Slingshot s-3

by Matthew Dunn

  Fifty

  Will and his men had been given rooms in the base and had been told by Engert that they should get their heads down as there was nothing they could do now until morning. But as he sat on the edge of his military camp bed, Will had no thoughts of sleep. He was tense and felt that everything was out of his control. Ordinarily, he’d take a walk through the base and get some night air to try to clear his head, but the base was on lockdown and in any case Will and his team were highly restricted as to where they were allowed to go. He banged a fist against the bed, frustrated and helpless.

  Roger knocked on his open door and leaned against the frame. The CIA officer looked irritated. “Laith’s driving me nuts. Guy’s pacing up and down the corridor like a caged animal.”

  “I know how he feels.”

  “Yeah, we all do.” The American rubbed a hand over his face. “When I was looking to leave the SEALs, I got approached by the Secret Service, who said they’d be very interested in having someone with my skill set on board. I turned ’em down in a flash, said there was no way I could spend a career protecting folk and just waiting for something unexpected to happen. I opted for SOG instead because they’re the ones who go out and do stuff.”

  Will completely understood. In the field, people like him were the hunters, the ones who had power and autonomy, who could define the unexpected. But now that role belonged to Kronos-Will and his team were in reactive mode. He didn’t know how Engert, Derksen, and the rest of DSI coped with the stress of this existence. “What happens if we fail?”

  Roger shrugged. “We go home, grab a beer, then wait for the next mission.”

  Will was silent.

  The CIA officer smiled. “You can’t comprehend that, can you?”

  “What?”

  “Failure.”

  “I can easily comprehend it; everything I’ve done so far has been a failure.”

  Roger frowned, shook his head. “This all started with a single sheet of paper going missing. Most people thought you were crazy to pursue this operation, given we had no idea what was on the paper and had zero leads. Look what you’ve achieved to bring us this far.”

  Will smiled. “I’ve brought us to a situation of going stir crazy in a Dutch high-security military base.”

  Roger burst out laughing. “Yeah, you’ve done just that.” His laugh receded. “We’re keeping well away from Mikhail.”

  “Good. Don’t speak to him without me being present.”

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Yeah, dumb question.”

  “I’m the one who feels dumb right now.” Will stood. “Come on. Let’s get the team together. Texas Hold’em poker. Fifteen dollars big blind. If nothing else, it means one of us will fly out of this base tomorrow with something to show for being here.”

  Fifty-One

  Joanna surveyed Will’s London home with pride and satisfaction. All of the boxes had been unpacked and removed; the West Square apartment was perfect. She looked at the dining room table and tried to picture Will sitting there, eating a meal with a woman, laughing with her. To her surprise, the image came naturally and the event seemed possible. She imagined them retiring to the other end of the living room, Will placing one of his Segovia records on the Garrard turntable, lighting a fire, pouring her a calvados, and sitting next to her on the Edwardian sofa. What would they talk about? Perhaps music, if they had that in common. Or maybe Will would try to impress her with his past exploits in MI6 and the Legion. No, he would never share those memories with someone he liked. He could capture her interest with his knowledge of London and its secrets, knowledge gained from his many walks through the capital’s streets and alleys, though he’d need to omit telling her all the dark secrets. And he could enthrall her by describing the beauty that he’d seen during his overseas travels: Indian mists revealing glimpses of palaces and placid lakes in Rajasthan; shooting stars racing through a blue diamond-encrusted night sky above southern Chile’s archipelago; fishermen and their trained cormorants drifting in tiny boats in the azure lakes of the Jiuzhaigou Valley; and candles being lit across Myanmar’s plain of a thousand pagodas. He’d taken time to see these and a multitude of other stunning places, even though he’d been there to kill men.

  Joanna rubbed her arthritic hips as she walked into the kitchen. Robert was in there, frying bacon. “Darling, the post will be here in a minute.”

