The Omega Sanction

by Tomas Black

  “We have a problem,” said Fern.

  Drum looked down. The van was gone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Loose Ends

  Alice awoke with a start to the sound of Abramov barking orders to his men. She must have dozed off. She straightened her back and rolled her head from side to side to ease the stiffness in her joints. Fuck old age.

  Abramov had returned to the warehouse with his enforcer, Misha. The big Russian took up position by the door. His presence seemed to fill the room. Alice remembered Ben’s description of the man and their meeting in New York. He acknowledged her with the slightest of nods. She stared back at him but did not return the nod. She wondered what part he was playing in this game.

  She looked at her watch. It was just after two am and there was still no word from Ben – but then, she didn’t think Ben would show anytime soon. And certainly not with Harry. Which begged the question: what was Ben’s play?

  William’s breathing was still ragged but had not deteriorated. He needed a hospital, but she knew Abramov had no intention of letting any of them live beyond the end of the night. If Ben was going to make a move, it had to be soon.

  She eased herself up from the chair and stretched. One of the guards moved towards her. “Sit down.”

  She smiled at him. It was a smile she’d practised over the years. “Be a dear and make me some tea.”

  He hesitated, taken aback by her demeanour. It was as if his mother had given him the order. Abramov laughed. “Go and make tea, Dmitri. Russian tea.” He walked over and perched himself on the edge of his desk and lit a cigarette. “You’re good, Alice. I can understand why the GRU are wary of you.”

  Alice walked over to the window and stared out into the night. Apartment lights from across the river twinkled like distant stars. She regarded Abramov’s reflection. “Why not let William go? He knows nothing, he’s seen nothing.”

  “I can’t do that, Alice. You know how this game works. You shouldn’t have involved the old man.” He looked at his watch. “And where is Benjamin? You said he would be here tonight.”

  Alice turned to face him and shrugged.

  A buzzer sounded. Abramov turned to Misha and nodded in the direction of the door. Misha drew his gun and moved over to the entrance. He looked at the video feed from the security cameras and buzzed the door open. The diminutive figure of Anna entered the room, wrapped in a Burberry mac, water dripping from a small umbrella. She stopped when she saw Alice.

  “Ah, Anna. Nice of you to join us,” said Abramov. “I think you and Alice know each other.”

  Anna ignored him and walked over to a coat rack, hung up her mac and dropped her umbrella onto the floor. Her tight black woollen dress hugged her toned figure. She moved casually over to a couch, some distance from Alice, and sat down. “Why is she here? More to the point, why am I here?”

  Abramov smiled. “I wanted you to be here. Our GRU friends insisted on it. I am expecting them shortly. Dmitri is making some tea. Would you like some tea?”

  Anna turned to look at Alice then back to Abramov. “No, I want to get back to my bed. What is this all about, Vlad?”

  “Patience, Anna.”

  Alice didn’t like this new development. From Anna’s expression it was clear she wasn’t too happy either. Abramov knew something. What, Alice had no idea. If Anna was working for MI6 then it was looking like her cover had been blown. If that was the case, she would be handed over to the GRU and would probably never be seen again. As far as Alice was concerned, death was a better option. The question was, how many friends did she have in the room?

  The front door buzzed. Misha again drew his gun and walked over and inspected the video feed. Was this Ben? The door opened and the other GRU agent entered, rain dripping from her leather jacket. She walked quickly over to Abramov and whispered something. Abramov smiled.

  Dmitri returned with a tray of cups and a small samovar and placed it on a table close to Anna. Abramov nodded in Anna’s direction and Dmitri moved over and stood by her side at the end of the couch.

  Alice noticed that Misha was still waiting by the door. She heard footsteps over the timpani of falling rain. Someone could be heard stamping their feet and removing a wet raincoat. A tall lean man dressed smartly in a light-grey pinstriped suit, his City brogues polished to a military shine, stood in the lobby. Alice thought she recognised him. She had trained her memory over many years to observe and recall the smallest of details of a person. She remembered his lean features, the intelligence in his eyes, his lank blond hair now greying at the temple. She remembered Tim Weekes of MI6.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Escape

  “That little bitch has left us.” Fern heaved Harry up.

