by Alex Shaw
Furrows appeared on the commando’s forehead as his arm swayed and the knife glinted.
Tate held up his palms. ‘Oleniuk sent me!’
‘Oleniuk?’ The commando’s frown deepened and for a split second his eyes flicked away as he repeated the name of his boss. But a split second was all Tate needed. He snapped his right arm forward, connecting with the commando’s wrist, knocking the arm wide, and then followed up with a straight kick to the groin. The man folded. Tate grabbed the fist holding the knife, jerked the man’s arm backward, twisted it, and heard a satisfying pop.
The commando screamed. Tate dragged the injured arm forward, clamping his own fist over the commando’s and drew the knife across his neck. The scream gave way to gurgles and the commando fell limp. Tate swayed, his legs trying to give out. He staggered backward, his eyes now resting on the body of the other commando whose glassy eyes stared at him accusingly.
Tate fell to his knees, exhausted – more than exhausted. His body swayed. How many more people would die today because of him? He didn’t know and part of him didn’t care. He felt no remorse; every man he’d put down had been trying to kill him. He heard a voice. It wasn’t his conscience, it had a tinny tone and came from the comms set. Tate studied the nearest man he had killed; his throat mic was drenched in blood – the sound came from his earpiece. Tate stumbled back towards the window, located the first commando’s mic, and carefully pulled it and the helmet containing the earpiece away.
‘Dolozhyt.’ Report – one word, barked in Russian.
Tate used one Russian word in reply: ‘Chisto.’ Clear.
‘Prinial.’ Got it.
Tate heard the Bell return. How many more men were outside? The pilot only or the pilot and up to three more commandos? That wouldn’t make sense. Tate decided it had to be either the pilot only or the pilot and one more man, the gunner. Unless the gunner had been one of the two he’d just shot? Tate took a deep breath. He didn’t have time to debate with himself. He had a minute, maybe less, and only one option of getting out. He quickly undid the dark coveralls of the dead commando next to him and took them from the still-warm body. They were plastered with blood and gore, but he didn’t care. He pulled them snugly on over his own clothes and placed the sweaty helmet squarely on his head. His boots were a giveaway, but the disguise needed only to work once and for a few seconds.
Tate left the room, cradling the rifle from one of the dead Russians. He took the stairs down. He was finding it difficult to breathe. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep going but the need to get to Washington, the will to reach his brother drove him on.
He walked out, visor down, through the shattered back door and into the large yard. The Bell 429 sat in the middle, the pilot alone seated inside and staring at him. It had been five. An odd number, if they included the pilot, but they were soldiers and hadn’t. Tate breathed deeply, to steady his racing pulse. It was he who had the machine-pistol, not the pilot. Tate closed the gap, opened the front passenger door. A question formed on the pilot’s mouth.
Tate jabbed the stubby HK into the man’s gut and said, in his perfect Russian, ‘Take me to the British Embassy.’
Chapter 24
George Washington Medical Center, Washington, DC
The post-surgery recovery area was down the hall. Chang knocked and entered. Janet was sitting in a chair, holding her husband’s hand. Eric was ashen-faced but he managed a smile.
‘Jon. Thank you.’
‘For getting you shot?’ Chang replied flatly.
‘No, for getting me here.’
‘You’ve not seen the cheque yet – the meter’s still ticking.’
Janet was terse. ‘Eric has left something important at the embassy.’
Chang had a sinking sensation. ‘Oh.’
Eric wet his lips with his tongue. ‘You told me to leave my papers … the stress you see, when I came round I suddenly remembered.’
‘The morphine,’ Janet stated, ‘it jogged your memory.’
It was a peculiar observation, but Chang let it go.
‘There’s a file. It isn’t mine, you see? So I didn’t think about it before we left. It must still be in Simon Hunter’s office. It’s one of his files. He has a secure, locked metal drawer in his desk, but as he wasn’t there he couldn’t clear out his files.’
Chang said, ‘The file is important?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know it’s there?’
‘It’s not allowed to be removed.’
‘I see. What’s in it?’
