by Tomas Black
“Probably one of Victor’s men – or Weekes.”
“You’re full of shit, Drummond …”
Abramov raised a hand. “What has Victor got to do with this? And why would the Colonel kill Pinkman?”
Drum noticed that Weekes had slipped his hand inside his jacket. He looked over at Anna. She was now sitting upright, her hands on her knees. Misha pushed himself away from the column, gun in hand. The GRU woman had stepped away from Weekes.
“You thought Pinkman was your man,” continued Drum, “when in fact, he was really working for Victor. And Victor … well, Victor was working for Victor, but he had help from Weekes.”
“He’s talking nonsense,” said Weekes. “He’s playing for time.”
Abramov turned to Weekes. “Speak again and I will shoot you myself.”
Weekes shifted uncomfortably.
“You were right to be suspicious of Victor, Vlad. He played us both. And all the time he was stealing your gold – with some help from the Colonel here.”
Abramov looked surprised. “But you audited the vault. Rhodes told me you found nothing. All the gold was accounted for. You talk shit.”
“And you would be right,” said Drum. “When we eventually returned to the vault, all the gold was there – but it wasn’t your gold.”
“You’re talking in riddles,” said Abramov. “Get to the point or I start shooting people. I’m fucking tired of this shit.”
“The gold you have in your hand is one of ten 100g bars. I took it from the vault a few hours ago. It is part of your inventory. The rest made up of standard good delivery bars.”
“You took it from the vault …”
“All ten bars have the same serial number,” said Drum.
Abramov’s eyes narrowed. He examined the ingot once more under the light. He rattled off a command to Misha who pulled a knife from his belt and handed it to him. Abramov grabbed the knife and placed the ingot on top of the desk. He slammed the knife into it, gouging a deep rent in its surface. He moved back over to the light to examine his handiwork. He cursed loudly, his face contorted in anger.
Drum noticed that the GRU agent had moved closer to his side of the room. He wondered how this was going to play out. It all depended where the loyalties lay.
Abramov made an effort to calm himself. He glanced at the GRU agent and then at Weekes. He was obviously having the same thoughts as Drum. He tossed the bar to Drum. Drum moved under one of the spot lights. He had been right. Beneath a thin veneer of gold lay a dull grey metal.
Drum said, “On the surface this looks like a 100g ingot. It has the Zurich refiner’s mark and a serial number. When we audited the vault we accounted for all the gold: one metric ton of your original consignment and five tons of gold that Harry was tracking; but there were duplicate serial numbers on many of the bars. In fact, it was clear that someone had just made up the numbers. Then I remembered my lesson from the Bank of England. Gold is one of the heaviest metals. But it’s not the only heavy metal. This bar is comprised mainly of tungsten. It’s a fake – along with the remaining six tons sitting in the vault.”
There was silence. Weekes moved closer to Alice and placed his hand on her shoulder. He quickly reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small handgun. Drum heard the click of a hammer being cocked. The GRU agent had closed her distance to Abramov and was now pointing a gun at his chest. She spoke in Russian to Misha who still had his weapon trained on Drum. Misha had no choice but to lower his gun. He knelt slowly and placed his gun on the floor in front of him. She issued another order and Misha moved back and stood by Drum. Weekes issued a command to Dmitri who was looking from him to Abramov. Dmitri nodded and trained his gun on Anna. So much for loyalty.
Abramov smiled and sat back on the edge of his desk. He spoke to the GRU agent who nodded. He slowly extracted his battered gold cigarette case from his pocket and removed a cigarette. He regarded the end of the cigarette as if seeing it for the first time. He had resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to live to see the sunrise.
“You were right, Benjamin. We have both been played.” He reached for a lighter and lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply. He absentmindedly flicked at its end, although there was no ash to flick. He smiled. “How do you remove six tons of gold from a vault without anyone noticing?”
“It doesn’t matter, Vladimir,” said Weekes.
“Shut the fuck up. I served Moscow for years and this is their thanks.”
