The Omega Sanction

by Tomas Black

  Henry squirmed in his seat.

  “Look,” continued Rhodes, “I know it’s a lot of gold. That’s why we’re the best.” The traders cheered and fist-pumped the air. “Don’t worry. London is the biggest precious metals market in the world. There’s a whale out there, waiting to gobble up our trades.”

  Of course, he didn’t tell his traders that he already knew of a whale in the guise of the Bank of England ready and waiting to buy the gold. That would have been tantamount to admitting that the game was rigged. Neither did he tell his band of merry men and women that Borite Metals Holding was nothing more than a shell company for the Russians, a way to funnel billions of dollars illegally out of the Kremlin and into the financial system of London. But if their gold was good enough for the Bank of England, it was good enough for him. He scanned the room, but there were no more dissenters. Still, he would need to sweeten the deal.

  “One last thing. The first trader that succeeds in placing a hundred thousand ounces will receive a ten grand bonus this month.” The room went wild. He could feel the greed, feel the ambition as each trader digested the announcement. Money. It’s what drove them. It’s what they lived for. “Right, get to it!”

  The room suddenly became a hive of activity. Traders flung themselves into their seats and fired up their dealing systems. Computer screens flickered into life and calls to clients were made. Rhodes smiled. It was all going according to plan. He knew that a little after the London market opened the Bank of England traders would begin placing their orders. Small at first, so as not to spook the market, then increasing their orders in both size and frequency until the bank’s order books were full. Of course, the price of gold would plummet. But one could always hedge against that eventuality and make a killing in the process.

  Yes, everything was going to plan. The only fly in the ointment was ROD. Drummond, had completed his audit of the vault. Of course, he found nothing – but the man made him nervous. There was an intensity about him. He seemed driven. He’s going to kill you.

  His hand reflexively reached for his passport in his jacket pocket. He had his exit from London planned. A private plane would take him back to South Africa and from there, Venezuela. Free from the Russians – free from Vladimir Abramov.

  His mobile pinged. He glanced at the screen. It was that idiot of a chairman. Sir Henry was badgering him to place another futures contract. He may be chairman of the bank, but he wasn’t averse to turning a blind eye to an illegal trade. Hypocrite.

  He turned to his computer screen, about to enter Sir Henry’s trade, when a secure message popped up demanding his attention. One of Victor’s men had sent him the briefest of notes on the condition of the vault tunnels: Tunnels flood. Girl?

  Renkov had insisted on using his men to transport the gold through the tunnels and into the vault. He had no choice. He needed the gold back in the vault. But they were thugs, common criminals. They’ll provide security, insisted Renkov, until the deal is complete and the gold is sold. He didn’t trust Renkov. Why would Victor return the gold?

  There was a lightning flash, and thunder reverberated around the dealing room. Rhodes’ thoughts turned to Seymour-Jones alone in the tunnels with the water rising. A pretty little thing with beautiful red hair. He admired her grit. What did the American’s say? She had moxie. He liked that in a woman. Sticking her nose into his business had been a bad idea. He hadn’t time to deal with her now. He needed every man at the vault. The tunnels had flooded before. The little story he had told Sir Henry had only been half true. The vault had a damp problem – but nothing that would make him move six tons of gold. Seymour-Jones would have to tough it out with the rats. Nasty buggers, as big as cats.

  He quickly typed a reply to the secure message: Leave the girl.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Poacher

  The small police launch slowed, bobbed and rolled in the Thames as it manoeuvred close to the Butler’s Wharf slipway. The skipper expertly throttled the engine back and forth until it lightly bumped against a mooring buoy. Brock jumped out and secured a temporary line through a mooring ring and heaved back, holding the stern of the small craft until Drum and Fern had disembarked. He slipped the line and threw it back onboard the launch and waved the skipper off. The boat’s engine powered up and thrust it’s bow back into the raging swell of the Thames. They watched as the launch rose up and slammed down, wave after wave, until it disappeared.

  Fern turned to the two men. “You think you have a chance in that?”