‘That’s classified.’
Chang sighed heavily. ‘And if this file falls into the wrong hands?’
‘People will die. It’s a Secret Intelligence Service file.’
Chang didn’t bother to reply.
‘Do I have to spell it out to you, Detective Chang?’ Janet asked, sounding exasperated.
‘You want me to return to the British Embassy and collect this file?’
‘Yes,’ Filler said, weakly.
‘OK.’ Chang took a deep breath. ‘Tell me exactly what this case looks like.’
‘It’s in a red folder.’
Washington, DC
The painkillers had started to numb Tate’s battered body, but he had no time to slow down. He needed to keep going; he needed to get to the embassy. He greedily emptied a water bottle commandeered from the Russian pilot as the Bell continued toward Washington. Pressing the HK rifle into the man’s side, Tate learned that the main Russian command centre was at College Park Airport, a little outside Washington. An incoming call on the pilot’s radio curtailed the questioning.
‘Sasha, report. Has Jack Tate been liquidated?’
‘Confirm I am dead,’ Tate snarled before he let the pilot broadcast a reply.
Sasha paused. Tate pushed the HK harder into his side, and Sasha pressed the send button. ‘Tate has been liquidated.’
‘Excellent.’ Oleniuk’s voice became jolly. ‘You have loaded his body?’
‘Yes.’
‘Return to base.’
Sasha made no further reply as the transmission ended.
‘How does he know my name?’
Sasha didn’t reply.
Tate prodded him harder with the HK.
‘The commander of the Houlton base,’ Sasha grunted. ‘He claimed you attacked his airfield and hijacked his plane.’
Tate scowled. ‘How did this commander know my name?’
‘A traitor named Sokol told him.’
‘Sokol is alive,’ Tate muttered to himself.
‘I do not think so. Traitors are not permitted to live.’
Tate cursed. He’d left Sokol for dead, bleeding out on the runway. He’d had no choice but to escape. It wasn’t that he had any remorse for abandoning Oleg Sokol, rather, he felt anger for losing what would have been an invaluable intelligence asset for the British government. And now the man had identified him to the Russians.
‘Tell me about Blackline.’
‘If I tell you that I too become a traitor.’
‘I won’t tell anyone.’
‘You are a funny man, Jack Tate.’
‘So, Blackline?’
‘It is an employer, like any other.’
‘Very insightful. It is run by Maksim Oleniuk?’
‘That should not surprise you.’
‘It does as I shot him dead five years ago.’
‘Then you must be a very bad shot.’ The pilot snorted. ‘Oleniuk is a pompous fool. Me? I am a simple man, I just do this for the money – for my family you understand, but Oleniuk? He has great big plans, aspirations.’
‘Give me an example.’
‘Huh, it is no longer a secret, he plans to become the next President of Russia.’
‘He’s planning a coup?’
‘No he may be a fool but he is not crazy. He will become the next president when this one eventually loses an election, or steps down. He is looking at the long game.’
‘I see.’
‘So, Jack Tate, do you have children, a wife, a family?’ Sasha paused, expecting Tate to reply. He didn’t, so the Russian continued. ‘I have a wife but I do not get the chance to see her.’
Tate didn’t continue the conversation. He sensed that Sasha wanted to lull him into making a mistake, to lower his guard – lower the HK. Tate was tired but not stupid. He said nothing and the interior of the Bell fell silent, save for the rhythmic thud of the rotor blades. Their flightpath had taken them across dark countryside but now Tate saw the occasional glow, the EMP having taken out all electrical lighting. Eventually the outskirts of a city loomed into view below, darker objects against the grey.
‘So you have a family, Jack?’ Sasha asked again.
‘I have no one,’ he lied. His eyes noted a grey freeway, its turnpikes and interconnecting streets leading off like veins. The helo started to lose altitude; Tate smelled a rat. He saw the unmistakable shape of an airfield in the distance and nudged Sasha harder with the HK. ‘What’s that?’
‘An airport.’
‘Which one?’
‘A small private place.’