Drum waited. “The original plan was for Pinkman to remove the gold over a weekend,” he said. “There are tunnels under the vault – a wartime relic. As the vault manager he could authorise the movement of bullion from one location to another. In this instance the gold was scheduled to be moved to the alternate vault – a move designed to frustrate the audit that Harry had arranged. She was interested in tracing contraband gold from Mexico City. She had no knowledge of Victor’s scheme, although she suspected something was wrong from the information she had gleaned from H&B in Zurich. Instead of moving the gold to the alternate location, Pinkman used the underground tunnels to barge the gold to Victor’s warehouse here in Wapping. It’s where the gold was smelted and re-cast.”
Abramov looked incredulous. “Wapping, you say.” He laughed and shook his head.
“You told me yourself that Pinkman was a very fucked-up individual. Drink, drugs and rock n’roll had taken their toll. The plan was always to fake the bars and return them to the vault via the tunnels. Pinkman would then amend the shipment details on the bank’s computers and no one would be any the wiser. All the original documentation was stored on his laptop, which is why everyone involved in the scheme wanted to get hold of it. It held too much incriminating evidence.” Drum paused. He glanced at Alice. She looked grim and determined. He hoped she wouldn’t do anything foolish. Anna was waiting patiently, biding her time. She was under no illusion as to what Weekes had planned for her.
“What went wrong?” asked Abramov.
“Pinkman,” interjected Weekes. “He had lost control.”
“So you killed him,” said Drum.
“I had no choice …”
“Which kind of put Victor in a bit of a bind,” continued Drum. “There was no Pinkman to return the fake bars. When Victor turned up on the Monday, the vault was empty. He had no idea what the Colonel had done.”
Abramov roared with laughter and shook his head. “Incredible. What a fuck-up. How did Victor return the gold?”
“From what Harry tells me, Victor did a deal with Rhodes. He was in a fix. Six tons of gold was missing from the vault. He was desperate to get the gold back before the ROD audit. The gold was shipped back to the vault via the tunnels before they flooded. I don’t think Rhodes had any idea the gold was fake.”
Weekes shifted beside Alice, looking uncomfortable. Drum could see the cogs working. He was never the most spontaneous of leaders – even in his younger days in Afghanistan. “The incident at the vault tonight. That was you, Drummond?”
“I’m afraid we interrupted the last part of your plan. MI5 and SCO19 are already at the vault and have taken control. Most of your men are dead and we have seized the real gold in Victor’s warehouse. Her Mastery’s Government thanks you for your contribution to its gold reserves.”
Abramov inhaled one last time before grinding his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray. He smiled grimly. “I think it is you who is fucked, Colonel Weekes. You have nothing to take back to Moscow. You have lost the gold and the OMEGA operation is dead in the water. Careless of you.”
Weekes glared at Drum, “You always were a good soldier, Drummond. Always ready to do the right thing. It’s why I chose you.” He looked at his watch and moved towards the large windows of the patio doors. “But you had one weakness. You could never make the hard choice. Too sentimental.” He turned and looked down at the small jetty. Satisfied, he returned to take up his position behind Alice. “Tell, me. How did you manage to get past my men at the vault? You couldn’t hav
e been working alone?”
Drum took in the complete scene. The stage was set, all the players were in position. The angles looked good. Drum shrugged in response to the question. “Teamwork. You remember that? McKay ran intelligence, Brock delivered the package.” He paused. “And Poacher …”
At the mention of Poacher, Weekes’s demeanour changed. His face dropped at the realisation of his miscalculation.
Drum pointed two fingers at Weekes, his thumb miming the hammer of a gun. The patio windows exploded.
The width of the river Thames is not great. In many places it is less that 265 metres. The Poacher had set up in an abandoned car park on the south side of the river. The perfect location for a sniper. From his vantage point, it was an easy shot for a marksman of his calibre. At that distance, not even bullet-proof glass could stop a round from an AS50. A British made weapon. One of the best in the world.