  Drum knew she had a point. He pulled up his collar against the wind and rain. They had no choice. He wasn’t prepared to lose Harry. He turned to Brock looking for words of advice from his old friend. Brock shrugged.

  “We go as planned,” he said.

  “You’re crazy,” said Fern. “You’ll both drown.”

  “Maybe.”

  They walked up the steps and onto the main path that led back to the office. Rain blew in off the river. The sky darkened and was pierced by an electric-blue flash of lightning, shortly followed by a rolling peal of thunder. They reached the office and piled into the small reception area as a torrent of rain flooded the walkway. They stood dripping water as they removed their coats and hung them up. Stevie peered around the corner of the kitchen.

  “Oh good. You’re back. You have a visitor. I parked him on the couch.” She nodded in the general direction of Drum’s office. “You look like you’ve had a great time. Tea?”

  “Any news from Alice?” asked Drum.

  “Nothing. Tried calling her several times, but all I get is her voicemail.” Stevie disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Drum looked through the glass wall of his office but could only see the back of someones head. He opened the door and walked through, followed by Brock and Fern. A lanky man with receding hair was stretched out on the couch, arms folded across his chest, his long legs crossed in front of him. He appeared to be asleep. He was wearing a large brown waxed coat and black army boots. A black canvas bag had been dumped unceremoniously on the floor in front of the desk.

  Brock laughed. “Poacher.”

  At the mention of his name Poacher opened one eye and closed it again. “Hello, my lovelies.”

  Corporal Dick (Poacher) Davis spoke in a slow West Country accent. Every syllable was laboured as if the effort of speaking was too taxing for him. Drum was relieved to see the man. They had served together for many years in two theatres of war. Other than Brock, there was no one he trusted more; they had often placed their lives in his hands. In the coming hours they would need all the skills of this tall, softly spoken and unassuming man.

  Stevie came in and placed a tray of steaming mugs on Drum’s desk. She regarded the sprawling shape on the couch. “Is he asleep?”

  Poacher opened his eyes, yawned and sat up. “God I’m tired. Been driving all day” He spied the tea. “Ah, you’re a lovely girl. That you are.” He pushed himself up out of the couch and kept on rising until he was standing above nearly everyone else; Fern looked him straight in the eye and smiled.

  “Dick Davis, a.k.a Poacher, meet Commander Alex Fern of the NCA. You’ve already met Stevie,” said Drum. Introductions over, he grabbed a mug of tea and sat by the window.

  Poacher smiled back at Fern and held out a large hand. “Commander.” He took her hand. “I must say, Commander, you’re the best-looking copper I’ve seen in a while.”

  Fern gave him a wry grin. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  Brock rolled his eyes. “You haven’t changed.”

  “Come ‘er,” said Poacher and enveloped the short stocky man in a huge embrace.

  Brock laughed, “Git off me, ya big lanky lump of mutton.”

  Poacher turned his attention to Stevie. “And another gorgeous young lady. Thanks for the tea. You’re a real life-saver.”

  Stevie’s face broke into a broad grin. Drum could have sworn she was blushing. The sharp-tongued, wise-cracking young Russian was as warm as a toasted marshmallow in Poa
cher’s hands.

  “What’s in the bag?” asked Stevie.

  The Poacher looked between Fern and Drum. Drum nodded.

  “Tools of the trade, my lovely.” He cleared some papers on Drum’s desk then unzipped the large canvas bag. There was a clatter of metal as the bag’s contents spilt out onto the floor.

  “Bloody hell,” said Stevie. “You planning to start a war?”

  “We’re at war already,” said Drum. He put down his mug. “What did you bring?”

  Poacher bent down and started to unload the bag. “I cleared out the arms cache up North.” He placed two square-looking handguns on the desk. “Two Glock 17s.” He retrieved two more slightly bigger handguns. “Two Sig p320s.” He dipped back down. “Managed to wangle two H&K G36s with scopes. And Brock’s favourite, a Remington shotgun.” He smiled.

