The Omega Sanction

by Tomas Black

  They watched her in silence as she made her way back through the reception area and into the small kitchen. Drum could hear a clinking of crockery.

  “Office Manager,” said Fern. “Really?”

  “Speaks Russian like a native, according to Victor.”

  Fern looked at him, a wry smile spreading across her face. “Well, that should come in handy.”

  They both burst out laughing.

  Drum called his father and reassured him he was alright in the time it took Alice to return with her beloved teapot. She was a civilising experience, and Drum liked having her around. He felt the same about Fern. He must have been staring at her because she gave him a warm smile.

  He loved that smile.

  “How did you two meet,” asked Alice, pouring the tea.

  “We work together,” said Fern, a little too hastily. “We don’t know each other socially …”

  “That’s a shame,” said Alice, half to herself. She handed Fern a cup of tea and sat down next to her on the couch. Drum thought the size difference a little comical but kept it to himself.

  They drank their tea in silence. Fern obviously thought that Alice was going to leave but, when she didn’t, she ploughed straight in with a question.

  Fern said, “So, what were you doing at the Abramov’s residence?”

  “I was invited.”

  “Kidnapped more like,” said Alice “– at least that’s what William told me.”

  “Our friend outside Lloyds,” added Drum.

  “You mean Molotok?” said Fern.

  Alice snorted with derision. “Molotok – utter rubbish. That’s not his real name.”

  Fern looked surprised. “No? That’s the name we know him by.”

  “That’s probably just some gangster’s name this bunch made up to scare people. It means ‘The Hammer’,” said Alice.

  Drum said, “Told me his name was Misha. Didn’t make him any less scary. Picked me up at Spitalfields market when I was talking to William.” He thought back to the meeting. “Actually, we had a decent conversation.” He neglected to mention Misha’s interest in Fern. He looked at her over the rim of his cup. “What did he say to you at the warehouse?”

  Fern looked down at the floor. “Stupid shit, really. Tried to wind me up. Told him to fuck off – sorry, Alice.”

  “Good for you,” replied Alice, beaming.

  “You didn’t tell me you knew Victor Renkov,” said Fern, regaining some of her composure. “How’s he involved in all of this?”

  Drum leaned back in his chair and thought about the time he met Victor.

  “He was one of my early clients. Some of his fellow Russians back home had been intent on hacking into his dealing system. I helped install Firewalls and Intrusion Detection systems to keep the bad guys out. Basic stuff, really. We became drinking buddies.” Drum thought about some of the parties that Victor had taken him to. There should be a warning sign pinned on the lapels of all young Russian males: we drink until we drop. It wasn’t Drum’s scene. “We lost touch over the years.”

  “I told you he was trouble,” said Alice, with an air of satisfaction.

  “He came to see me,” continued Drum. “Asked me for help. Apparently, a ton of gold has gone missing from his account at RBI –”

  “Let me guess, “ interrupted Fern. “This gold – it belonged to Abramov.”

  “You got it in one.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Alice, setting her cup down on the tray with a loud clatter. “You realise your friend Victor is a ‘Dead Man Walking’?”

  They both looked at her.

  “Just saying.”

  Drum pressed on. “It gets better. Looks like the Vault Manager has also done a runner.”

  “Pinkman?”

  “The same. Abramov is desperate to find him.”

  “I bet he is,” said Fern. She frowned. “Does he know we have Pinkman’s laptop?”

  “I suspect he does – our Russian friend you threw into the window is probably talking.”

  “About that … he’s dead.

  “He can’t be,” said Drum. “His injuries didn’t look that life-threatening, and I’ve seen a few.”

  “You’re right. His injuries weren’t that bad.”

  “Abramov,” said Alice.

  Drum reached back and found his jacket. He retrieved his screwdriver and handed it to Fern.

  “Looks like they got to him.”

  Fern was silent, a frown creasing her forehead. She ran a hand through her short blond hair. “Any luck with the Pinkman laptop?”

