Slingshot

by Matthew Dunn

  Betty squeezed her husband’s hand and said quietly, “I can’t let Sarah see anything messy, angel. She’s in a bad enough way as it is.” She sat down on the frozen heath. “If anyone comes for us, we should try to minimize fuss.”

  Alfie passed his half-smoked cigarette to Betty, who took a drag on it and gave it back to him. “Where is she?”

  “On the sofa, doing nothing.”

  “It’s to do with her brother, isn’t it?”

  Betty nodded. “I think so.”

  Alfie flicked ash off the cigarette. “Can never get my head around the deep and meaningful stuff.”

  Betty kept her attention on the blue vehicle as it drove off. “That’s one of the reasons why I love you. You’re straightforward.”

  Alfie grinned. “Either that, or it’s ’cos I ain’t got the brain cells to know how to answer you back.” An idea came to him. “After lunch how about I drive her to Lochcarron, make her useful, tell her she’s got to buy some stuff for dinner, and by the way she’s cooking?”

  “It’s worth a try.” Betty held her hand out, and Alfie gripped it and pulled her to her feet. “I’ll get lunch on. Be a love and help James with his tangled line. But don’t call him a stupid plonker this time.”

  “Right you are.” As Betty walked off to the lodge, Alfie placed his concealed handgun’s safety catch on, withdrew his hand from his jacket, watched the stationary blue car, and muttered under his breath, “Best you don’t come back.”

  One of Kurt Schreiber’s men watched Alfie through his sniper rifle’s telescopic sight. “He’s looking in our direction, but there’s no chance he can see into our car from this distance.”

  His colleague turned on the ignition. “Let him watch. The others are all in position to take over surveillance.”

  Four three-man teams, all secreted in the mountains around the lodge.

  “Glad they’re the ones who have to freeze their balls off today. And I’ll be gladder still when Schreiber gives us the order to gun her down.”

  “Don’t worry. Any day now.” Keeping Alfie’s head in the crosshairs of his rifle, the sniper mimicked the sound of firing a silenced bullet.

  Twenty-Two

  Got it!” Suzy beamed as she stared at her laptop screen. “Mikhail Salkov.”

  “You’re certain?” Will placed a hand on the Auguststrasse dining table and leaned over her shoulder, looking at the computer.

  The CIA analyst nodded. “It’s taken me days to be certain. I’m damn sure he’s the one.”

  “How did you get him?”

  “Postings. I focused on the double agent files where we’d recruited agents being run by Russian officers posted overseas.”

  Wherein those Russian intelligence officers would be posted as diplomats and their real names declared to the host country.

  “Had to trawl through over a thousand files to narrow it down to these four.” She moved the cursor until the screen contained four scanned CIA contact reports. Pointing at the screen, she said, “These two Russian CIA agents were run out of the Russian embassy in Paris four years ago. Look.” She tapped a finger. “Agent Folex informs his CIA handler that his SVR handler Trofim Vygotsky is leaving France in one week and is being replaced by Mikhail Salkov; that Salkov will be his new handler. And here,” she moved her finger, “Agent Estler tells a different CIA handler the same thing. The second report is one day older than the first.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Hold on.” Suzy closed the reports, leaving two on her screen. “One year ago, two Russian CIA double agents are being run out of the Russian embassy in Oslo. Agent Adras and agent Shorm tell their CIA handlers that their SVR handler, a diplomat called Georgii Bordyuzha, is returning to a job in head office. He’s being replaced by Salkov and a handover meeting’s being arranged.”

  “Still doesn’t mean that the SVR officer who’s chasing the same paper as us is Mikhail Salkov.” Will frowned as a thought came to him. “How long was Salkov posted to Paris and Oslo?”

  Suzy smiled. “I knew you weren’t just a pretty face. There are two reasons why Salkov’s name jumps out at me, and your question relates to one of them.”

  “He was only posted to Paris and Oslo for brief periods?”

  “Exactly. Paris: two months; Oslo: six weeks.”

  “Parachuted in to troubleshoot.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “And the second reason?”