  Her husband was wearing a chef’s apron that Joanna had bought for Will’s return home. On it were the words WILLY THE KITCHEN WIZARD. “Right you are, old girl. You want ketchup in your sandwich?”

  “No. And I don’t want you putting any in yours, either.”

  Robert huffed. “Bloody doctor’s orders are going to see me die early of boredom.”

  They heard whistling in the stairwell outside the front door. The postman. Robert turned off the pan, grabbed his pump-action shotgun, and nodded at Joanna.

  Two minutes later, Joanna’s hand was shaking as she held the letter and reread it to make sure that her eyes hadn’t deceived her.

  Dear Joanna and Robert,

  Have you enjoyed your stay at Will Cochrane’s house? I’m sure he’ll be very grateful that you’ve spent so much time unpacking his items and making his home look tasteful. I particularly like how you’ve combined the Louis XV lacquer and ormolu commode with the set of Venetian trespoli and the pair of eighteenth-century Guangzhou imperial dress swords. Like me, Mr. Cochrane has a good eye for antiquities, though his tastes are too eclectic. I commend you for achieving the near-impossible task of arranging his collection within one home.

  I’m writing to let you know that you don’t need to remain in his house any longer. This will be the last letter I send. I’d be grateful if you could let him know that Mrs. Rubner has contacted me in what can only be described as a state of hysteria. To my disgust, I learned that British and American men kidnapped her and her daughter in order to try to get to me. I had wondered if Mr. Cochrane had given up chasing me; it appears that has not been the case. There is no excuse for what he did to Mrs. Rubner and her daughter, though I’m grateful he released them unharmed. But I cannot forgive him for killing Mrs. Rubner’s husband, a man who was also a trusted and valuable employee of mine. That action was deplorable.

  I’ve been left with no choice other than to address that.

  Every morning, you’ve been extremely meticulous with the way you’ve collected mail delivered to Mr. Cochrane’s house. I estimate you’ll be reading these words at 0704 hours.

  Exactly four minutes after Will Cochrane’s loved one was shot in the head.

  Yours sincerely,

  William

  Fifty-Two

  Alfie snapped his cell phone shut and ran as fast as he could along the Isle of Wight’s Compton Bay beach. While Betty was preparing sausages and eggs and waiting for Sarah and James to come downstairs, the retiree had been taking an early-morning walk along the empty beach in order to rejoin the coastal road and then watch the holiday home and its surroundings from a distance. But Joanna had called him before he got to that location. It still left the sixty-five-year-old ex-SAS sergeant half a mile of coastline to reach the house.

  The same words raced through his mind as he tried to force his aging legs to move faster and his lungs to give him more oxygen.

  Bloody hell, no! Bloody hell, no!

  He wheezed, his stiff limbs and back throbbed, and his temples ached from the exertion and the icy winter air. Why did he have to be this old, this far away from the house? He could see it now, tiny, at least eight hundred paces away. His heart was pounding. Maybe it would give out on him and he’d die here, just as his old man had done. A pointless death.

  Each footfall made his boots sink inches into the wet sand. Bleedin’ sand-loved it as a kid; hated it in the army. All those runs along it carrying a rifle and webbing. But at least he’d been in his twenties then. What was he thinking about sand for? Because he didn’t want to
think about anything else, that’s why.

  Taste of blood in his mouth. That was normal. Get that regardless of age. Spat out more blood in his time than he could remember. Got plenty more of it inside. Just need to remember that yer body can do five times more than yer mind wants it to do. That’s what got him through the freezing sleet and wind in the final stage of SAS selection: a hellish mountain trek with sixty pounds of gear on his back, while carrying a rifle with no sling. Shit, that was tough, and had come on the back of four weeks of endless marches and runs, most of ’em on your own, just a basic compass for navigation, back breaking from the weight, up and down mountains, shivering all the time, every inch of yer feet pissing gunk from blisters. Long time ago. Since then, he’d gotten old. Running along this small bit of beach was every bit as tough as final selection.