  “Encrypted,” said Drum. “Raj has been trying various decryption algorithms – no luck. He’ll need more time.”

  Alice said, “Abramov knows you were on the raid, and now your friend Victor has dropped you in the shit, he’ll be coming for you.” She turned to face Fern. “You need to find Pinkman or else Victor is toast … it doesn’t look good for Ben either.”

  Fern shifted uneasily on the couch. She stood, replacing her cup back on the tray with a clatter and smoothed down her jacket.

  “About Pinkman,” she said. “I’ve been taken off the case.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  McKay of MI5

  It was Monday morning, and Drum was in his office, staring out at the river, deep in thought. He’d spent most of Sunday brooding over the NCA’s decision to remove Fern from the case. He’d called and offered to take her out for Sunday lunch at one of the many restaurants by the river, but she’d made her excuses, and that was that. She’d confided to him, before leaving the office on Saturday night, that it seemed the NCA would likely drop the case at RBI. Without a statement from Victor concerning the missing gold or the bank reporting a crime – unlikely – there was nothing the authorities could do. The whistleblower had also mysteriously disappeared. The agency was blaming the Russian’s death on Fern and, without anyone to prosecute for the death of the security guard, it looked like case closed.

  The one person who might have some of the answers was Harvey Pinkman, and he was nowhere to be found.

  He was wondering what to do with the evidence confiscated from the raid and whether he should be looking for Pinkman when Alice poked her head around the door.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but you have a visitor.”

  Drum looked out into the reception area, but all he could see was the back of a large man in a beige trench coat.

  “Who?” mouthed Drum.

  Alice stepped quickly inside the office and closed the door. “Seen his type before – Thames House. Arrogant bastard. Wouldn’t give me his name.”

  Thames House was shorthand for MI5. Drum was beginning to wonder what Alice really had done at the Foreign Office.

  “Better show him in.”

  He recognised the man as soon as he walked through the door.

  “McKay”

  “Drummond.”

  Major Angus McKay was a great bear of a man. He was thick set with a barrel chest and seemed to fill the room. His beige trench coat draped him like a tent, and an old battered trilby partially hid a head of closely cropped ginger hair. The last time they’d met was in Helmand. Drum and Brock were at a mission debriefing. Brock swore then that if he ever met McKay again, he’d kill him. Drum felt much the same.

  “You realise that people working in the intelligence service in the twenty-first century don’t dress like that anymore.”

  McKay ignored his sarcasm. “I’m here as a courtesy.”

  Drum made a point of not offering McKay a seat. “I’m listening.”

  “You’re to drop any investigation into Reinhart Benson International.”

  “And why would I want to do that.”

  “Look, I know we’ve had our differences –”

  “Fuck you, McKay.”

  “Look, Drummond. I know you blame me for that last mission in Helmand but, in war, shit happens.”

  Drum clenched his fists. “How did an incompetent bastard like you end up back in the intellige
nce service? We can’t be that desperate in this country.”

  “I wanted to keep this civil. You’ve rattled some cages with this case of yours. Take my advice and walk away –”

  “Or what?”

  McKay thrust both hands into his trench coat pockets. “I have my orders. I need all of the evidence you took from RBI.”

  Drum took a step towards McKay and the two men squared off, eye-ball to eye-ball.

  Alice poked her head around the door. “Can I get you gents some tea?”

  Neither man spoke.

  “I bought some ginger nuts.”

  Drum moved back to the window, turning his back on McKay. “Major McKay is leaving, Alice. Please show him the way out.”

  McKay turned and strode out the door, almost knocking Alice over as he headed for the lobby.

  “Charming,” said Alice. “You know he’ll be back – probably with a warrant.”

  Drum looked out across the river at the City beyond and wondered who had the kind of influence to bring the security services to bear on the case. The Russians were one thing, but he’d never expected MI5 to give him grief.

  “You two obviously know each other,” said Alice.

