by Andy Maslen
“Who are these people?”
Maitland spoke.
“Enemies of the State, Gabriel. Fomenters of unrest, recruiters of terrorists, apologists for murderers. And, as of tomorrow, my prisoners. Our extraordinary rendition arrangements with the US Government will be resurrected – covertly, of course – and these poisonous individuals will disappear.”
“Bloody good job, too,” Cragg said. “They’ve been a thorn in our side for years. Be nice to see the back of them. I hope they like wearing orange.”
The laughter round the table was genuine, more or less. Only one of the nine was reeling. The organisation of the coup was far, far better thought through than Gabriel had been allowing himself to imagine. At some deep level, he’d been assuming all he was dealing with was a right-wing extremist with two heavy machine guns and some powerful friends. But this was actually going to happen. No, he reminded himself. It wasn’t. But could they really stop all this – he, Britta, Lauren and a few dozen untainted souls? They had to. Maitland patted the air with both hands, palm down, to restore calm.
“It’s been a long day – I had that negress from the States interviewing me for her new magazine all afternoon. She has promised to devote the entire launch issue to me. So I will end with the same quote from Julius Caesar I gave her for her article: ‘If you must break the law, do it to seize power: in all other cases observe it’. Goodnight everyone. And good luck.”
With that, the meeting broke up. The plotters left in their chauffeur-driven cars to head back to London. Granger, Franz and the other men left for accommodation somewhere else on the estate. Maitland, Lizzie and Gabriel remained at the table, sipping cognac from cut-glass brandy balloons.
“This is our moment,” Maitland whispered, his eyes shining in the light from the chandelier overhead. “In a little over twenty-four hours I shall be in power. And our great programme of reform, rebirth and resurgence will have started.”
Under the table, where Maitland couldn’t see the movement, Lizzie slipped her hand over Gabriel’s where it rested on his lap and squeezed lightly.
She looked her father in the eye.
“You should go to bed, Daddy, you look tired.”
Chapter 41
In the kitchen the next morning, dressed in fatigues, black nylon windcheater and combat boots, Gabriel found Maitland, Lizzie and Franz already up and eating breakfast.
“Hungry?” Lizzie said, pointing at a warmed platter of bacon, sausages, eggs and grilled tomatoes.
It was as if they were fuelling up for a long drive, not a coup d’état. Gabriel realised he was starving. The smell from the food was making his mouth water. He helped himself to a big plateful and a mug of coffee.
Half an hour later he was sitting in the passenger seat of one of the Land Rovers next to Gary Granger. The second man held on for dear life on the truck bed as the old four-wheel drive rose and fell across the fields towards its firing position.
“Another couple of hundred yards and we come to a barrow. That’s our position,” Gabriel said.
“A wheel barrow?”
“A long barrow. A Saxon burial mound. Look, over there, that grassy hump. Take us up onto the top of it.”
Granger swung the wheel and drove onto the barrow, which had a convenient flat top. He jerked the handbrake on, which emitted a protesting screech as the pawl dragged over the ratchet. They climbed out, slammed the steel plate doors and went round to the back to climb up and join the assistant gunner.
“Got the radio, Woody?” Granger said.
“Yeah, channel three, that’s right, ain’t it?”
“Yeah. Just keep the comms open until we bring the bitch down or Benno and Daz do.”
“You know the codeword?” Gabriel asked Granger.
“’Course we do. Morgana down. What is that, anyway? Another one of them African places?”
“Morgana was King Arthur’s half-sister.”
“Yeah, whatever. I tell you this, mate,” Granger said, ignoring Gabriel now, “I hope it is us, you know what I mean? I’d love to be the one to put a couple of dozen APITs up her.”
“Yeah. ‘We have to welcome immigrants. Our European colleagues,’” Woody piped up in a shrill falsetto. “Fucking traitor. I hope we do get her. Rip her to pieces with the .50 cal.”
“That’s enough,” Gabriel said. “Focus on the mission and save your schoolboy talk for the playground. I want you to check the Browning is firing-ready. You remember how I showed you yesterday?”
