. Delta 9 was by him, attending to his wounds with a battlefield medical kit.
Will crouched down in front of the Pole. “Do you speak English?”
The operative opened his mouth, winced in pain, and nodded.
“Okay. We’re British intelligence officers. We came here tonight to protect you from the SVR unit, but I let you and your men down. I’m sorry that you didn’t get the Russian defector.” He glanced at Delta 9. “How bad is he?”
“He’s only got flesh wounds, but they’re pretty nasty and he’ll need medical attention.”
Will returned his attention to the Pole. “We going to take you to a hospital.”
Police sirens rang out in the distance.
“Help is on its way.” The Polish operative grimaced as he adjusted position. “I’ll be looked after. But you need to get out of here. If they find you, the police and security services will arrest you for operating illegally in Poland.” He breathed in deeply and added, “I’ll not say anything to my colleagues about you three. That will buy you some hours to get out of Poland. But they’ll conduct a forensic analysis of this gun battle and in all probability will soon realize that there are men unaccounted for.”
Will shook his head. “Thank you. But I can’t ask you to cover for us and jeopardize your career.”
The Pole shrugged. “It’s dark, weather is bad, I’m injured. I could easily have failed to see three men escape this place.”
Will nodded.
The AW officer spat blood onto the ground. “The whole thing was a setup.”
Will frowned. “What do you mean?”
The operative looked at him. “After he carried me away from danger, the big SVR officer briefly spoke to me. He said that the defector had used my Agencja Wywiadu exfiltration route and resources to simply get out of Russia, but once in Poland it was never his intention to hand himself over to us. Instead, he’d come to Gdansk to be taken away by the team that showed up here tonight. The SVR man knew that and was here to try to stop it from happening. He said the defector was carrying something that must not get in the wrong hands.”
Will felt his stomach tighten. “What?”
The Pole looked along the bridge toward the direction where the van had disappeared with its prize. “He’s carrying a single piece of paper. The SVR officer told me that it’s imperative the paper’s retrieved, that my country’s security service must do everything to stop the defector and his friends from escaping Poland. He said that he would hunt them down and that we should not attempt to stand in his way.” He looked back at Will. “He told me that the paper is lethal.”
Three
The four senior CIA officers sat in si
lence within a windowless room in the agency’s Langley headquarters. Save a table and chairs, the room was empty of anything else including telephones or any other electronic equipment. On the oak boardroom table between the men was a jug of ice water, four glasses, nothing else.
Tibor, the oldest of the men, was in his mid-forties and had twenty years of intelligence service under his belt. Wearing a bespoke blue striped Adrian Jules suit, a pink French-cuff shirt with cutaway collar, a silk tie, and handcrafted black leather brogues, and with his dark hair styled and held in place by cream, the Bostonian looked like a Wall Street investment banker rather than a government employee. “I asked you here because we’ve got a problem. Lenka Yevtushenko has momentarily reappeared on the radar before disappearing just as quickly.”
“Where?”
“When?”
“How?”
Tibor took a swig of his water and winced as the cold liquid produced a few seconds of pain inside his head. “Gdansk. Yesterday.” He paused. “How? Well, that’s a bit more complex.”
Damien, the blond man to his right, snapped, “But no matter how complex, we still know why he reappeared. Right?”
“Wrong.” This came from a Texan named Marcus. “I’m betting Tibor’s a little confused. Right, Tibor?”
Tibor nodded. “Right. But so would you be.”
Lawrence, the youngest of the four, spoke, “Blow by blow, Tibor.”
Tibor rubbed his temples. “Yevtushenko did a walk-in to the Polish consulate in Saint Petersburg saying he wanted to make the transition to the other side. And he said he had some major coin for the ferryman.”
“Defection on Russian soil?”
“Stupid.”
“More likely calculated.” The pain in Tibor’s head receded. “Looks like it was a setup.”
“Exploiting the Polish exfiltration route?”
“Seems that way.”
Damien shook his head. “Yevtushenko isn’t clever enough to have thought this up himself. Someone gave him instructions.”