  Suzy closed her laptop and turned to Will. “Salkov meets Folex and Estler. One week later their bodies wash up on the shores of the river Seine, their necks broken. Salkov meets Adras and Shorm. Next day, Adras is hit by a speeding car; Shorm is robbed and stabbed to death in the backstreets of Oslo.”

  “SVR thinks they’ve got leaky agents in France and Norway, so it sends in a man to plug the holes.” Will moved away from Suzy and stood next to Peter, who was staring at the whiteboard containing questions and possible answers.

  Peter nodded. “You were right, Will.” On the board, he wrote Mikhail Salkov: Spycatcher.

  Suzy stretched her back. “I haven’t analyzed MI6 double agent files because they won’t release an encrypted stick for me to read their files out here. But I’m sure Mikhail’s name will turn up alongside the deaths of some of their agents as well.”

  “So do I.” Peter smiled, walked quickly to Suzy and to her surprise gave the American analyst a hug. “Excellent work, Suzy Sue!”

  Suzy smiled, looked happy. “It is, isn’t it?”

  “Huggin’s good.” Laith yawned as he entered the room holding the book Will had bought Suzy. “Chapter Four says that embraces cause the release of endorphins that produce a feeling of contentment between mother and baby; it explains that you can get that release at work just as easily as at home or in a gym.” He put an electronic cigarette in his mouth.

  Adam Tark emerged from the kitchen and handed Suzy a mug. “German chamomile. I bought it this evening after my shift at the hotel. It’s a calmative and digestive aid, perfectly safe once you’re in the second trimester.”

  Suzy took the drink from the former SAS soldier. “Do you guys spend all your time in the Grand Hyatt thinking about what I should and shouldn’t be doing while pregnant?”

  Adam grinned, though his disfigured face made the expression look more like a grimace. “Most of the time, yeah.” The Scotsman zipped up his fleece jacket. “Anyway, we’ve got vested interests. Me and Roger have bet two hundred dollars each that it’s going to be a girl; Mark, Peter, and Laith have bet that it’s going to be a boy.” He glanced at Will. “Boss, you want in on the bet?”

  “Sure, put me down for a girl.” Will pulled on his jacket. “Providing that’s okay with you, Suzy?”

  “Why not?” The CIA analyst slapped both hands onto the dining room table and pushed herself up off the chair. “I’ll decide who I want to win the bet, then pop a kid out who’s got the right gender. Maybe the winners can cut me in for fifty percent of the takings.”

  Will smiled. “Any progress on Interpol’s request for information on Kurt Schreiber?”

  “Alistair and Patrick are still looking into it.”

  “Keep me posted.” Will’s cell phone rang. Roger was calling. He listened to the CIA officer speak for three seconds before snapping the phone shut and calling out, “Russians are on the move! Roger and Mark are in a vehicle, pursuing them. Adam, Laith: get the guns. We need to go now!”

  Four minutes later, Will, Laith, and Adam were in an SUV. Adam was driving very fast, navigating his way through the city’s midevening traffic. Laith was next to him, holding his military communications mic close to his throat. “We’re mobile. Where we headed?”

  In his earpiece, Will heard Mark’s voice. “They’re moving west. Two SUVs. Get your arses onto Unter Den Linden.”

  Will slammed a magazine into his SIG Sauer P226 handgun. “What’s their speed?”

  “Normal.”

  “Do you think they know you’
re on them?”

  “No. Traffic’s heavy. But if they’re moving out of the city, we’ve got to hope they stay on a major highway.”

  Will unzipped a large canvas bag and withdrew three M4A1 assault rifles with grenade launcher attachments. He placed a rifle and an ammunition pouch containing spare magazines and grenades next to each of his colleagues, and kept the third for himself. “These mustn’t be used unless absolutely necessary. And no dead Russians.”

  “No dead Russians?” Laith shook his head, patted his rifle, and smiled. “What has the world come to?”

  Adam drove the vehicle onto a larger road. “We’re on Unter Den Linden, heading toward Tiergarten district.”

  Roger responded, “You’ve got some catching up to do. Targets are moving through Westend, about five miles ahead of you.”