  Drum turned to face her, trying to keep a lid on a mix of emotions he hadn’t experienced in a while. He wondered if he should tell Brock. He didn’t give McKay much of a chance if Brock decided to keep his promise. He let out a sigh.

  “Major Angus McKay, army intelligence if that’s not a contradiction in terms – or at least he was. God knows who he’s working for now.”

  “Tell me what happened between you two,” said Alice. She sat down on the couch and made herself comfortable.

  ~~~

  Fuck McKay.

  Sergeant Ian (Brock) Ives had said as much ten years earlier in a nameless desert in Afghanistan, sitting cross-legged atop the bonnet of his Land Rover as he lazily smoked a long, thin roll-up. He’d long ago run out of his regular smokes. Flecks of grey sandy desert clung to his three-day growth of beard, making him look prematurely old.

  It had been a long night, and the men were knackered. They had spent hours searching the cold barren desert for their man. He had performed a HALO jump, so desperate was London to get him there. Brock shuddered as he remembered his own experience of the manoeuvre. His had been a training exercise, jumping from the back of a Hercules from five thousand metres. He’d felt claustrophobic in the breathing mask; without it, he would have been unconscious in less than thirty seconds. And the cold. Like flying through a meat locker. That was the ‘High Altitude’ part over. Then the warm air hit you like a brick, and you gritted your teeth waiting for the chute to open at a little under one thousand metres or the ‘Low Opening’ part – you hoped.

  They had eventually found their man a few hours before dawn. At least he’d had the good sense to stay put and not try to wander off. He looked over at the new man tinkering with his gear. He seemed none the worse for wear after his ordeal. Tall, lean and fit. He didn’t strike Brock as a signals bloke.

  Brock watched the cold Afghan sky begin to pale and swore quietly. If they sat here much longer his arse would become permanently welded to the cold metal of the Land Rover. With so little planning, none of them had thought to pack any warm gear. He shifted the M16 lying across his legs and tried to get more comfortable. Shit, if they stayed exposed on this flat, open desert, the Taliban would have more than his arse.

  He regarded what remained of his roll-up with disdain and scrutinised Dick (Poacher) Davis out of the corner of his eye. The tall, lanky man was leaning against the side of the Land Rover, smoking a filtered Embassy.

  "Hey, Poacher.”

  "Yes Brock.”

  "Got any Embassy?”

  "Yes, thanks.”

  "Fuck you, Davis.”

  "Charmed! I'm sure.”

  He glanced at the tall trooper taking long calculated drags on his cigarette, relaxed and apparently without a care in the world. An ex-gamekeeper with a soft West Country accent, Poacher was used to playing the waiting game.

  Brock returned his gaze to the sky. “It’ll be light soon.”

  The Poacher nodded. “We’ll stick out on this plain like a boil on a whore’s arse alright."

  Fuck McKay. He’d personally kill the bastard if they were compromised out here in the open, Major or no Major.

  Brock flicked away the remnants of his cigarette and slowly unwound his legs from beneath him, easing himself down from the bonnet, stretching, rubbing his arse with both hands. He turned to find Joe Cairns, the driver for this mission, still asleep, head back, mouth open and snoring loudly. What a racket. If the insurgents don't see us, they won't fail to hear us. Brock had not known Cairns long. The rest of the troop had named him ‘Charming' owing to his complete lack of social graces. What luck to be stuck with the guy for 6 hours solid!

  He looked across to the other Land Rover. Tim Weekes was arguing the toss with Tommy McPherson on what to do next. McPherson - known as 'Hazard' on account of the scary things he did with explosives - was pointing animatedly at the map. Whatever Weekes was selling, Hazard wasn’t buying.

  He mentally went through the game plan. Get the man in, Weekes had told them. He recalled the Major’s gaunt features illuminated in the harsh light of the projector in the cramped mess room of Station One. “The enemy has something interesting,” he’d said, “and we need to know about it - or at least London does.” He tapped a fresh cigarette on top of the projector and used it as an impromptu pointer. He ran a hand through lank blond hair. “It was spotted during the last recce and photographed. We don’t think its radar - probably communications. London’s sending a specialist.”