The two men nodded, reluctant to take orders from Gabriel but recognising the tone of command in his voice.
“Good. Well do it. Give me the radio. I’m going to call Franz.”
With the two men busy preparing the M2, checking firing mechanism, triggers, belt feed guides, and movement on the tripod, Gabriel walked a few yards away and radioed Franz.
“Merlin, this is Lancelot. Do you read? Over.”
“Loud and clear, Lancelot. Over.”
“We’re in position, how about you? Over.”
“Approaching now. Over.”
A burst of static interrupted the conversation. Gabriel twisted the knurled plastic squelch knob on the top of the walkie-talkie until the reception was clear again.
“We’re prepping the M2. Suggest you do the same. Then no more contact until one of us slays Morgana. Over.”
“Agreed. OK, we’re here. Will contact you again if we make the hit. Over and out.”
While he’d been talking, Granger and his friend had loaded the M2. It stood on its roof-mounted tripod, muzzle pointing down, resting on the roof. The belt of gleaming brass cartridges tipped with copper jacketed bullets stretched from the receiver down into the open ammunition box. Soon, those six-inch-long rounds would be pulled into the M2’s breech and fired, the armour-piercing incendiary projectiles tearing into the helicopter’s thin skin and blowing it out of the sky. No, Gabriel reminded himself. That wasn’t going to happen. Because it was his job to make sure it didn’t happen. And Britta and Lauren were making the same preparations to take down the other crew.
He pressed his left arm against his side and felt the reassuring bulk of the pistol in its shoulder holster. Not a Glock this time. All Britta had been able to scrounge was a reconditioned Browning automatic, serviceable enough in its way but already out of date when Gabriel had started basic training. He thanked her silently, and for the extra weapon, retrieved from the knife block in his kitchen, that he’d slipped inside his boot. His orders – his real orders, from Britta – were not to shoot until one of two things happened. A radio signal from the other gunnery crew, or the moment the PM’s helicopter approached their position. He squatted on his heels and checked the time: 10.03. Maitland had said the PM would be flying over any time from 10.15. He looked up at Granger – he had his phone out and was staring at the screen.
“Hey, look at this, Woody. The news. It’s happening for real. The bomb just went off in Andover. Maitland’s done it.”
“We’d better get ready. She could be coming our way any time now.”
They leapt to their feet and climbed aboard the Land Rover. Granger took up his position behind the Browning, hands gripping the handles, swinging the barrel skywards. Woody stood to his right, ammunition belt draped over his two outstretched forearms.
Still on the ground, Gabriel moved back out of their eyeline. At a range of under ten feet the Browning would be as accurate as he wanted it to be. He visualised drawing the weapon and sighting down its chunky barrel. One to the heart for each man to put them down, then empty the remaining rounds into them His heart was beating fast and he could feel the sweat on his palms. Not good if he needed to control a 9 mm semi-automatic pistol. He wiped them on his thighs and scanned the horizon, straining to hear the rapid-fire beat of a chopper’s rotor blades.
He heard nothing. Nothing mechanical, at any rate. All around them were the sounds of an English Spring. Among the cornfields undulating like the ocean, he picked out the wheedli
ng song of countless skylarks. Granger’s voice sounded, harsh and angry.
“Come on, you bitch. I’m going to do a number on you this country will never forget.”
Gabriel watched him swing the .50 cal’s barrel back and forth across the sky, sighting along the barrel, aligning the front and rear sights on imaginary helicopters. But there was nothing. Then, something. In the distance, they heard a faint hammering. Short spurts of firing then a longer, sustained burst. It was the other crew. The helicopter had taken their route. Silence. Then a muffled bang and a louder explosion.
Gabriel’s radio emitted a raucous squawk, making them all jump.
“Lancelot. This is Merlin. Morgana down. Repeat, Morgana down. Stand down. Out.”
Granger and Woody looked at each other, wide-eyed. At that moment, Gabriel realised they hadn’t ever truly believed it would happen the way Maitland had promised. He was reaching into his windcheater for the pistol when Granger came to, grabbed the .50 cal’s rear handles, swung the massive gun round in a quarter circle and aimed it at Gabriel. His remaining teeth were bared.