  As his legs slowed, he felt his handgun rub against his hip. Probably had taken the skin off by now. Didn’t matter, skin would grow back. Soon he’d take the gun out. Not yet. Had to be close. Must remember the house entry drills. Watch the angles; speed crucial; chest shots first. Christ! Speed? What a joke.

  He reached the base of a set of wooden steps leading up the cliff to the road. His breathing was shallow, legs like lead, head gettin’ dizzy. Control that. Get yer mind in shape. Might have shooting to do.

  Who you kidding? You’re not in the Regiment’s Special Projects Team now. Just a knackered ol’ codger. Yeah, but you can still shoot, remember? The years ain’t touched that. Bless ’em.

  Using one hand on a rail to aid him, he hauled his body up the steps, used the back of his other arm to wipe sweat from his brow. Can’t have that shit in your eyes. He reached the top. House one seven three yards away. Cross the road, follow edge of the open heathland, keep low, gun out when within pistol kill range. Fuck what the passengers of any passing cars thought. Nothing on the road, though-two miles visibility along it to the southeast, one mile northwest.

  He walked across the road, wincing as his whole body felt like it was being torn apart. Wish Cochrane was here. Get a grip. He ain’t here, dickhead; you are.

  Okay. Small-arms kill range now. Gun out. Two hands. Drop low.

  Sixty yards from house. Top windows, east wall-one, two, three, four: all clear. Bottom windows: no sightings. Still leaves four rooms unaccounted for. Front or back entrance? Neither has element of surprise if a professional team’s in there. Reckon front’s best. Gives better angles, plus sight of two more rooms on approach.

  Priority: kill bastards, secure target zone.

  No bastards?

  Hunt bastards down. Kill bastards.

  Got to remove emotion. Done it before, remember? Yer pal Geordie’s team in Borneo; knew they were all cut up before you went in to get the bodies and give a bit of payback to their killers. Aden, Northern Ireland, Falklands. More dead mates. Couldn’t think about them while doin’ yer job. Thinking and stuff comes after.

  Different now though, ain’t it? You’ve let Cochrane down. Sarah’s dead.

  And all you can do now is rescue Betty and James.

  Betty. Standing next to her all those years ago. Poky south London church. Him in his cheap but neatly pressed suit and shiny shoes. Confetti in his Brylcreemed hair. Her in the dress her mum and sisters had made for the day. Goodness, his missus looked lovely. Proud day that. Best day. She sorted him right out, she did. Made him grow up and get values. Made him more of a man than all them marches.

  Biggest test of yer manhood coming up. Need to be able to step over Sarah’s body, keep your gun high, angles, body shots, room clearance, don’t think, don’t feel. Yet.

  He reached the edge of the house.

  Movement behind one of the windows.

  Then nothing.

  Shit!

  Looks like we’re in for a firefight.

  Body’s feeling a bit better. Hands? Arms? They ain’t shaking. Eyes? Brain? Good enough.

  Right, lads.

  Who dares wins.

  Get it done.

  He crawled alongside the front of the house, rose to a crouch beside the front door, held his gun with one hand, used the other to grip the door handle, and eased the door open a few inches.

  Silence.

  Now.

  He stood, kicked the door fully open, and rushed forward with his gun held high.

  He froze.

  Sarah was slumped on the floor.

  Covered in blood.

  Fifty-Three

  The military base was a hive of activity, with DSI and other Dutch law enforcement personnel moving quickly on foot and in vehicles to other parts of the establishment, some of them standing guard around the runway and adjacent hangars, and a small cadre of DSI professionals checking weapons and communications equipment in the long, rectangular barracks where Will and his team were. The six Dutchmen were the protection unit who’d be escorting the witness north to The Hague. Kapitein Derksen was one of them. Like his men, he was wearing a blue jacket, jeans, combat belt, canvas boots, balaclava, and bulletproof vest with the word POLITIE on the front and back.

