Siege: A Thriller

by Simon Kernick

“Because I’m involved. Now sit down in the chair by the bed, and no more talking.”

  She cocked the pistol, still keeping it trained between his eyes, and deliberately tightened her finger on the trigger.

  “Now look here, Cat, I’m sure we can sort this out,” he said, a patronizing expression on his face, as if he was confident that she could be reasoned with, which was typical of him. Michael Prior was a man used to getting his own way.

  “There’s nothing to sort out. I’m a soldier of the Pan-Arab Army of God and you are my prisoner.”

  Michael sat down heavily in the tub chair next to the window, his face pale with shock.

  “If you put the gun down, we can sort this out, I promise. It’s not too late.”

  Cat could hear the strain in his voice. “And if you keep talking, I’ll shoot you in the kneecap, and I won’t miss. I’ve had extensive training with the Glock 17, and the suppressor does a very good job of keeping the noise down, so if I do pull the trigger no one’s going to hear. My orders are to keep you alive, but no one’s going to care if you can’t walk.” She kept her voice totally calm, as she’d been trained to do, and it seemed to do the trick. Michael was visibly nervous now and beginning to sweat.

  Keeping the gun on him, she reached into a Harrods bag she’d brought with her, pulled out two pairs of ankle restraints, and lobbed them over to him. “Put these on—one hoop around each ankle, the other around each of the front chair legs. Make sure they’re locked, then throw the keys on the bed.”

  He caught them easily, but rather than put them on he made one last effort to salvage the situation. “Come on, Cat,” he said, looking at her imploringly. “We have something together, don’t we? Something special. Let’s not destroy it. I’m in love with you, darling. Remember that. I’m in love with you. You mean everything to me.”

  Cat shook her head. What fools men could be sometimes, especially when they wanted sex. “You make my skin crawl, Michael. I was given orders to draw you into a relationship, and that’s exactly what I’ve done. Now put those restraints on before I lose patience.”

  She watched the realization that he’d been utterly suckered finally sink in. He looked truly upset, which pleased her. She’d done her job well.

  “You’re making a big mistake, you know,” he blustered. “If you go through with this, you won’t see the outside of a prison for years.”

  Once again her finger tightened on the trigger, and Michael must have seen the contempt in her face, because he finally did as he’d been told.

  When he’d finished she came up behind him and made him put his hands behind his back and lean forward, toward the floor. “The Glock’s trained on your right shoulder blade, so don’t try anything,” she said, putting a pair of old-fashioned handcuffs on his wrists and locking them with her free hand.

  Michael was now completely helpless.

  “But I’ve seen your background details,” he said, the confusion in his voice obvious as he watched her remove the ball gag from the Harrods bag. “How could this have happened?”

  She bent down close to his face, smiling coldly. “The woman you employed does not exist. Catherine Manolis died in Nice in October 1985, aged twenty-three months. Her identity was stolen and used to apply for false identity documents. We tailored her to suit the job application, and no one spotted it.”

  Michael sighed. “So, everything you told me about your upbringing was rubbish. You’re not a widow at all.”

  “Oh yes,” she told him, her voice hardening, “I’m definitely a widow. My husband was murdered last year defending his country against men like you. Except while he was fighting on the frontline you were sitting far away behind a desk giving orders.”

  “But Cat, you must understand, I had nothing to do with that. I was—”

  Before he could finish the sentence, she stuffed the ball gag into his mouth. Again he tried to protest, but she pushed the gun against his cheek and ordered him to bite down hard on the gag, and he did as he was told.

  When she’d finished gagging him, she pulled out his mobile phone and switched it off. It would be switched on again later and moved to different places in the hotel to confuse any rescuers trying to locate him.

  She then pulled out her own phone and speed-dialed a number. “I have the prize,” she said, “and it’s ready to be opened.”

  And Michael Prior truly was a prize. But then, a director of MI6 was always going to be.