  “You don’t know that,” said Drum, peering into the gloom of the alley. All seemed quiet after the recent sounds of gunfire. He looked down. They had estimated the height of this side of the roof at just over two storeys. Could he drop down? Even if he could, what about Harry? That was the point of having Brock’s high-sided van.

  “Then where is she?” pressed Fern. “I knew it was a mistake to trust her.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have left her,” replied Drum. “Your job was to stay with the van.” He knew he was risking Fern’s pent-up anger, but her entry into the firefight had complicated matters. Now their escape route had disappeared.

  Fern turned to face Drum. “What! I can’t believe you just said that …”

  Brock sighted down his H&K. The open window was just visible from their location. “We can’t stay here. They’ll work out where we are pretty quickly. So I suggest you both zip it until we find a way down.”

  Harry looked as if she was about to drop. Fern helped her to the back of the flat roof and sat her down with her back against the raised edge of the adjoining roof. “Let me take a look at that foot.”

  Drum moved back from the edge of the roof and knelt, trying to keep his profile as low as possible. He pulled his radio from his belt and examined the channel frequencies to make sure they were set correctly. He selected Stevie’s channel. “Stevie, this is Drum. Come in Stevie.” He waited.

  “Poacher here. Receiving you. Sorry to keep you. Stevie ran into a spot of bother. We hooked up further down the Embankment. You should see us reversing back anytime now. Be advised: hostiles heading for the alley.”

  They heard the van before they saw it, the whine of its gearbox screaming in protest as it rounded the bend in the road. Two red tail lights blazed like angry fireflies as the van weaved a drunken path into the alley. There was gunfire from the main street. The van wobbled before scraping the driver's side against the bare brick wall, the soft aluminium siding screeching like nails down a blackboard. The passenger side door was flung open and Poacher jumped down, a Glock 17 in his hand.

  “Get a move on people,” said Poacher over the radio. “McKay advises that SCO19 are responding. We need to be gone before they arrive.”

  Drum knew that SC019, the police armed response unit, would not be able to distinguish between the Russians and themselves. To the police every person carrying a firearm would be a potential target. They couldn’t get caught in a full-blown firefight with law enforcement.

  “Hostiles coming out of the window,” announced Brock. The suppressor of his H&K whispered twice. They heard a cry followed by the crashing of falling glass and then the loud wail of an alarm. “He didn’t land well.”

  Drum turned to Fern. “I’ll jump first. Then you hand Harry down. Watch for hostiles firing into the alley.”

  Fern nodded and hefted Harry up. “Keep your head down.”

  Drum shouldered his H&K then clambered down the side of the brick wall until he was hanging over the van. He dropped and landed on the roof with a loud clang.

  Gunfire echoed in the alley, breaking the silence of the night. They had been detected. Poacher returned fire.

  A pair of legs dangled over Drum’s head. He reached up just as Fern dropped Harry down. He barely
caught her in time and the two of them collapsed onto the roof. “Ok, down into the van.”

  Harry clambered over the roof and stumbled headfirst through a skylight. Drum heard a crash as she landed heavily in the cargo area at the back.

  Automatic weapon fire raked the wall close to Drum. He knelt and un-shouldered his H&K, extending the stock. He sighted down the scope. Two men with automatic weapons had appeared around the side of the building and were laying down fire.

  Drum spoke calmly into his mic. “Time to go, people.” He switched the selector of his H&K to semi-automatic and fired, the attached suppressor reducing each burst to a barely audible whisper. The two men quickly retreated around the corner of the building as Drum’s bullets ricocheted of the Victorian brickwork.

  Fern dropped onto the van. She drew her Glock. “No time,” said Drum. “Get inside.” She reluctantly re-holstered her sidearm and lowered herself down through the skylight. “Time to go Brock.”

