Finally satisfied that they weren’t going to be disturbed, Cole turned around and made his way back toward the staircase.
He had some questions he was going to ask Radomir Milanović.
And he wasn’t in the mood to ask them nicely.
16
Cole stood over the dead body of Radomir Milanović, absolutely stunned at what the man had told him.
It turned out that excessive force wasn’t necessary to get the man to talk; it was the hired muscle who were the force behind his enterprise, Milanović himself – although he liked to watch violence inflicted on others – being almost entirely incapable of dealing with pain.
After he’d talked though, Cole had killed him anyway; he had the information he wanted, and the world would be a better place without the arms broker in it. Who was he to judge? He’d decided that it no longer mattered – like Goran, he was perhaps something of an automaton, although rather than following the orders of others, he merely acted upon the powerful drive of his own internal moral compass. And that moral compass told him that to protect the innocents of the world, he had to remove the guilty; and if that made him guilty in turn, then so be it.
His mind was still processing what the man had told him, and what it meant, the possible ramifications, when he heard the sirens – first faintly, then louder and louder, until he was sure that there must be enough police cars up in the compound to completely fill it.
He thought that they might have been contacted by one of the local residents, and he decided to make the first move, running up the stairs to see what was going on rather than waiting back in the basement, surrounded by dead bodies. Even if the police were honest – unusual for this part of the world – the sight that would greet them downstairs might cause them to shoot Cole just as an instinctive reaction.
He arrived on the first floor, and saw the flashing lights through the broken windows. He wondered whether he should have brought one of the guns upstairs with him, but didn’t want to give them any excuse to shoot him.
But then again, could the police here be trusted? Or were they in league with Milanović, had he paid them off?
There must have been over two dozen of them though, and he soon realized he had no sort of choice anyway.
And so – reluctantly, given what he had just learnt from Milanović, and already trying to work out how he was going to get the word out from a Serbian jail cell – he strode out of the remains of the central tower towards the gathered police officers, hands held high in the air in surrender.
They’d not shot him, and for that, Cole would be forever grateful; but they had taken him to Belgrade’s central police station and stuck him in the cells, despite his requests to have someone from the US Embassy contact him immediately.
And then – perhaps an hour later – an officer came to his cell and told him in broken English that someone had come to see him. His heart leapt in his chest, and he hoped that it was someone from the embassy. If it was, he would have them make contact with Vinson – or Olsen, or dos Santos, or even the president herself. But he needed to get the word out quickly, to someone who could do something about it.
He was taken to an interview room, where he was told to take a seat. There was no coffee, no water, just a desk and two chairs. He remained handcuffed, and a police guard waited outside.
He waited for several minutes and then – just when he’d decided that they were playing mind games with him, and nobody was coming to see him at all – the door opened and in came someone who Cole recognized instantly, perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Elizabeth Morgan, who he’d hoped had escaped Serbia altogether, was instead standing right there in front of him.
‘I’m so happy that you’re alive,’ Morgan breathed as she sat across from him. ‘What the hell happened to you?’
Cole told her, as briefly as he could, then started with questions of his own. ‘Never mind me,’ he said, ‘what happened to you? I thought you’d have hightailed it out of here. You should have.’
‘I couldn’t leave you,’ she said honestly, wide eyes boring into his. ‘When the rooms changed, I raced downstairs, grabbed the car and brought it over to the Crowne Plaza, waited in the parking lot until I saw something. I waited a little while, then I did see something – I saw you, two guys carrying you as if you’d passed out drunk and putting you in the back of a car. Three cars filled up with guys, and they all pulled out of the parking lot. I followed them for about half a mile, then pulled over when it looked obvious where they were going – I didn’t want to follow them all the way, in case they saw me. So I went the rest of the way on foot, saw the cars parked outside that tower, and made a decision.’
‘You called the police.’
Morgan nodded. ‘I did,’ she confirmed. ‘They just laughed at me at first though, told me to get lost. I wasn’t sure what to do, but in the end I decided it was worth the risk and used my credentials.’
‘You told them you were MI5?’ Cole asked, surprised. ‘Weren’t you worried they’d arrest you as a spy or something?’
But Morgan shook her head. ‘No, we’ve built up quite a good relationship with the Serbian authorities over the years, our cooperation goes back a long way although it’s something that people don’t like to talk about.’
‘Okay, but you’ve involved MI5 now, so they know where you are, everything we’ve done.’
‘That’s why I used my own personal ID for our travel, wasn’t it? So at least one of us would be official, so that anything we find can be validated.’
‘Yes,’ Cole agreed, ‘I guess so. But what did you tell them about me?’
‘They don’t know anything about you,’ Morgan said. ‘I told them I was here working independently, having heard rumors about Milanović and following up on them with some surveillance – this is what I told Kelly and Riley too, by the way – and then that I saw a group of armed men dragging an unconscious man from the hotel and driving him to Sajmište concentration camp. And then I demanded that they do something about it. Eventually, they did. The only reason they’ve let me in here now is to let me question you, to try and find out your link to Milanović, I’ve told them my superiors need to know who you are.’