  Adam put his foot to the floor, expertly moving the SUV around slower vehicles. Will and Laith scrutinized the road ahead and occasionally looked behind, searching for signs of police cars. The last thing they needed was for a cop to attempt to pull them over for speeding.

  “Target’s moving through Pichelsdorf; has slowed to forty MPH.”

  Adam said, “Could be intending to turn off north, heading to Spandau. Or south on the Potsdamer Chaussee.”

  Silence for ten seconds.

  Mark said, “They’re taking the Potsdamer route. Still don’t seem to be in any rush.”

  Will frowned. “Roger, what was their demeanor like when they checked out of the hotel?”

  “They did it quickly, but didn’t look like they were panicked.”

  Will nodded. “I think this road trip was planned in advance, and they’re driving at speeds that will avoid the attention of the cops but still get them to their destination on time.”

  “Looks like it.”

  They drove onward for ten minutes before Adam said, “Okay, I’ve got a visual of you.” They were exiting the city and entering countryside. “We’re taking over point.”

  Mark answered, “Got it.”

  Roger and Mark’s vehicle slowed, switched lanes, and moved behind another vehicle.

  Adam drove past them and kept his SUV behind two other vehicles. Beyond them were the Russian cars. “Suggest we switch over every ten minutes. Nothing else we can do now except follow them.”

  Suzy saw that she’d received a message from Patrick telling her to call Alistair. Retrieving another cell phone, one of ten in her possession, she pressed the keyboard. Alistair answered on the fourth ring.

  “You’ve got something for me?”

  The senior MI6 officer answered, “Kurt Schreiber’s name has been flagged by Interpol because any information relating to the man needs to be forwarded to the chief prosecutor of the International Criminal Court.”

  Located in The Hague, the court’s remit was to investigate and prosecute individuals for genocide, crimes against humanity, and war crimes.

  “What did Interpol say?”

  “They’ve got no idea why the prosecutor’s interested in Schreiber, though they did say that it’s directly connected to a high-value witness.”

  “Who’s the witness?”

  “Interpol doesn’t have a name, but does know the witness approached the court six months ago and ever since has been held in protective custody in Holland.”

  “He must be intending to give evidence on something Schreiber’s done.”

  “That’s my take.”

  “Have you spoken to the court?”

  “I tried to speak to the chief prosecutor to find out what his interest was in Kurt Schreiber. He told me that I was to only liaise on this matter with Interpol, that if I tried to call him again, he’d complain to the president of the court and the UN Secretary-General that British Intelligence was attempting to pervert the course of justice.”

  Suzy huffed. “That was a bit strong.”

  “Clearly, he doesn’t want our kind sniffing around him. Have you managed to get anything on Schreiber?”

  “Nothing beyond his former status in the Stasi. Since then, the guy’s vanished.”

  Two hours later, Will and his team were twenty miles outside of Hanover, driving in darkness on the main E30 highway.

  Roger said, “Targets are pulling off the road, into a gas station.”

  Urgently, Will asked, “Any chance they’ve got either of our number plates?”

  “Impossible in this light. Plus, we’ve always kept behind other vehicles, so their line of sight has been blocked.”

  “Okay. Roger, Mark: follow them in. We’ll stop on the hard shoulder.”

  Three minutes later, Mark said, “They’ve fueled their vehicles, have moved them to parking bays, and are drinking coffee and eating. Hold.” The line went quiet. “One man gets out of his vehicle; second gets out of the other. They move to the back of their cars. Withdraw large bags. Return to the passenger doors. Enter with the bags.”

  Roger spoke. “All are focused on what’s in the bags.”

  Will asked, “What’s happening?”

  The CIA officer answered, “My guess is they’re tooling up for direct action.”

  Twenty-Three

  Mikhail Salkov drove his SUV across Lower Saxony’s Lüneburg Heath. It was nearly 3:00 A.M., pitch dark, but he’d taken this route enough times to do it without the aid of maps or daylight. As ever, since being in Germany, he was dressed in jeans, boots, and a Windbreaker, clothes that would enable him to fight if need be. Tonight there would be a fight. He’d given instructions that at 5:00 A.M. the fifteen men on the perimeter of Kurt Schreiber’s farmstead would be reinforced with the fifteen men on rest, and the combined force would assault Kurt’s property. It was his last resort: he knew the farmstead was heavily defended, but time was now his enemy, as Kurt wouldn’t tolerate being trapped in the complex for much longer.