  17

  16:40

  Wolf put down his mobile and turned to Fox. As he did so, some of the hardness left his face, and for a moment he had that faraway look of the daydreamer.

  Every man has a weakness, thought Fox, and, like a lot of men, Wolf’s was the opposite sex. The woman on the other end of the line had him wrapped around her little finger, and that worried Fox because she was a willful little bitch. He had the feeling that when the op began in earnest she might well cause problems.

  He’d have to watch that.

  “Cat’s got him,” Wolf said as Fox turned the van out of the traffic chaos of Park Lane and down one of the side streets. “The MI6 man is ours.”

  “Good. She’s done well.”

  And she had too. To lure such a senior member of one of the largest intelligence agencies in the world into a honey-trap was no mean feat, and it had taken a lot of skill and planning. But then it seemed that Michael Prior’s weakness was women too.

  Fox drove the van around the back of the Stanhope Hotel, parking on double yellow lines a few yards short of the delivery entrance. The journey had taken them eight minutes longer than anticipated, and Fox could almost feel the adrenaline surging around the interior as each of them prepared for the assault. Wolf had pulled back the curtain separating the front cab from the back, and Fox could see the others now. Each of them was quiet and focused. Everyone was waiting to begin.

  Wolf put his mobile on loudspeaker and made a call to Panther, their inside man in the Stanhope.

  Panther was Cat’s brother, Armin. Both Fox and Wolf had met him on a number of occasions as they endeavored to find out everything they could about the hotel. He was an unpleasant little bastard with a bad attitude who resented the fact that he might have to take orders from Fox, a foreigner he neither knew nor respected, but in the three weeks he’d been working at the Stanhope as a room service waiter he’d been an invaluable source of information.

  It had been no problem getting him the job. Big hotels are notorious for their lack of background checks. He possessed good-quality fake papers supplied by his embassy, entitling him to work in the UK, and the fact that he had no experience, and virtually nothing on his CV to indicate what he’d been doing for the past few years, was clearly of no consequence. What mattered to the hotel’s management was that he had a valid work permit and, more important, was prepared to work hard for the frankly appalling wages on offer.

  Panther answered immediately. “What kept you?” he hissed into the phone. “I’ve been waiting by the back door for the last fifteen minutes. If anyone spots me—”

  “We’re here now,” Wolf told him. “What’s the situation in there?”

  “Everything’s good. The kitchens are beginning to get busy. About twenty to twenty-five staff inside.”

  “What’s the security on the gate like? Can you see?”

  “Just the usual guy, Kwame. He’s sitting down reading the paper. I can see him now.”

  Wolf and Fox exchanged glances, then Fox turned to the men in the back. They all sat up straight in anticipation, cocking their weapons.

  “OK, get the back door open,” ordered Wolf. “We’re coming in.”

  “Right,” Fox said, “we all know what we’re doing. This is crowd control, not a shooting fest. We want them scared but not panicking. But if anyone resists or makes a bolt for it, take them down. If any of you still have mobiles on you, turn them off now and do not use them for the duration of the op. From now on, all communications are face to face. Got that?”

>   Every man grunted his agreement.

  Fox pulled the van away from the curb and into an archway that led through to a rear courtyard where the Stanhope received all its deliveries. As the van approached the single-bar security gate, Kwame put his paper down and got up from the chair. He was only a young guy—twenty-five, twenty-six—with the kind of round boyish face that was never going to cause anyone any trouble.

  As he walked up to the driver’s-side window, Fox pulled a gun from the seat pocket beside him and pointed it at his face. “Open the gate.”

  Kwame nodded rapidly and immediately put a code into a keypad on the gatepost that lifted the gate automatically, before shoving his hands in the air just so no one was in any doubt that he was being cooperative.

  Not that it made any difference. Fox held his gun arm ramrod straight and shot him in the eye, the bullet’s retort echoing around the archway, before accelerating into the courtyard.