“You and me have got some unfinished business, haven’t we? Remember the night you did this, do you?”
He pointed at the hole in his dentition then returned his hand to the machine gun’s grips.
This was never part of the plan. Gabriel’s muscles were tensed for fight or flight but neither was a realistic possibility. The rounds from the .50 cal could overtake a cheetah, let alone a man wearing heavy combat boots. And there was no way he could get close enough to Granger to disable either him or the gun. Granger yanked the cocking lever back and let it go with a loud clack.
“You’re fucked, mate,” were the last words Gabriel heard him say.
Chapter 42
The two separate booms were enormous. Gabriel flinched. But remained standing. Why was the .50 cal set to single-shot firing?
It wasn’t.
He opened his eyes.
Granger was slumped across the gun, blood draining out of his body from a massive wound in his side. Woody was also dead, sitting in the truck bed with part of his head missing, the ammunition belt still held across his arms.
Gabriel looked around. Standing behind him, cradling a Purdey shotgun, smoke drifting from its over-and-under barrels, was Maitland.
“We are very close, now, Gabriel,” he said. “Very close indeed. You heard on the radio? Morgana down. Franz will have killed the other two by now so the stage is set. Except for one loose end I have to tie up.”
“What’s that?” Gabriel said, keeping his gaze fixed on Maitland and unzipping his jacket.
“Tell me something, Gabriel. And leave your hand where I can see it, please. What did you think of my notebook?”
“Your notebook?”
“Oh, please, spare me your third-rate amateur dramatics. Your drunken tomfoolery in Roscommon was the least convincing piece of acting I’ve ever seen. I’ve kept you alive because you’ve been extremely useful to me. I’d have struggled to get the .50 cals back to England without you. And you did an excellent job training Granger and his knuckle-dragging friends. But I’m afraid this is where we part company. It’s a shame you won’t live to see my England.”
He broke the shotgun and looked down to extract the spent lacquered paper cartridges, and reload from a leather pouch hanging from his belt.
It was a mistake.
Gabriel closed the gap between them in three long, soundless strides.
Maitland looked up to see Gabriel’s hands closing on the Purdey’s barrels and twisting the gun out of his grasp. His face distorted into a snarl of rage.
“You’re a dead man, Wolfe. A dead man!” he screamed, spittle flying from his contorted mouth and hitting Gabriel’s cheek.
“I don’t think so, you evil bastard,” Gabriel said.
He jabbed Maitland hard in the chest with the Purdey’s wooden stock before hurling the shotgun end over end off the barrow. Staggering back, Maitland watched it tumble and fall into the long grass and wildflowers.
When he looked up, Gabriel had unholstered his pistol and was pointing it at him.
“Up there,” Gabriel said, tipping the barrel towards the back of the Land Rover. “Next to Granger.”
“What are you going to do? Murder me in cold blood?”
“Not my style. I’m going to give you a chance to use the .50 cal. Like you did with Meeks and his boys. Now move!”
Maitland climbed onto the flatbed and stepped over Woody’s body. The .50 cal was pointing at the sky, held by the weight of Granger’s corpse. Grunting with the effort, Maitland dragged the body off the machine gun and grabbed the grips.
But Gabriel had had enough. More than enough.
The code was finished.
“This is for Shaun,” he said. “And Mickey Smith.”
He aimed the pistol.
Squeezed the trigger.
It emitted a dry, hard click.
The gun had jammed.
The men looked at each other for a split-second, then Maitland yelled in triumph – an inhuman screech – and began swinging the .50 cal round to fire down on Gabriel. The delay was all Gabriel needed. He dived forward, hit the ground and rolled under the Land Rover just as the heavy-calibre rounds started tearing into the turf where he’d been standing just a second or two earlier. Maitland was just as trigger-happy as he’d been on Venter’s farm and Gabriel counted as he kept firing. He reached ten. Maitland had expended over 130 of the APIT rounds, almost deafening Gabriel with the roar from the explosions. The firing ceased and Maitland crowed from his perch.