The Poacher had resisted a headshot and aimed just left of centre of the main body mass. The bullet of the AS50 was travelling at supersonic speed when it passed through the glass of the patio door.
The force of the sniper round exploded into Weekes’ back, destroying his chest cavity, throwing him forward onto of Alice and continued before finally embedding itself in the far wall of the apartment. Alice grabbed the gun from the lifeless hand of Weekes as he fell forward. She shrugged him to one side, stood up and calmly took aim at the hapless Dmitri. She fired twice – a double tap to the chest, killing him instantly.
The GRU agent quickly moved behind Abramov grabbing him by the shoulder in an attempt to shield herself from another sniper round. She held her gun to his temple, attempting to shuffle him back towards the lobby.
Misha did not hesitate. He took two strides towards her and placed his large hands around the small woman’s head. In one fluid movement, he whipped his hands apart, snapping her neck cleanly. Her lifeless body crumbled to the floor.
Abramov was about to say something when Alice interrupted, her arm outstretched. “Misha, move aside, please.”
Misha turned to Drum, perhaps seeking some form of confirmation on what he should do.
Drum shrugged.
Misha stepped back.
Anna rose smoothly from the couch. “Alice, don’t. We need him. He has value …”
Alice laughed bitterly. “Not to me he doesn’t. He is scum. Murdered countless people over the years. He murdered Giles without a second thought.”
Realisation spread across Abramov’s face. “The old man at the club. That was Giles?”
Alice fired twice more. The second bullet pieced Abramov’s heart.
Alice lowered her gun. “Yes, that was Giles.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Rhodes
Anna drove the Ferrari in her customary manner: heels off and very fast. Drum admired the skill it took to handle the power of the car without wrapping it around a tree. Dawn was breaking as they left the warehouse complex in Wapping. Anna confidently navigated her way through the empty streets before accelerating onto the A13, heading for London City Airport.
Drum pressed his phone against his ear, placing a finger in his other ear to drown out the noise of the big V12 engine as it roared along East India Dock Road. He nodded and ended the call.
Anna glanced in his direction, “Everything alright?”
Drum stared fixedly on the road ahead. A light goods van flashed by as they overtook it at an unnerving speed. “A police launch took William to St Thomas’ Hospital. They think he’ll be fine. Slight hangover. Nothing he hasn’t experienced before.”
“And Harry?”
“Dehydrated, hypothermic, battered but not broken. Also St Thomas’. MI5 have her on lock-down. Fern is with her. She’s pissed I asked her to stay behind.”
“Harry?”
“No, Fern.”
Anna gave him a wry smile. “Why did you do that? She can take care of herself.”
Drum didn’t know – or perhaps he did and didn’t want to admit it. Why was his relationship with the Police Commander complicated? They liked being together, but they kept dancing around each other.
“Did you suspect Weekes?” asked Drum, changing the subject.
Anna was silent for a moment. “The short answer, no.” She slowed as they turned onto Victoria Dock Road. The Royal Albert Docks, now home to London City Airport, was just ahead. “The long answer, I wasn’t sure. The mission seemed to be deviating from its original goal, which was to close down OMEGA. If the top brass had any inkling they didn’t let on. The funny thing was, he did activate you and Alice. Like it or not, you’re still working for the British government.”
Drum thought about this. He remembered what Weekes had told him during their original meeting: find the primary actors of OMEGA and eliminate them. It was Weekes’ way of cleaning house. Well, they had certainly done that despite the protestations of MI5. McKay would get some flak over that, but would take it on the chin.
“How did you know Weekes was working with Victor?” asked Anna.
“I didn’t at first. Victor’s a schemer, a dealer. He’s not comfortable around guns. It was only after I’d spoken to McKay that I realised Weekes must have been organising that side of things. He probably muscled his way in when you reported back on what Victor was up to. I doubt if Victor had any choice in the matter. His appearance at the Warehouse was a cleanup operation. He wanted to remove all evidence of OMEGA.”
“And Pinkman?”