  Panther had already opened the double doors that led through to the kitchens, and it looked like he was talking animatedly to someone behind him.

  Fox swung the van around in a wide semicircle and backed it up to where Panther stood in the open doorway, looking over to where Kwame’s body lay unmoving on the ground. Anyone passing along the street outside would see it, but it no longer mattered.

  They’d arrived, and soon the whole world would know about what they were doing.

  He cut the engine, removed the cap and glasses disguise he’d been wearing, and pulled on a balaclava. Then, grabbing his AK-47 and backpack from behind the seat, he leaped out of the van along with the others, feeling a tremendous exhilaration.

  It was time for war.

  18

  The Stanhope’s main kitchen was situated on the ground floor, directly below the main ballroom on the mezzanine floor, yet well out of sight of the lobby. It was reached through a soundproofed door marked “Staff Only,” and as soon as Elena was through it she was assailed by the smell and noise of preparations for the evening food service.

  Her mood hadn’t improved much. Having mollified the guests who’d originally complained about the late arrival of their room service orders with complimentary champagne, she’d just been informed by reception that there were two more similar complaints, including one from a VIP guest who’d been waiting almost an hour for a steak burger and fries. There were always occasional delays in delivering orders in a hotel the size of the Stanhope, but they tended to be rare. A cluster of five was almost unheard of and Elena had decided to get it sorted out once and for all with the catering manager. If it turned out that Armin was the one responsible, she’d march him off the premises herself then and there.

  She spotted a familiar face—Faisal, the Jordanian line cook, who was stirring a giant steaming pot—and he gave her a big grin and an exaggerated tip of his chef’s hat. “Miss Serenko. Looking beautiful as always. How are you?”

  “Why, thank you, Faisal,” replied Elena, feeling better immediately. “I’m fine, thanks. Have you seen Rav? I need a word with him.”

  “I think he’s out back telling off one of the employees.” He arched a thick gray eyebrow and was about to say something else when there was a loud commotion and a series of barked shouts coming from behind the door that led to the kitchen’s main storage and delivery area.

  As everyone turned toward it, another sound rang out. One that was unmistakable.

  A gunshot.

  No one moved. It was just too unexpected for anyone to react.

  And then the door opened and Elena let out a shocked gasp as Rav stumbled through it. Dressed smartly, as always, in a navy suit, he was clutching his stomach, where a dark red stain was spreading across the white of his shirt. His face registered complete surprise—a surprise that was reflected in every other face in the kitchen.

  Two more shots rang out in quick succession and Rav’s face appeared to explode, showering one of the stainless steel work surfaces with blood. As he collapsed, another figure filled the doorway. It was Armin, the room service waiter Elena had had the confrontation with barely half an hour earlier, and he was holding a smoking handgun out in front of him.

  A young pot washer Elena vaguely recognized was standing a few feet away from Armin, and he leaped at him, going for his gun. But Armin was quicker. He swung around and opened fire, his bullets sending the pot washer crashing backward.

  More men strode into the room, one after another, dressed identically in balaclavas and dark clothing. All were carrying assault rifles.

  “Everyone down on the floor now!” screamed the first of the men, pointing his rifle straight at Elena’s chest.

  For an interminably long, slow moment, she was completely mesmerized by the scene in front of her; then Faisal grabbed her by the collar of her jacket and pulled her to the floor.

  A second later the noise of automatic rifle fire from more than one weapon erupted around the kitchen, and as Elena hit the floor, shoulder blades first, she heard Faisal cry out and saw him stumble past her before collapsing to his knees. He swayed unsteadily in that position as more bullets tore up his back like angry geysers, and then he pitched over sideways, landing on Elena’s feet, already dead.

  The whole thing had lasted barely ten seconds, and it had taken Elena a good portion of that time to come to terms with what was going on; but now that she had, she experienced an icy, stomach-wrenching terror followed immediately by a desperate desire to survive. Knowing she had to get out of the line of fire, she kicked Faisal’s body off her and scrambled on her hands and knees behind one of the kitchen units as another burst of rifle fire reverberated around the room, the bullets ricocheting like pinballs off the stainless steel work surfaces.