‘Thank you,’ Cole said, looking at her earnestly, wishing he could take her hands in his across the table but instead trying to convey his gratitude through his eyes. He didn’t bother mentioning that he had already escaped, that her ‘rescue’ had actually done more harm than good – her intentions had been good, and in other circumstances the police might well have saved him. He also appreciated the predicament this had put her in, how she’d had to admit to being a foreign intelligence operative working in a non-aligned nation. In addition to her actions in London, the outlook for her future career wouldn’t be looking so great now, and she would have had to have known that.
And yet she had risked everything, to help save him.
‘I’m glad you’re okay,’ Cole said, unable to think of anything better, any words that would more honestly convey the depths of his feelings. But she seemed to understand him nevertheless, and she gave him a small smile, careful of the police officer who watched them through the armored glass of the door.
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘I was worried they might have killed you.’
‘No,’ Cole said, knowing how he would reward her now, killing two birds with one stone – allowing her the chance to redeem herself with her superiors in London, while at the same time getting the information he had out to his own people. ‘I’m fine, trust me. I could use a beer, though, I guess.’ She smiled again, and he looked at her more seriously. ‘But listen,’ he said. ‘Milanović talked. He told me everything.’
‘He talked?’ Morgan said excitedly, even as the guard knocked on the window and held up two fingers to indicate they only had two minutes left. ‘What did he say?’
‘He told me who ordered the weapons, gave me a name.’
‘Who?’
‘A man by the name of Mohammed Younesi.’
‘Younesi?’ Morgan asked. ‘I’ve heard that name before somewhere, I’m sure of it.’
‘Well, if you’ve ever spent any time on the Middle Eastern or South Asian desks, you probably have. He’s an operations officer with the Ministry of Intelligence.’ He paused for a moment before clarifying. ‘Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence.’
‘Iran?’ Morgan said with a gasp. ‘Then this whole thing has been state-sponsored?’
Cole nodded. ‘And I think there’s more, Milanović was convinced there’s going to be a secondary attack.’ He leaned closer and whispered. ‘And what disturbs me even more is that the weapons weren’t the only things that Milanović supplied to the Corsicans for them to ship over to England. Apparently the Iranians gave Milanović a crate, told him to send it over to Javid Khan along with the weapons.’
‘Any idea what was in it?’
Cole shook his head. ‘Even Milanović didn’t know,’ he said, then turned as the guard knocked again, held up a single finger. ‘Look,’ he said ‘there’s nothing else you can do for me here, you need to get this information out to your people – Kelly, Sir Riley, anyone else you can think of. And you’ve got to pass it to my people too, get this to Catalina dos Santos, okay? She’s the Director of National Intelligence, she’s in charge of everything intel-related, she’ll get it to the right people.’ As one of the only people who knew of Force One’s existence, dos Santos was therefore also one of the only people he trusted with this information.
‘I know I can’t help you get out of here,’ she said sadly, ‘and I’m sorry, I really am. I’ve been recalled to London anyway, I’ll get this out to the right people, don’t worry.’
Cole nodded. ‘Look, with state backing like this, we’re looking at one hell of a lot more organization than we thought. You’re going to have to make them cancel that memorial event on Sunday, it’s just too damn risky.’
‘I know,’ Morgan said, ‘I know. And trust me, I’ll do my best. But you know what they’re like, so pigheaded, they’ll want more evidence, they’ll put this down to hearsay.’
Cole nodded, hearing the door opening, turned to see the guard entering to escort him back to his cell. ‘I know,’ Cole said, ‘but you have to try.’ The guard took Cole by the arm, and he could see that Morgan was upset to see him go. He was upset to lose her too, but there were more important things at stake.
‘Promise me you’ll try,’ he called back over his shoulder as he was led out of the room, straining to look back at her one last time. ‘Promise me!’
‘I’ll do it!’ she called after him. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it!’
Her words gave him some comfort, and he knew that Morgan would do her best – she came after him against the odds, after all.
But, as he was taken back down the corridor toward his cell, he knew he couldn’t leave it entirely up to her. She’d been right about one thing, he knew – despite the danger, the powers-that-be would be unlikely to change their direction without clear evidence.
And so Cole knew what he had to do, seeing it with perfect clarity.
He had to escape from prison, get out of Serbia, and make his way into Iran to find this man, Mohammed Younesi.
Find him, and find out just what the hell else the Iranian government had planned for the Western world.
Before it was too late.
PART THREE
1
‘Impressive,’ Clark Mason said, for once in his life actually meaning it.
He was in Fort Bragg, a huge US military base in North Carolina that was home to America’s airborne and special operations forces, at the invitation of Colonel Manfred Jones. They had just watched a training exercise where Delta Force operatives had raided an apartment complex – part of a synthetic ‘town’ on the Bragg site, which could be set up, blown apart and then reconfigured, time after time – and sustained casualties, who had then been rescued in the face of embedded enemy forces by a team from the Air Force Special Tactics Squadron.