“Again, not Victor’s way of doing things. It had to be Weekes – or one of his men.”
They turned onto a roundabout and accelerated past some hangers.
“What will happen to Misha?” asked Drum.
Anna drove slowly over a bridge that linked the North and South sides of the docks. “He’ll be debriefed back at Vauxhall. He’s a valuable asset with his knowledge of OMEGA and other Russian networks.”
Drum wondered if the man would ever escape his life of serving one government or another. He wondered the same thing about himself.
They turned into the small car park of a private aviation company. Anna pulled up in front of the security barriers, the V12 engine chortling on idle. Drum could see a Learjet on the tarmac not far from a small terminal building on the other side of the security fencing. Two armed police officers approached the Ferrari. Anna lowered her window and flashed her ID.
A burly policeman took the card and examined it. He scanned the inside of the Ferrari. “Your man is already onboard. His flight's being held. What are your orders?”
“Radio the tower and ask the pilot and crew to disembark. No one is to board the plane until we leave. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The security barriers were raised. Anna parked the Ferrari just outside the terminal building. The jet sat no more than twenty metres away, the crew already disembarking.
Anna turned to Drum. “Nothing about OMEGA can be revealed. Should it become known that London dealt in fake gold bullion, the London market would collapse and the integrity of the Bank of England would be compromised. Your original orders stand.”
Drum nodded and checked inside his jacket. He slid out of the car. It was 6.00 am and the first flights of the morning were landing on the airport’s small runway. Drum walked slowly across the black tarmac, wet from the night's rain and glistening in the early morning sunshine. He made his way up the steep steps of the Learjet and entered the luxurious cabin.
Rhodes was in the middle of the aircraft, lounging in a plush leather seat. A tray of drinks was on a table in front of him. He was holding a tumbler of whisky, waiting patiently, staring out of the small round window.
Drum took a seat opposite. If Rhodes was surprised, he didn’t show it.
“Can I offer you a drink, Captain Drummond?”
Drum smiled. It was the first time Rhodes had referred to him by his rank. “Not when I’m working.”
Rhodes turned to face Drum, a look of resignation on his face. He sipped his drink, savour
ing the moment. “When we didn’t take off I guessed it was too late – although I was expecting the lovely Commander. By the way, how is she?”
“Sorry she couldn’t make it. Presently with Harry. She doesn’t send her regards.”
Rhodes half smiled over the rim of his glass. “It was nothing personal. Wrong place at the wrong time. Glad she made it out.”
“Who’s idea was OMEGA?” asked Drum.
“Does it matter?”
“Sir Rupert Mayhew we know about. But what about Sir Henry Minton?”
“Both cut from the same cloth that pair,” confided Rhodes. “Old school chums. The backbone of the British establishment. You won’t find any dirt on Minton, but you can be sure he knew what was going on. Mayhew pulled all the strings. Probably his idea.”
“Who did he report to?”
Rhodes put his glass down with a look of disdain. “God, don’t be naive. You sound just like a policeman. Think about it. The UK is about to exit the EU - the most disruptive economic event in the past forty years. Sterling will fall off a cliff when that happens. The Bank of England needs to shore up its gold reserves. The Russians were only too happy to help. But if you think you can point the finger at anyone in the Cabinet or the Prime Minister’s Office, then you're deluding yourself. Whether they knew about the scheme or not, Mayhew will take the fall.” He slumped back and held out his wrists. “Time to put the cuffs on?”
Drum reached inside his jacket and pulled the Sig Sauer out from its holster. From another pocket he retrieved the fat barrel of a suppressor and screwed it in place. He sat back, the gun pointed at Rhode’s chest.
Rhodes froze in disbelieve. He's going to kill you …
“It would have been better if the Commander had come. She would have put the cuffs on. Unfortunately for you I’m not a policeman.”
“Listen Drummond –”
“There’s a saying in our part of the service …”
Drum fired. Two bullets into the chest. Both aimed at the heart.
Don’t declare war on a soldier.