  He’d felt uneasy giving the task to the men who were watching the place. Most of them were eastern European assets, excellent at surveillance and other tradecraft drills, but less than half of them had any prior military training. Only Mikhail was ex–Special Forces, having spent five grueling years in Spetsnaz Vympel before transferring to the SVR, and he’d used his expertise to devise an assault plan to ensure that each man knew exactly what to do. Nevertheless, his men were amateurs. Last night he’d told his assets that there would be no shame if any one of them decided not to take part in the offensive. None of them had stepped down.

  Over the last twenty-four hours, he’d considered many times whether he should move his four men to the farmstead perimeter. They were professionals, all Special Forces, and their presence here would easily be worth that of another thirty untrained but brave assets. But if anything went wrong tonight and Kurt escaped, he needed them to be ahead of Kurt, ready to block off his route to the Black Forest. For that reason, four hours ago he’d ordered them to leave their Berlin hotel, travel west, and wait on the outskirts of Hanover.

  His thoughts turned to his family. His wife, Diana, had called him a day ago and told him that she’d been threatened by men representing the person he was seeking, that he was to send a messenger into the property he was watching with a note to say he was completely withdrawing from the place. His stomach had wrenched as he heard her speak, and when the call had ended he’d spent hours trying to decide what to do. Finally, he’d called her back and said that he was sending three trusted former police officers to their Moscow home. They would take her and their two daughters—Tatyana and Yana—somewhere safe. What he didn’t tell her was that he’d arranged for a further four ex-FSB men to watch the safe place. He knew Kurt’s men would follow his family and no doubt try to kill them when he realized Mikhail wasn’t going to back down. If they did that, they’d be confronted by an unexpected force.

  But the threat to his family had significantly enhanced Mikhail’s desire to get his hands on Kurt Schreiber’s throat. He wanted that just as much as he wanted to retrieve the paper. In just over two hours, he hoped to be holding a gun to Kurt’s temple a
nd a cell phone to his mouth, telling him to order his men to back away from his family. If the former Stasi officer didn’t, Mikhail would have no hesitation in pulling the trigger.

  He slowed the vehicle and turned off its headlights as he drew nearer to the place he always stopped to examine the perimeter and the farmstead before proceeding onward on foot. Driving the SUV off the road, he brought it to a halt and exited the car. During daylight, visible over the two thousand yards between this position and the farmstead would be undulated land containing heather, blueberry heath, streams, isolated trees, and the occasional herd of moorland sheep. Three hundred yards around the farmstead, the land was flatter and featureless. The perimeter where the SVR assets were stationed was close to the outskirts of that flatland.

  Turning on his ISS T-iV HD Thermal Imaging Binoculars, he waited three seconds for the military-grade equipment to power up, then held it to his eyes. Though he was nearly one mile away, he could see the white images of four men, all positioned exactly where they should be. Moving the binoculars a few millimeters, he spotted three more of his men, all stationary and spread apart. The rest of his men were out of range and sight, beyond the farmstead’s buildings. Checking that his powerful MK23 .45-caliber SOCOM handgun was secure under his jacket, he jogged forward.

  Then he sprinted, leapt over a brook, and made for higher ground as he heard distant gunfire. Breathing fast, he placed his binoculars against his eyes and said, “Oh, no!”

  One mile away, men were running out of the farmstead. From beyond the SVR perimeter, more men were moving toward the farmstead. His assets were stuck in between both forces. He stood still, knowing he couldn’t get there in time, watching one of his men fall down, others emerging from behind the farmstead, three of them collapsing and staying still, flashes of light as some of them opened fire, more flashes of light from the hostiles as they returned fire. One by one, he saw his men being killed, standing no chance of escape, trapped in a pincer movement that had the sole purpose of massacring his men. He saw the last of them fall.