Severance Kill

by Tim Stevens

  He said over his shoulder, to Gaines: ‘Get in.’

  The man stumbled to comply. As he did so Calvary took another step forward, silently urging Jakub to move his head a fraction to the left, to give him a clear shot.

  Blazek threw something heavy, the rifle he’d been using earlier, into the car after Gaines.

  ‘Now go sit in the Hummer. All three of you.’

  Nikola and Max glanced at Calvary. He gave a nod, keeping his eyes on Blazek’s. They moved past him and he heard the Hummer’s doors opening.

  Blazek said: ‘You too, asshole. But first, put the gun down.’

  ‘No.’

  Blazek sighed, pointed the gun downward again. For a second his head was a clear target but then Jakub moved in the way, arching his back, and the chance was gone. Calvary said, ‘All right,’ and laid the Makarov down.

  As he rose again he saw Blazek lift the pistol, extend it towards him. Calvary dived, taking the impact on his shoulder, as the shots came, spanging off the cobblestones, too close. He rolled past the rear of the Hummer and ducked behind it. From his worm’s-eye view he saw Blazek hesitate, as if debating whether to come after him, and then ram the barrel against Jakub’s head again.

  Blazek said, ‘Bye bye, asshole,’ and pulled the trigger.

  The exit wound spread the opposite side of Jakub’s head into a fan-shaped spray of bone and blood and brain matter.

  From the Hummer, Nikola screamed, harsh and primal.

  Calvary scrambled out from behind the vehicle and was going for the Makarov he’d placed on the cobblestones, but although Blazek had let Jakub’s body fall and had dropped into the driver’s seat of the VW, the door was still open and he reached through and opened fire, causing Calvary to flinch back. The VW’s engine revved and the car surged forward. Calvary rolled sideways, coming up hard against the wall hemming in the narrow street. He saw that the Hummer’s door had opened and Max had clambered out. Calvary shouted a warning as the kid leaped forward on to the bonnet. Blazek braked, punched the car into reverse, and Max dropped off on to the cobblestones. Again the car lunged forward. A wheel caught Max’s arm, pinning it with a crack, and the kid yelled.

  Then the VW reversed again, all the way up the side street this time. Calvary rolled and got his gun and loosed off three shots after the car, just as it executed a three-point turn into the main street. He heard glass give way. By the time he reached the junction, the tail lights were weaving away, heading further down the cobbled street.

  *

  Son of a bitch. The shot had been a lucky obeeidth="2emne, but Bartos had been lucky, too. The bullet had passed through the windscreen and through the big fan of muscle joining his neck to his shoulder. The pain was enormous, as though a fiery boot had stamped on his shoulder, and he found he couldn’t raise his left arm. But he didn’t think anything vital had been damaged.

  Behind him the old guy raised his head and Bartos snapped at him, wincing at the stab this provoked. The road before him twisted to the right and plunged even more steeply, down into the Lesser Town. He braked, too quickly, and felt the tyres slip on the cobbles.

  He’d put some distance behind him, then ditch the VW and get himself a new car. Then he’d be away and dry. Let the cops find Calvary and those other assholes at the Hummer.

  *

  Calvary ran, staggering because of the slope and the uneven surface, the town before him with its medieval quaintness tilting crazily. Yet again the bandages had come loose from his head and he tore them away. He barged past a late-night couple, their faces agape.

  The brake lights ahead kept flickering on, the VW moving uncertainly through the streets not meant for cars.

  Calvary found his phone in one of his pockets and punched the button while running.

  ‘Nikola, it’s me.’

  Her reply was halfway between a cry and a gasp.

  ‘Is Max okay?’

  ‘His — I think his arm is broken.’

  ‘You have to get away from there, Nikola. Get Max away and to a hospital. Drag him if you have to. Get clear of the Hummer, and then call an ambulance. The police will be there any moment. Oh, and don’t take the guns with you.’

  ‘What — ’

  ‘Make up some story. He slipped and got run over. It’s not a bullet wound, it won’t be treated as suspicious.’

  ‘Jakub — ’

  ‘He’s dead, and you have to leave him there.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘After Blazek, on foot. I’ll find you later.’