  Brock appeared over the edge of the roof and slowly slid down. He dangled over the van for a few seconds before dropping as Drum grabbed him. “They’re coming over the roof,” he said and jumped down into the back of the van.

  Drum banged on the roof of the cab. “Let’s go.” He lowered himself onto the edge of the skylight facing the rear of the van, his feet dangling inside. Poacher jumped back into the cab and slammed the door. Drum held on as the van lurched into gear and moved out of the alley, turning a sharp left onto the main road that led off the Embankment towards Queen Victoria Street and back into the City. He caught sight of several guards exiting the front of the vault. He was preparing to return fire when the van swerved around a bend in the road and they were gone.

  Drum clicked his H&K to safety and lowered himself down inside the swerving van. He heard the wails of police sirens in the distance. SCO19 were en route which meant the Russians were probably bugging out. He surveyed the back of the van. Fern sat with her back against the rattling side panels, her long legs outstretched, an arm around Harry, cradling her head against her shoulder. Brock, his wetsuit undone to his waist, his webbing and gear discarded, squatted with his knees held against his chest. Drum had seen this many times before. Soldiers caught up in the heat of battle, surviving one firefight after another, their screaming muscles fuelled by adrenalin, their aches and pains ignored. And then the fight is over; the silence deafening. The realisation that they have survived. The body reacts to the silence and closes down.

  He suddenly felt weary. He stowed his weapon and removed his webbing. The van swerved then came back on track. Drum turned to face the cab and realised Stevie was driving, her small frame hunched over, her knuckles white from gripping the wheel.

  “Slow down, Stevie,” he said.

  Poacher looked back from the passenger seat and raised an eyebrow. He turned to Stevie and placed a large hand on her arm. “Pull over, my lovely. Let me drive.”

  Stevie slowed and pulled into a bus lane, crunching the gears until the van came to a stop. She slumped forward.

  Poacher pulled her towards him. She buried her head in his chest sobbing. “It’s alright, my lovely. We all cry the first time. You’re safe now. We all are.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Aftermath

  The black Range Rover with tinted windows sat dormant on the Wapping street not far from the narrow entrance to the Regency Wharf warehouse complex. The heavy rain had subsided to a light drizzle leaving the shadowy cobbled street glistening in the subdued orange glow of the street lamps. The three men sat in silence, each harbouring their thoughts of the night's events.

  A radio crackled causing McKay to sit forward and listen intently to the tinny voice coming from his earpiece, his face creasing into a deep scowl. “Fuck it. Victor’s gone.”

  Drum sank deeper into the plush leather of the big SUV. He’d thought as much. Victor’s men at the vault would have warned him ahead of time that their operation had been compromised. He’d had an escape plan set up well in advance. Victor was ever the wily dog. He’d played him and Abramov and still managed to elude capture.

  Brock shifted in the back of the vehicle. He was dressed in the tactical gear of the NCA, courtesy of Fern. His H&K rested on his lap. “What about the gold?”

  McKay half turned. “It’s where Drum said it would be. SCO19 reports there’s tons of the stuff.”

  “Blimey,” said Brock. “Any opposition?”

  “Just a few guards – the rest appear to be immigrant labourers. SCO19 have rounded them all up and secured the warehouse.”

  “And this is your dad’s place?” asked Brock.

  “Right,” said Drum. “I remembered William telling me he was having trouble with a lease – people working at one of his warehouses, day and night. Fern and I came by information that Victor had borrowed money to pay for a lease. I put two and two together.” Drum looked at his watch. It was 4.15 am.

  “You don’t have to do this,” said McKay. “We can send in SCO19.”

  “I can’t risk Alice and William by going in mob-handed. I trust the old team. I trust us.”

  McKay nodded. “Our man was reported entering the building about an hour ago. He was with the remaining GRU agent. A woman. It looks like we were right.” He paused, staring out into the gloomy night. “Vauxhall Bridge wants him alive – and the GRU agent if possible.”

  “What do you want?” asked Drum.