  Fern moved closer to the desk and picked up one of the rifles. “A Heckler & Koch assault rifle. Even my team doesn’t have access to these.” She checked the safety then sighted through the scope. “You realise that it’s illegal for civilians to own these weapons?”

  “Good job we’re not civilians then,” said Brock taking one of the Glocks. He slipped the magazine and inspected the rounds. He replaced the clip, checked the safety and placed the gun back on the desk.

  “What about your weapon, Poacher?” said Drum.

  Poacher moved back to the couch and picked out a long case from the floor. Brock moved some of the guns to one side as Poacher placed it on the desk. He released two catches and flipped open the lid. “My pride and joy.”

  Fern cast an experienced eye over the weapon. It was broken into several pieces so it could be stored and transported in its case. It consisted of a very long barrel, fitted with a bulbous flash guard, a short black body, complete with a small magazine and pistol grip, and a thick stubby stock. A large precision scope was stored at the side. “What is it?”

  “It’s an Accuracy International AS50,” said Poacher. British made.”

  “Which is what?” asked Stevie.

  “A very accurate rifle. Gas operated for low recoil with a semi-automated action.” He paused. “I’m a sniper.”

  Stevie looked up at him, wide-eyed. “You shoot people?”

  “Usually only the once,” said Poacher with a lopsided smile.

  Stevie’s mouth dropped. It was beginning to dawn on her what was about to happen. We’re at war already. She looked at Drum. “And this is what you do …”

  “He’s the Package,” said Brock. “We get him inside the vault …” He paused, picked up a Glock from the desk and racked the slider. “And hopefully, we get him and Harry out.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Reunion

  It was late afternoon when Fern made her excuses, leaving the three ex-soldiers planning the night's mission. She needed to organise the boat and prep the scuba gear, she had told them. Drum reminded her that insertion would take place at midnight and extraction no later than one thirty in the morning.

  Stevie helped with logistics. She’d scoured the net and sourced several architectural documents that they hoped would provide them with a route into the vault.

  Brock was looking at the documents. “Assuming we get you in,” he said, stabbing a pencil at Drum, “how do we get Harry out?”

  Stevie was perched on the end of the couch sipping tea. “Why can’t you just swim out the way you came in?” asked Stevie.

  Drum looked out at the black clouds scudding past. “Too dangerous in this weather and the tide too strong. We don’t know the shape Harry’s in. I don’t even know if she can scuba.”

  “That leaves the elevator,” said Brock.

  “Which takes us either to the vault area or to the ground floor reception area and a room full of Russians,” said Drum.

  “We create a diversion at the front of the building,” said Poacher. “Plenty of noise and smoke and I’ll pick off anyone who pokes his nose out. Keep ‘em busy.” He pointed to a Google Map of the building and surrounding streets. “The two buildings either side are no good for a sniper – angles are all wrong and the field of fire is too narrow.” He pointed to a structure on the mooring in the river, just across from the bank’s entrance. “That should have sufficient elevation and allow a field of fire above the pedestrians and traffic. Perfect. I’ll set up there.”

  Drum remembered something. “Stevie, can you get us a schematic of the other floors? I remember a staircase leading to another level.”

  “Right. I’m on it.” She headed for the other office and her computer.

  “You’re thinking you can exfil from the roof?” said Brock.

  “I was thinking of these windows on the second floor,” said Drum. He pointed to the map. “They appear to look out onto the glass extension of the adjoining building. From there …” He shrugged. He was worried about Harry. Could she walk? Could she climb? Was she injured? There were too many unknowns. Too many possibilities for failure. He couldn’t lose Harry.

  There was a buzzing from the reception area.

  The three men stopped talking. Brock grabbed the holdall and stowed the rifles. Poacher slid his gun case behind the couch and grabbed a Glock giving the second one to Brock. Drum grabbed a Sig, ejected the mag and checked the clip was full. Satisfied, he snapped the clip back and racked the slider. Poacher and Brock repeated the procedure with their weapons: slip the mag, check the load, lock the clip, chamber a round. It was a choreography of action that they had performed many times. The sounds of the preparations resonated with Drum. They were the sounds before a battle that all soldiers remembered.