  After stripping down his FN P90 submachine gun and his Glock 17 pistol, Derksen walked over to Will and Mikhail. “The witness has been moved to the holding facility; the plane landed an hour ago and has been searched; we’ll be green light in thirty minutes. Do it as I told you-very fast.” Within the small area of balaclava that exposed his eyes, there were no signs of any emotion. “You have everything you need?”

  Mikhail patted his overcoat. Underneath it was a holster containing a Glock handgun. “We could have done with clothes like yours and”-he nodded toward the officer’s P90-“more firepower.”

  “You have to be distinguishable from my men, so we know who’re the professionals and who’re the amateurs,” Derksen snapped. “Fifteen minutes before takeoff.” He turned and walked back to his men.

  The MI6 and SVR officers approached Roger, Laith, Mark, and Adam. Like Will and Mikhail, they were all dressed as if they were about to attend a winter business conference in a five-star hotel.

  Will said, “When we get to The Hague, I’m going to try to keep us in play. We’ll have ten more days of sitting on our asses in another secure facility before the hearing.” He glanced at Laith. “Gives the rest of us a chance to win back our cash.”

  Laith smiled. “You’ll lose again if you think poker’s a game of chance.”

  Okay.” Kapitein Derksen’s voice filled the barracks. “Let’s go!”

  The DSI unit and Will’s team jogged out of the building, then sprinted past other barracks and into a large aircraft hangar. In the center was the G-IV-SP aircraft. Its engines were running, and the pilots were visible in the cockpit, clearly making their preparations. Machine-gun-carrying police officers were standing around the craft; others were kneeling by the open hangar doors, pointing their weapons toward the runway.

  In Dutch, Derksen barked into his throat mic, “Sierra 1. We’re in position at Zulu.”

  Four of his men rushed into the plane as Derksen and another knelt by the plane’s steps and raised their guns. Looking at Will, Derksen snapped, “Get in.”

  Will, Roger, Laith, Mark, Adam, and Mikhail entered the plane. It was quite small but luxurious. Two uniformed officers were at the head of the passenger area. One of them had a sniffer dog on a leash; the other, holding a clipboard, approached a DSI officer. The two spoke for a few seconds before the DSI operative took the clipboard, carefully examined the papers on it, and signed at the bottom. The paperwork showed that every space within the plane’s interior had been searched three times on the secure base by three separate police units. The two police officers left the plane, and the dog’s tail wagged quickly as the animal moved past the men.

  Sumptuous leather seats lined each side of the plane, facing each other and separated halfway along by a bar and cupboards containing food. No doubt, ordinarily this type of carrier would be used for VIP businessmen and perhaps senior politicians. Will and the rest of the team moved to the fr
ont seats, sat, and waited. Five seconds later, Derksen and his colleague entered the craft.

  Between them was an old man.

  The witness.

  The plane started taxiing as the old man was shown to a seat between two large DSI operatives. The remaining four Dutchmen took up positions close to him. One of the officers started talking quickly on his mic, relaying instructions and updates.

  The silver-haired witness was wearing a gray suit, a necktie, and a somber overcoat. His etched, serious expression suggested that he had no appreciation for the craft’s luxurious interior.

  The plane’s engine noise grew louder.

  Will darted a look at Kapitein Derksen as the plane began increasing in speed. “Who is he?”

  Derksen remained silent, motionless, gripping his submachine gun, just like the rest of his men.

  “Who is he?”

  The plane accelerated and took off.

  “Kapitein Derksen. .!”

  Derksen answered, “Now that we’re airborne, I’m permitted to give you his identity. His name is Nikolai Dmitriev, former colonel with the KGB and SVR.”

  Dmitriev. The name Will had seen in the papers he’d discovered in Yevtushenko’s house.

  The officer who’d attended the secret meeting in Berlin in 1995.

  The man who’d approached The Hague six months ago in order to give evidence about a secret pact.

  Will stared at Dmitriev, then glanced out of the window, bracing himself in case the plane was hit by a missile.