  McKay sat back and gripped the wheel of the SUV with both hands. He stared into the night, a look of anguish on his face. He was never a man to show much emotion, but Drum could tell he was struggling to keep himself under control. “He betrayed his country – fuck it, he betrayed us. I’ve lived for years with the failure of that last mission. I believed I screwed up …”

  Drum nodded and opened the door. “I can’t guarantee what will happen in there. Shit happens.”

  “Focus on getting Alice and William out,” said Brock. “Fuck Weekes. Fuck em all.”

  “Everyone in place?” asked Drum

  McKay nodded. “All set.”

  Drum turned to Brock. “If I’m not out before daybreak, send in the cavalry.”

  Brock grabbed his arm. “I hope your friend comes through for you or you really are fucked.”

  ~~~

  Drum mounted the steps to the warehouse and buzzed the door. He waited, looking up at the security cameras. He pulled up the collar of his coat against the light drizzle of rain and the occasional plop of water dripping from the roof above. The door opened and he walked through into the small lobby.

  Misha was waiting for him – gun drawn and pointing straight at his chest. “Turn around, Benjamin.”

  Drum turned to face the wall and placed his hands on top of his head. Misha searched him thoroughly, his big hands running down his arms, his waist and legs. He patted each of the coat pockets and stood back. “Coat pocket. Remove it.”

  Drum delved into his pocket and retrieved the small 100g ingot he’d taken from the vault. He handed it to Misha. Misha took the bar and waved Drum into the main lounge.

  Abramov had assumed his usual position in the centre of the room, perched on the edge of the oak desk. He drew lazily on one of his Russian cigarettes, watching with interest as Misha approached and handed him the ingot. Alice was seated next to William by the patio doors. Drum wondered why William was still asleep. He could tell that William’s breathing was erratic and his skin looked pale. Standing close to Alice was Tim Weekes. He stood like a man apart from the others in the room, one hand casually slipped inside his coat pocket and the other resting on the back of Alice’s chair. Beside him stood the female GRU agent, slightly built, black leather jacket and jeans. She stared at Drum with a mixture of disdain and self-satisfaction. She thought she had won. Drum finally turned his attention to Anna, sitting impassively on a couch. A guard stood next to her holding a gun. At least Drum knew where Anna stood in all of this. She too had been betrayed by Weekes. Misha returned to his usual position by one of the supporti
ng pillars, his handgun trained on Drum.

  Abramov hefted the ingot in his hand, feeling its weight. How could something so small be so heavy? Gold had a habit of defying the senses. “Benjamin. You came.” He drew on his cigarette and sucked down the thick smoke. “But you came alone. That was not the deal, I think.”

  Drum stared at Weekes. He wanted the man to say something, to atone for his guilt. How many had died under his command as a result his betrayal? Weekes said nothing.

  Abramov looked from Drum to Weekes and smiled. “You know each other? I think so. I’m told by the GRU that he is a Colonel in your MI6. I am surprised, Benjamin. How easily you were played.”

  It was Drum’s turn to smile. “I think we’ve both been played, Vlad. And don’t worry about Seymour-Jones – Harry. She’s safely out of harm’s way, helping MI5 retrieve the cache of information from Hoschstrasser & Bührer, your law firm in Zurich.” Drum directed his next question to Weekes. “You remember Major McKay? He sends his regards.”

  Drum noticed Alice smiling.

  Weekes turned pale. “You’re bluffing. The woman is dead.”

  Abramov frowned. “And you know this how?”

  Weekes hesitated. “She must be. It’s the reason she’s not here.”

  “I did find Pinkman, however,” said Drum. And he was dead. At least we think it was Pinkman. Harry told us it was.”

  “And where was Pinkman?” asked Abramov. He stood and examined the ingot under one of the lights. “And why have you brought me this?”

  Drum took a few steps to his right so he was facing Weekes at a slight angle. “We found Pinkman floating in the flooded tunnels beneath the vault. He’d been there for some time, his face was half eaten away by the rats that live down there. It’s where we found Harry.”

  “Beneath the vault, you say?” Vlad glanced at Weekes. “Who killed him?”