  What a blinder of an idea, thought Brock. The insurgents are kicking our arse in Helmand and London wants to send a ‘specialist’ for a peek at a satellite dish. A few more Tornados would be more like it. Poacher had had the right idea.

  “Why not pound it from the hillside?” asked Poacher, stretching out his long legs, trying to get comfortable on the hard mess chairs.

  A match was struck from the corner of the mess, its light revealing the thick-set features of McKay hewn from the shadows. The white smoke of a cigarette rolled over the flame and extinguished it. “Its information that wins wars don’t let's forget that. We need to know what information this technology is sending - or receiving.”

  The room remained silent.

  Weekes contemplated the end of his cigarette. He rolled it between finger and thumb, then tapped it once more on the projector. “As I was saying, London is sending a specialist – a chap from GCHQ. His name is Captain Benjamin Drummond. He’ll be the package.”

  The whole operation had been McKay’s idea.

  Getting the man in wasn't going to be the problem; but, getting the man out … not even Weekes believed that.

  Fuck McKay.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Phyllis Calls

  Drum took an early lunch. He didn’t know Alice well enough to confide in her the complete story. The memory of that last mission had opened old wounds. It had been a shambles. Hazard had persuaded Weekes to move off the plain and make for the ridge. That’s when they saw them. A group of well-armed men heading straight for their last location on the plain. Their position had been compromised.

  Drum spent most of his lunch break walking by the Thames trying to clear his head. He wanted to head over to Ives and talk things through with Brock, but he knew the restaurant would be rammed at this time of day and Brock would be up to his apron strings with customers.

  Whatever was going on at RBI, someone there had serious influence if they could close down an NCA investigation and then bring the intelligence services to bear on the case. It didn’t look too good for Victor either. Abramov didn’t buy Victor’s plea of innocence and was sure he was somehow involved with the missing gold. He needed to give Abramov what he wanted. He needed to find Harvey Pinkman.

  He headed back to the office, along the Embankment past H.M.
S Belfast, until he reached the underpass below Tower Bridge which led to Butler’s Wharf. He was about to head into his favourite coffee shop when his mobile rang. It was Alice.

  “I have a Phyllis Delaney on the line, phoning from New York. Can I transfer the call?”

  He walked into the coffee shop, the aromatic smell of fresh ground coffee filled his senses. He pressed his mobile tightly to his ear to shield it from the buzz of a dozen conversations.

  “I don’t know any Phyllis Delaney,” he lied as he caught the eye of the barista. The usual.

  “That’s what she said you would say. I’m patching her through.”

  Damn, that woman was good. He paid for his coffee and grabbed a seat by the window.

  “Hi Ben, Phyllis.”

  The last time he’d spoken to Phyllis Delaney was over a year ago in her office on 46th and Sixth, Avenue of the Americas. He’d told her to go fuck herself. He regretted losing his temper. It seemed she was prepared to bury the hatchet – more likely, a hatchet was heading his way.

  “Phyllis. To what do I owe the honour?”

  “Listen, Ben. I need your help.”

  This was new. Phyllis never asked for help. The shit must have really hit the fan.

  “I thought I made my feelings clear about working for Roderick, Olivier and Delaney the last time we spoke,” he said.

  There was a pause on the line. It sounded like he was put on hold.

  “Hi Ben, yes sorry. I have several people talking to me at once. It’s about Harry. She’s missing. Last seen in London.”

  Drum conjured up a picture of Harriet Seymour-Jones. An attractive woman with fiery red hair and a wicked smile. He and Brock had helped get her out of Mexico City along with her partner, Jimmy Miller.

  “They have got themselves into a bit of a pickle”, Phyllis had told him. “Just a quick in and out job. Close protection detail. Nothing you boys can’t handle.”