“You can’t stay there for ever, Gabriel, and Franz will be here soon. You might as well come out and die like a soldier, not like a coward.”
Gabriel had no intention of dying either way. He was calculating. The ammunition box lay to the right of the .50 cal. There was a four-foot length of belted rounds stretching up from the box to the receiver. Maitland’s maximum angle of fire was less than ninety degrees, beyond which the belt would twist and foul on the tripod. He crawled out on the passenger side. Maitland was nowhere to be seen. He crept behind the cab. Now he saw him. Maitland was standing behind the .50 cal and aiming it down at the ground on the far side of the car. He grabbed the side panel and swung himself up into the Land Rover.
He was quiet, but not silent, and Maitland either heard him or felt the change in the suspension. He whirled round and tried to bring the .50 cal to bear on Gabriel, but the belt snagged on the edge of the box and twisted, just as Gabriel had predicted. Maitland pulled harder on the grips but only managed to wrap the belt round the tripod legs.
“Bang, bang, you’re dead!” the man screamed, before pressing the trigger again. But the belt wouldn’t feed into the breech and the gun locked up.
“No,” Gabriel said. “You are.”
He pulled the treasured tactical knife from his boot. Maitland turned to jump down but he was too slow. Gabriel caught him from behind. He clamped his left hand over Maitland’s forehead and pulled him off-balance so that he was leaning back against his chest. He held the blade against Maitland’s throat, denting the flesh but not drawing blood.
“You did business with evil men. Men who killed a good friend of mine,” Gabriel said, right into Maitland’s ear. “And you killed a good man when you had no need to.”
“Yes, I did. But Gabriel, you’re not a killer. Not when you could just turn me over to the police. That’s what your father would have wanted you to do, isn’t it? Follow the rule of law?”
Gabriel relaxed his grip on Maitland’s forehead. Shit. He was right. Then Maitland doubled over with a grunt of effort and Gabriel felt a punch to his left thigh. Then a rush of heat. Maitland spun away from him holding a bloody hunting knife.
“You’re not the only one with a spare weapon, you little mongrel.”
Then he lunged for Gabriel, knife aimed straight for his face.
With his left hand clamped down over the wound in his leg, blood runn
ing between his fingers, Gabriel parried Maitland’s thrust. Then he jabbed him hard under the ribs with the point of his own blade, driving it upwards towards the heart.
Maitland dropped his knife as his strength left him. He gripped Gabriel’s shoulders, then sagged, pulling him down till they were both kneeling, faces inches apart.
“It was all for this, Gabriel,” he whispered. Gabriel could see fields and hedgerows reflected in Maitland’s eyes. “You were going to help me. Now you’ll never see my England.”
Then the reflection disappeared as his eyes rolled upwards in their sockets and closed for the last time.
“All this, Toby?” Gabriel said, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “It never belonged to you in the first place.”
He lifted Maitland’s corpse off his lap and lay it in the truck bed.
Gabriel stood, and turned away from the three bodies, panting with the exertion and adrenaline. He looked down at his leg. Blood was soaking through his trousers. He pulled his belt out and wrapped it round his thigh as a tourniquet, yanking it tight against the buckle. He gritted his teeth against the sudden arrival of pain. Looked up and saw a figure in camouflage approaching across the meadow carrying what looked like a rifle.
He crouched and looked around for the Purdey – he’d never be able to retrieve it in time. He swung the Browning back the way it had come and tried with trembling fingers to free the ammunition belt. The figure was closer now, and waving with its free hand. He shaded his eyes against the sun and looked hard. Then he saw who it was. Striding with high steps across the meadow towards him, carrying a long-barrelled sniper rifle in her right hand, was Britta Falskog. She broke into a run and reached him thirty seconds later. She leaned the rifle against the side of the Land Rover then turned and hugged him. Eventually she broke away and held him by his upper arms.
“Jesus, Gabriel. I thought he was going to drill you with the M2. I was watching through the scope from the trees over there.” She pointed to a copse about six hundred yards away. “I was going to take the shot but it’s windy and you kept getting your head in the way.”