  ‘Martin — ’

  He stumbled on, listening.

  ‘You must kill him. Blazek.’

  ‘I promise you, he’s not getting through this alive.’

  *

  The bullet might not have hit anything critical but there was still blood loss, and it was starting to get to Bartos. Through the windscreen th wialie Baroque buildings rippled. A lamp post toppled towards him and he jerked the wheel aside, felt the front bumper on the passenger side hit something hard and buckle.

  He restarted the engine, tried to reverse. No good: he was jammed against the obstruction, a hydrant or something. The hell with it.

  He took several attempts to open his door, reaching across his body with his right hand to do it. He almost fell out, grinding his teeth against the fire in his shoulder. But he had a degree of movement in the joint, he realised.

  A tiny dog on the end of a lead began yapping near his feet and he brought the pistol to bear and watched the terrified owner back away, hauling the mutt after her. He glanced up and down the street. Nobody about, all the windows dark. Beside him was a narrow church, Gothic spires barely visible against the dark of the sky.

  Bartos dragged open the rear door and seized Gaines’s collar. The man collapsed on to the pavement. Bartos hauled him to his feet.

  Footsteps, and he turned and looked back the way he had come.

  Calvary was lurching down the street towards him.

  Bartos took aim but the ground tilted again and there were suddenly two of the Englishman. He shook his head and blinked.

  Need to get a grip.

  Drawing breath deeply, he yanked Gaines in front of him, ignoring the pain in his shoulder — he was, after all, the Kodiak — and stumbled towards the church.

  *

  When Calvary became aware that Blazek wasn’t going to shoot — could barely stay upright, it seemed — he lifted his own gun, but his phone buzzed and he fumbled it out.

  A text message, from Nikola: Max took this.

  He looked at the attached photo.

  Calvary put the phone away. Down the hill, Blazek had disappeared with Gaines around the side of the church. Calvary heard glass smash.

  He ran almost headlong into the church wall, his own co-ordination failing him. For a few seconds he stood with his eyes closed, fighting down the tide of fatigue and nausea.

  He ejected the magazine from the Makarov. He’d fired three at the VW. Five bullets left.

  He’d noticed Blazek had the same handgun, doubtless taken off one of his Russian captors. He’d be close to empty, given the shooting he’d been doing back there at the Hummer. Two bullets into Jakub, four at Calvary as he’d rolled away. Three left, at most.

  Unless of course he had a spare magazine.

  Calvary crept along the church wall towards the side window. It had been stained glass, and was shattered. Through it, Twidth="2emdim candlelight provided a degree of illumination. Alongside the wall was a small rockery. Calvary prised a Frisbee-sized rock loose, nearly overbalancing as he bent down, and tossed it through the window space.

  The flash came from somewhere to the right of the window at the back of the church, the crash of the shot echoing in the confined space.

  Two left.

  Calvary launched himself through the space, using his left shoulder to roll and coming up on one knee. He was alongside a row of pews, his view of the back of the church obscured.

  He crawled down the ais
le on this side of the pews, risked a glance over the top. Blazek was there, Gaines slightly off to his side. Calvary took the shot, missed, heard the ricochet sing off something brass. Blazek fired back and Calvary dropped, feeling the slug pass above him.

  One.

  Calvary stood up. Blazek was behind the rearmost pew, Gaines clamped in front of him with his left arm. Calvary saw the awkwardness, the blood saturating Blazek’s shoulder. Once again the gun was jammed against Gaines’s head.

  ‘It’s over, Blazek. One bullet left. You shoot Gaines, or me, or yourself.’

  The big man glared, his eyes swimming out of focus for an instant.

  ‘I’ll make it easier for you.’ Calvary tossed the Makarov to one side. Spread his hands. ‘Here I am. A sitting target.’

  Blazek’s eyelid flickered in bewilderment. He moved the pistol, at first uncertainly and then with more resolve, so that it was aimed directly at Calvary’s face.

  ‘But first, you might want to have a look at this.’ Using his fingertips he drew the phone from his breast pocket. He found the picture, placed the phone on the floor and sent it spinning towards Blazek.