  Leaning back against the unit, the fear coming at her in ferocious waves, she realized she was trapped. It was a good ten feet to the door that led back into the lobby, most of it over exposed ground. She’d never make it. She was going to die, helpless and without the people she loved—Rod, her mother, her sister—by her side.

  In a hotel kitchen that smelled of fat, for God’s sake.

  Elena caught the eye of another member of staff, a young Irishman called Aidan she’d seen working in the kitchens a few times before. She remembered him because he looked more like an artist or a singer than a cook. He had raffish curly hair and a cool beard, and sad but very beautiful blue eyes. Even though she loved Rod, she’d always found Aidan attractive in an exotic way, as if he was a box full of secrets. He was squatting down on his haunches next to a unit a few feet away, looking scared but calm. He tried to give her a reassuring look.

  But there was nothing to be reassured about. They could either run and be cut down by the guns or wait here and die.

  The shooting had stopped. Somehow, Elena found the silence even more terrifying than the noise because she had no idea what was going to happen next.

  She heard more shouting coming from the gunmen, telling people to get down and stay down, followed by footsteps coming closer.

  She held her breath and pushed back against the metal, hoping it would somehow open up to conceal her, praying for God’s help.

  The footsteps stopped. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a pair of scuffed black shoes, only feet away. On her side of the unit.

  Slowly, experiencing a cold dread that seemed to turn her whole body to jelly, she looked up.

  Armin stared back at her coldly, no feeling at all in his dark eyes, the barrel of the gun close enough to her face that she could feel its heat.

  Then he looked beyond her toward Aidan.

  Aidan looked at Armin calmly and there was defiance in his deep blue eyes. “There’s no need,” he said, his voice steady.

  The gun kicked violently as Armin pulled the trigger, hitting Aidan in the head. He gasped once and toppled silently to the floor, his blood splattering the tiles. Then he lay still in a fetal position as his face was slowly overrun by a curtain of red.

  Seeing him go like that—his life, his dreams, his
secrets, snuffed out in an instant—was such a huge shock that Elena hardly noticed Armin turn his gaze back to her.

  He looked down at her, and he was smiling as his finger tightened on the trigger.

  Surprisingly, like Aidan, she felt perfectly calm. If this was her time, so be it. She thought of Rod. Of the life they could have had together . . . the sun, the sea, children, because she’d always wanted children. A boy and a girl.

  And then one of the balaclava-clad gunmen appeared. “What’s going on?” he demanded in a Middle Eastern accent.

  “That one tried to run away,” Armin lied, motioning dismissively toward Aidan’s body. “And this one’s the manager.”

  The masked gunman looked down at Elena. “All right, on your feet. You’re coming with us.” He leaned down and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her roughly to her feet, which was when she saw that there were five other gunmen dotted around the room.

  God, Elena thought, beginning to panic again. What the hell is going on?

  “Grab anyone that’s still alive and bring them through,” the man holding her shouted. “Fox—you, Panther, and Leopard are the vanguard. Now, let’s take the rest of this place. And remember, hold your fire and only shoot when you have to. We want to keep as many people alive as possible.”

  With that he shoved the rifle in Elena’s side and dragged her toward the door that led through to the rest of the hotel.

  19

  The plan called for the utmost speed when taking control of the building.

  Already things had got out of hand with the assault on the kitchen. Fox had told the men to fire some warning shots to encourage the staff to comply, but the inside man, Panther, had gone crazy, shooting dead at least three people and panicking the others, several of whom had tried to escape. The result had been more people shot down by other members of the team. The Dane, Tiger, had been pretty liberal with the bullets as well, the sadistic bastard. Fox knew it was time to restore discipline, otherwise they’d provoke an early assault from the security forces, which would mess up everything.