‘College Park?’ Sasha did not reply. Tate jabbed again. ‘Answer me! Is that College Park?’
‘Da.’
‘Pull up and take us past.’
‘Or you will do what, exactly?’
‘I’ll make sure you’re dead before this thing hits the ground.’
‘You joke. That would be your own death sentence.’
‘Ah, but I have no one. You have a wife.’
‘I lied,’ Sasha grunted.
‘Right or left?’
‘What?’ The pilot was confused.
‘Which leg is your favourite?’ Tate shifted the HK, now digging it into Sasha’s thigh. ‘You may get lucky; I may miss your femoral artery but then again I may not. Either way, you’ll lose a leg.’
‘OK,’ the Russian said sourly as the helo turned away from the airport. ‘Your embassy is eight more minutes south-west.’
Tate remained silent as he continued to scan for threats in the dark skies above grey streets below. He was unnerved, floating above a seemingly sleeping city; not sleeping, he corrected himself, awake but blind. Dim lights flickered in the fast-approaching twilight from more buildings now, and he saw a couple of sets of headlights.
‘Down there,’ Sasha indicated. ‘To your right is the embassy.’
From above, the British Embassy seemed like an empty, topless cube made up of four wings built around an inner courtyard. On three sides, the building was bordered by a parking lot, and on the other by the sweeping tarmac of Observatory Circle. Tate knew that as soon as the helo set down, it would draw attention from anyone within a half-mile radius. This included personnel at the Naval Observatory and guards at the neighbouring embassies.
Tate saw no letter “H” denoting a landing pad. Sasha read his mind. ‘Where shall we land?’
‘There, out the front.’
Faster than Tate would have imagined possible, the Bell dropped and came to a rest in the parking lot, which was empty save for an abandoned taxi.
‘Remove the keys and hand them to me.’
Sasha switched off the helo and moved his hand toward Tate. ‘There.’
‘Drop the keys on my lap. Now give me your sidearm.’
‘I am unarmed.’
‘Don’t lie.’ Tate had no time for pretence. ‘Give me your sidearm.’
Sasha reached down to his side and extricated a sub-compact Glock from a holster. ‘Here.’
‘Toss it in the footwell.’
The Glock made a loud clunk as it collided with the bare metal.
‘Get out and walk around to my side. Just remember you can’t outrun a bullet.’ Tate let Sasha exit the Bell, grabbed the Glock 29, thrust it into a pocket, and then quickly climbed out. The Russian appeared in front of him a moment later; his arms were raised. Tate gestured with the HK. ‘Lead me to the embassy.’
They crossed the lot and started to climb the stairs, the twilight hiding the fresh strike marks in the walls from an earlier shooting. Sasha stopped at the double doors. ‘They are open.’
Something was wrong. Tate did a three-sixty scan of the scene. He saw no visible threats, but without power it was dark enough inside the embassy to hide an army. ‘Then go inside.’ Once through the doors, Tate took three steps away from Sasha. He scanned the empty foyer, opening his mouth slightly to eliminate interior sounds. Silence. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘They are gone.’
‘What do you mean?’ Tate knew the Foreign Office emergency protocols; he also knew that the means for an evacuation did not exist.
‘They left earlier.’
Tate struggled to control his anger. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You did not ask.’
Tate crossed the floor to the high reception desk, covering both Sasha and the entrance with the HK. ‘Where is Simon Hunter?’
‘Who?’ Sasha replied too quickly.
Tate couldn’t read the man’s face in the dark but picked up on his tone; he was lying. ‘Simon Hunter.’
‘I don’t know who that is.’
‘Drop your weapon! Now! I will shoot,’ a voice with a Washington accent ordered from the shadows.
‘If I drop this, it will go off,’ Tate lied as he switched from Russian back to his native tongue.
‘Place it slowly at your feet.’
‘OK.’ Tate lowered the HK, his eyes now wider, the rods in his peripheral vision picking up a figure with its arms extended, pointing a handgun.