  Drum saw Stevie reaching for the exterior door. “Stevie … wait!”

  Too late. She’d disappeared and buzzed the door open. There were the sounds of a scuffle, of Stevie crying out. A tirade of angry Russian expletives gave way to the harsh, deeper voice of a man with a Scottish accent: “Fuck off you silly bitch and get out of my way.”

  A bear of a man came barreling into view. He barged through the office door, rattling the glass of the walled partition as he did so and came to a complete halt with the realisation that three handguns were pointed squarely at his chest.

  He stood there, water pooling on the floor from his rain-soaked coat and dripping trilby. No one moved.

  Lightning lit up the room, throwing black shadows against the white walls and illuminating the features of the intruder. A clap of thunder finally broke the silence.

  It was Drum who recognised him first, lowering his gun. “McKay!”

  Brock and Poacher were less inclined to lower their weapons. Brock said, “Major fucking McKay of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Never thought you would have the nerve to show up here.”

  “McKay?” echoed Poacher.

  Drum caught sight of Stevie slipping into the kitchen. “What are you doing here, McKay?”

  McKay’s eyes darted between Brock and Poacher who eventually took the hint and lowered their weapons.

  “Spit it out, McKay,” said Brock “I’m not going to kill you … at least, not yet.”

  “The Russian girl,” said McKay, “you know she works for Vladimir Abramov.”

  “Yes,” replied Drum. “Is this about Stevie?”

  “It’s about you working for the Russians.”

  Brock looked at Drum. “What’s he talking about?”

  “It’s complicated,” said Drum. “I thought I was helping Victor.”

  “And our American friends tell me you’ve done a deal with one of Vlad’s henchmen,” said McKay.

  “I admit, it doesn’t look good,” said Drum.

  “I warned you to drop the case, but you were never very good at taking orders.”

  Drum took a step forward, his fists clenched.

  Brock placed a hand on his shoulder. “Just hold on a minute. Why are you here, McKay?”

  McKay removed his trilby and ran a hand through his hair. He stood there, a frown creasing his brow, an internal debate raging within him. He sighed, having
made a decision, and said, “We received an alert a few days ago – two Russians were flagged entering the country. We track a lot of Russians, but these two were different. GRU operatives, sent over for a specific purpose we believe. So we put surveillance on them.”

  “Is this going anywhere?” asked Drum.

  “They give us the slip. We lose them for eight hours. Then one turns up dead.”

  “Killed by one of our people?” asked Brock.

  “No,” said McKay. “Killed by one of Drummond’s people.”

  All eyes turned to Drum. “One of my people?”

  McKay pointed to his pocket, indicating he wanted to take something out. Brock nodded. Poacher raised his gun a fraction. McKay slowly put his hand into his coat and removed a long thin blade with an enamelled butterfly on one end. “Recognise it?”

  Drum knew immediately who had killed the GRU agent. “Alice.”

  Brock held out his hand and McKay gave him the blade. Brock gripped the enamel wings and made a thrusting motion with the blade. “A disguised stiletto. Where did you find it?”

  “Inserted through the eardrum of the GRU agent, and with enough force to penetrate his cranium,” said McKay.

  “Bloody hell,” said Poacher, “I hope the poor bugger’s dead.”

  “He would have died instantly,” said McKay.

  “And who’s Alice?” asked Poacher.

  “She’s my office manager,” said Drum.

  Poacher raised an eyebrow.

  “Not the woman who’s seeing your dad?” said Brock.

  Drum considered all the possibilities that would have led Alice to kill a man in this fashion. None of them were good. “Where was the GRU agent found?”

  “Spitalfields Market,” said McKay. “Sunday afternoon.”

  “Then they must have William as well,” said Drum. “I’ve got to find them …”

  This time it was McKay who stepped forward and placed a restraining hand on Drum’s shoulder. “Which is what they want you to do.”

  “I’m lost,” said Poacher. “Who’re we talking about?”