  Blazek stopped it with his shoe, glanced at it. Keeping his eyes and the gun on Calvary, he stooped to pick it up, wincing.

  Gaines blinked at Calvary, his face wary, as if he thought he might be expected to make a move. Calvary shook his head minutely.

  Blazek looked at the picture.

  *

  He was the Kodiak. The king of the city.

  The asshole kid had taken the picture from the back of the Hummer. It was a lucky shot, the angle perfect. In the picture, Bartos had his arm round the neck of the other guy, the gun against his head. Bartos’s face was clearly visible, and the camera had caught him clenching his teeth so it looked like he was grinning.

  Bartos dropped the phone.

  In front of him the Brit, Calvary, said, ‘Within the hour, every paper in the country will have that picture. Every TV broadcaster, every internet news site. You’re finished, Blazek.’span›‹p›

  He wasn’t. The Brit was wrong.

  ‘One bullet. If you shoot Gaines, I’ll make it to my own gun before you can. If you shoot me, you’ll kill Gaines as well, but you’ll have nowhere to run. Your men are dead or scurrying around trying to cover their backsides. Your empire’s in ruins. Nobody’s scared of you any more.’ Calvary shrugged. ‘Though, I suppose you could always go on the rampage. Go down in a blaze of glory. Death by cop.’

  He wasn’t finished. Because when a man controlled his destiny, he was very much still in charge.

  Bartos put the muzzle of the gun under his chin.

  In his native Czech — fuck all this Russian — he said, ‘I win.’

  He squeezed the trigger.

  THIRTY

  The city chattered and echoed, sirens competing with shouted voices. The clocks said it was after three in the morning but the streets were ablaze with light, as though Prague was burning.

  They were on some sort of foothill, the castle far above. Calvary kept up the pace, his arm under Gaines’s, heaving the older man upright every time he faltered. They kept as far as possible to back alleys, cringing into doorways whenever an emergency vehicle flashed past.

  Parkland loomed ahead, sloping up the hill. Quickly Calvary marched them across the main road and through the nearest gate. The park was lit only by occasional lamps along its paths.

  Outside the church, Calvary had examined the VW. Blazek had crashed it into a bollard and the front was too mangled for it to be of any use. He glanced inside, saw the rifle in the back seat. He pulled the door open and retrieved it. A Russian A-91. For a moment he debated, then took it, carrying it vertically by his side like a walking stick. It was conspicuous, but not as conspicuous as it would be if he strapped it across his back. Silhouettes counted for a lot.

  They stumbled along the winding tracks until they were deep in the park. At last Calvary let Gaines sag on to a bench. He sprawled sideways, managed to pull himself into a sitting position with great effort. He sat with his eyes closed, the blood crusted around his mouth, his breath shallow.

  Calvary crouched before him.

  ‘Are you hurt? Chest, abdomen?’

  Gaines tried several times to speak, his lips drily sticky. ‘Just winded. And the face. Mustn’t grumble.’

  Calvary liked him for that. He sat on the bench himself, propped the rifle, took out his phone.

  Before dialling he said, ‘You understand that you’re going to have to disappear. From Prague, and you’ll certainly never be able to set foot in England again either.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what you might do?’

  He almost smiled. ‘You’re a resourceful man, Mr Calvary. But you’re not the only one. I have a little money squirreled away. I’ll manage.’ He coughed. ‘Just not quite what I was planning for my retirement, that’s all.’

  Calvary thumbed in Llewellyn’s number.

  He answered on the first ring, sounding startlingly clear. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Calvary. I have Gaines.’ Calvary turned up the volume, moved closer to Gaines on the bench, nodded, holding the handset to his face.

  Gaines said, ‘This is Ivor Gaines.’

  Calvary said, ‘Satisfied it’s him?’

  ‘Yes.’ Llewellyn sounded more than satisfied. Delighted, in fact. ‘But I would have believed you anyway, Martin.’ He paused a beat. ‘The news channels are going berserk. What on earth have you been up to? The whole of Prague seems to have gone mad.’

  ‘I’m not going to do it.’

  ‘Say again?’

  Calvary drew a breath. ‘The hit. I’m not going to kill Gaines. And you know why. He’s innocent. He was never a suspected double agent.’