The piercing beam of a flashlight appeared on the counter, pointing upward, like a lantern. As Tate squinted, his eyes battling to readjust, the man’s face became visible. He was Asian.
‘Who are you?’ Sasha asked.
‘I’m one of Oleniuk’s taxi drivers.’
‘Oleniuk told us you had disappeared.’ Sasha was confused.
‘No. I was delayed by the British. Who is this man?’
‘He’s a British spy. Oleniuk wanted Hunter to see his body. Perhaps as a warning, perhaps he knows him?’
Tate felt his jaw slacken; the Russians had Simon?
‘But he’s not dead,’ the man holding the gun stated.
‘You can correct that, now,’ Sasha sneered.
The man’s face remained impassive then his arms twitched and without warning, his Glock spat two rounds into Sasha. Tate lunged sideways, away from the commando, but a third round just missing his right foot made him stop. ‘My next bullet won’t miss. Hug the ground, now!’
Tate complied. He was all out of plays and by the look of it, he was also out of time. He lay on the corporate-grade flooring, still warm from the hot August day. ‘Where is my brother?’
‘How would I know? Who is your brother?’
There was a groan from the gloom. ‘You shot me …’ Sasha’s words were slurred and in Russian. ‘You little shit—’
Tate heard another round and then silence. The commando’s feet came into view. ‘Who are you?’
‘Like he said, I’m a British spy.’ Who was this man?
‘A British spy, huh?’
‘Secret Intelligence Service.’
‘MI6?’
‘Well, that’s one name for it.’
‘This is a trick. You were both speaking Russian. You are one of them.’
‘If I was Russian, why was I holding him at gunpoint?’
‘You tell me.’
Tate raised his head enough to see the man’s face; he was all but convinced the man wasn’t working with the Russians. ‘I’m British. My name is Jack Tate. I’m looking for my brother Simon Hunter. He works at the embassy; he will confirm who I am.’
‘Jack Tate?’ The man repeated the name, like a crossword clue. ‘That means nothing to me.’
‘I am MI6. He was telling you the truth.’
‘Get up.’
Tate dragged his weary body up from the floor and stood fac
ing the shorter man. ‘I’m just here to find my brother.’
‘What were you doing with the Russians?’
‘Taxi service.’
The man’s eyes flashed and a smile almost formed on his lips. ‘You have any ID?’
Tate let a sarcastic snort escape. ‘What are you, a cop?’
‘Yes. ID?’
‘Let me check.’ Tate had no idea if he still had his passport. ‘I’m going to reach into my shirt pocket.’
The man said, ‘Slowly.’
‘Slowly.’ Tate ran his hand under the combat coveralls and the ballistic vest into his left breast pocket of his shirt. He undid the button and levered out the sturdy board document.
‘Open it.’
‘You can read in the dark?’ The man remained silent as Tate opened his UK passport and held it spread between both hands.
‘Don’t move.’ He stepped forward, Glock still fixed on Tate’s centre mass but eyes now on the passport.
Tate lowered his arms a fraction. The man took another step and then Tate shot out his left leg and twisted to his right. The shorter man’s legs were swept away and he instinctively threw his arms out to brace his fall. Tate reversed direction, followed the right hand – the one that held the pistol – pinned the forearm with his knees, and ripped the weapon up and away.
‘Now you tell me, who are you?’ Tate asked, breathing deeply.
‘My name is Jon Chang; I am a detective with Washington Metro PD.’
‘ID?’
‘My badge is in my jacket.’
Tate dug the Glock into Chang’s neck and with his left hand retrieved the badge. ‘Why did you shoot the pilot?’
‘I’ve had enough of Russians trying to kill me. I didn’t want to give him the chance.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘Can I get up now?’
‘Go ahead.’ Tate edged back, but kept the Glock pointed at Chang. The sound of gunfire would have kept any onlookers’ heads down for a while, but Tate knew they were exposed. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I was sent by Attaché Filler.’
‘Filler? You know Jim Filler?’
‘I know Eric Filler.’
‘Correct.’ It wasn’t much of a test but all he could think of.
‘And his wife is called Janet.’