It had been textbook stuff – the initial attack by Delta had been picture perfect, the ‘injuries’ forced in order for the secondary phase of the exercise to take place; and then the STS boys had gone in, fast-roping from Black Hawk choppers, taking out the enemy forces while stabilizing the casualties, and evacuating on the helicopters, which landed in the hot zone for just long enough to get everyone on board, before soaring off into the descending dusk.
‘They are that,’ Jones said with just a hint of pride. ‘I can see why Miley thought this was the best job in the world.’
‘You didn’t fancy joining them then?’ Mason asked with a smile.
Jones grinned back. ‘That was more Miley’s game,’ he said, ‘and I think you know that. I’m a bit too old – and yes, boring – for that sort of thing.’
Mason laughed. General Miley Cooper had been anything but boring – the last Commander of the Joint Special Operations Command had broken his legs and pelvis doing a nighttime parachute jump with Delta Force, not too far from here at Pope Field. He had believed in leading from the front, but Jones had other ideas about command and control – after all, he figured, look at what had happened to Cooper.
Jones had been his deputy, more of a political appointee than a man totally cut-out for the job; and yet here he was now, Commander of JSOC in his own right, and Mason recognized the fact that Jones was proud of his position here, despite not really being respected by his troops, who saw him as a paper-pusher and not a balls-to-the-wall operator like Cooper.
‘You’ll get used to all this if you’re not careful,’ Mason said as Jones led him around the apartment complex, pointing out the precision shooting of the Delta operators, double-tap headshots to all the ‘enemy’ mannequins, the ‘friendlies’ left unscathed even when they were mere inches apart.
Jones stopped and turned to the vice president. ‘I didn’t come to you because I don’t appreciate what these men – and, in some cases, women – do. On the contrary, I have the utmost respect for these people. JSOC have the cream of our forces, the Tier One operators – and they are the best in the world, trust me on that, you simply wouldn’t believe some of the things these guys can do.’
‘You sound like you’re changing your mind,’ Mason chided as they walked on through the carnage. ‘You’re not becoming one of them, are you?’
Jones shook his head. ‘I’m more of a political animal,’ he said, ‘but just as ruthless and committed in my own way. But I think you’ve got me all wrong – I have nothing against these guys here, in fact I have nothing but respect and admiration for them. I respect them because they do what they do – sometimes against impossible odds – because they are serving the will of their country, as decided by Congress. It is when these fine soldiers, sailors and airmen are taken out of the system to be used to satisfy the egotistical cravings of elite politicians, unanswerable to the public, that I start to get upset. In a very real sense, covert units such as the one we suspect is shielded by the Paradigm Group betray everything these men are fighting for, the rule of law, the righteousness of our democratic way of life.’ Jones stopped again, right next to an armed terrorist mannequin with two clean shots through its forehead. ‘Do you understand?’
Mason eyed the mannequin, then Jones. He didn’t really understand the military, had never had an interest in serving and – on a certain level – distrusted anyone who had the desire or the skill-set to place two bullets through a person’s head. But he could grasp the necessity of the military’s existence, for it was the one thing that assured America’s ongoing superpower status. To talk softly and carry a big stick was good advice; it was just that – as a career diplomat and politician – Mason tried to steer away from the stick end of the business.
‘I understand,’ Mason said. ‘Yes, I do understand. But the important thing is that – no matter your reasons – you’re with me.’
‘I am,’ Jones assured him, ‘to the very end.’
Jones followed Mason’s line of sight. ‘They’ll have this place up and running again for more training tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘Walls are modular, they’ll be wheeled about, it’ll be a whole different set-up in here.’
Mason was about to suggest they call it a day and grab a drink, when his cellphone started to vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out, saw who it was, and raised an eyebrow at Jones. ‘It’s Noah,’ he said, before answering the call. ‘Noah,’ he said in greeting, ‘how are you getting on? Any news from that little Jap girl yet?’
Jones watched the blood drain from Mason’s face as Graham replied on the other end of the line, saw the vice president’s teeth clenching, the veins on his neck bulging.
‘I will,’ Mason said, ‘I’ll check it right fucking now.’
He hung up and immediately started typing into his smartphone keypad, stopped and waited to look at the screen.
It can’t be, he told himself, surely it can’t be?
But as he accessed the CNN news feed, Jones looking at the phone over his shoulder, he saw that it was true.
He recognized the video all too readily – it was the home movie of Mason himself having sex with one of his mistresses. Only this particular mistress had convinced him to do a bit of role-play – her as a black slave girl, Mason as a marauding Ku Klux Klansman. It had been a put-up job by Bruce Vinson of the Paradigm Group, and the girl had secretly filmed their disturbing tryst and passed it onto the man, who had then blackmailed Mason into silence with it.
He had promised that it would never be seen, as long as Mason didn’t go public with his accusations against the president running her own covert hit squad. And he hadn’t made those accusations public, had he? He hadn’t told anyone, he’d been as good as his word, surely?
PLEDGE OF HONOR: A Mark Cole Thriller Page 23