  ‘If that’s what he’s telling — ’

  ‘You said he gave regular talks here in the city. He’s never given any. All you said about his being a well-known left-wing polemicist in Prague… it’s a lie. I checked. Nobody’s ever heard of him. He’s just a retired expat, keeping his head down.’

  He waited, expecting bluster. Instead Llewellyn chuckled.

  ‘Very astute, Martin. All right. It’s a fair cop.’ The rustle of cigarette paper. ‘What else do you know about him?’

  Calvary glanced at Gaines. ‘That he’s former SIS. That during his diplomatic service in Prague and Berlin and elsewhere, he was running networks of agents.’

  ‘Correct. Has he told you why he’s so special, though?’

  In profile, Gaines looked hangdog. Calvary watched him as he said, ‘No. But you’re going to.’

  ‘Being a little demanding, aren’t you?’

  ‘I hold the cards, Llewellyn. Your blackmail threats don’t scare me any more. I’m never coming back, anyway.’

  His ear rang with Llewellyn’s laughter, rich and heartfelt. ‘Oh, we never had any intention of shopping you to the press or the police, Martin. Think about it. The Chapel handing over one of its best operatives, with all his inside knowledge of our operations, risking exposure like that… it would be madness. Certainly worked as a bluff, though, didn’t it?’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll put you in the picture. But first, I need to know something. The Russian SVR woman? Krupina?’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ed to kth="2em" align="justify"›There was a slow outlet of breath down the line, with the hint of a whistle.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive. I saw her crushed under the wheels of a car.’

  The silence was longer than any Calvary had experienced in Llewellyn’s company.

  At last Llewellyn said: ‘All right. I’ll explain.’

  *

  ‘It was, as I told you in the beginning, all about revenge for the Grechko murder. But revenge of a far more subtle, British kind than a straightforward tit-for-tat killing.’

  Calvary had debated whether or not to allow Gaines to listen in. Had decided it couldn’t hurt, and kept the volume u
p high, his head close to the older man’s.

  ‘Sir Ivor Gaines has been too modest with you. He wasn’t just a humble SIS operative running a few tuppeny-ha’penny networks. He knew — knows — the identity of our agent in the Kremlin. The one the Russians call TALPA. The Mole.’

  Calvary glanced at Gaines, saw no expression.

  ‘That’s why Comrade Krupina was so desperate to find Gaines, to get him back from this gangster and from you. He was gold dust. The ultimate trophy for a Russian intelligence operative.’

  ‘How did she know about him?’

  ‘Because we tipped her off.’

  The stillness of the park was almost a physical entity, the turmoil of the city seeming miles away.

  ‘It’s easy to do. A message from one of their supposed agents in London who’s really working for us, sent to his handlers in Moscow. They would have informed Krupina at once.’

  Gaines had turned his head a little. The unspoken question between them — why — hardly needed voicing.

  Llewellyn went on: ‘But of course, Sir Ivor doesn’t really know the identity of TALPA, even though he thinks he does. He’s been fed disinformation, as have several others in his position. Insurance, you might call it, in case they were ever captured. You were never supposed to succeed in killing Gaines, Martin. You just had to be seen to try, and to try so convincingly that there was never any doubt that the information he had was genuine, was so important to the British state that we were prepared to send an assassin in to ensure our own man didn’t fall into enemy hands.’

  ‘So I fail to kill Gaines, the Russians take him back to Moscow, find out from him the identity of the mole and deal with whoever that is — ’

  ‘Thereby diverting attention from the real TALPA. You’ve got it. And the irony? Gaines is captured by Darya Krupina, the murderer of Pyotr Grechko.’

  Calvary’s breath caught in his throat.

  ‘Yes. I told you we knew for certain who’d killed Grechko, but couldn’t extradite them. Krupina was in London at the time of the Grechko hit, was identified by several sources as being in the vicinity when the murder took place. Left the country hours later. It was her. Not any of the other people our government has made a public show of accusing. But we’ve no proof. So we take revenge on her. Not by killing her, but by making her unwittingly complicit in one of the most sophisticated disinformation exercises since the Cold War. Delicious, isn’t it?’