by Alex Shaw
‘Why did he send you?’
‘To retrieve a file. It’s over there on the counter.’
‘He’d forgotten it?’
‘Yes.’
‘That sounds like Filler. Where are the embassy staff?’
‘They went home. Eric was shot – he’s in the hospital.’
‘Who shot him?’
‘The Russians.’
‘So Simon Hunter’s at home?’
‘No. I mean I don’t know.’ Chang met Tate’s eyes. ‘He hasn’t been seen since before the EMP happened. I think the Russians may have him. They like taking diplomatic hostages.’
Tate shuddered, suddenly cold. Oleniuk knew. He had to know about Ukraine and he had to know about Simon’s involvement, but he didn’t know Simon was his brother. Tate let out a sigh. Sod it! He had to stay focused. ‘Where did you get the torch from?’
‘Torch?’
‘The flashlight?’ Tate pointed.
‘I took it from one of their vehicles.’
Tate held up his palm. ‘Explain to me how you know Eric.’
Chang took a breath and briefly recounted his dealings with Filler and Hunter at the embassy over the last day. The news of the assassinations of Military Attaché Dudley Smith and the British Ambassador Anthony Tudor, hit Tate like hammer blows. He leaned against the counter and lowered the Glock. His mission was already a failure. Tate pushed the Glock along the bar toward Chang; he had no reason to doubt his identity. ‘I need your help.’
Chang studied him. ‘You need a doctor.’
‘That can wait, but what can’t is rescuing my brother.’ Tate needed a way into the airport, a way to get as near to Simon as possible before the Russians spotted him. He looked out of the window. ‘Can you fly a helo?’
‘No, but I can drive a Tahoe.’
‘You have one of their Tahoes?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’ll work.’
Chapter 25
College Park Airport, Washington, DC
Oleniuk’s world became an unnatural shade of green as he switched on his night vision goggles. Although not yet dark, the summer sun was finally slipping away. He stood outside the hangar and stared across the expanse of grass-lined runway to the innumerable American homes beyond. It was silent. He cocked his head a little; had he heard distant rotor blades? He held his breath and opened his mouth to lessen any internal interference or bone conduction. Had he heard it again, lessening, moving away?
Oleniuk was puzzled; were there other helicopters in the area, and if so, whose? Could a carrier have repositioned itself near enough to launch search parties, rescue parties? He presumed that the American president was in his bunker, unable to leave for Camp David with the EMP having grounded Marine One. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The rotors must have been a Navy airframe. He did not fear the American military; they had no idea his team existed.
Oleniuk searched the skies. No lights; in fact, the only manmade illumination came from the houses out past the perimeter of the airfield. Dim flickering in windows, a mixture of paraffin and candles he imagined, but none of them had the intensity to cause his optics to flare. His stomach churned; it wanted more alcohol. His hip flask was long since empty, but there was a celebratory bottle of Wild Turkey on his jet. He wouldn’t drink that until he was in the air, and then it would taste somewhat sour.
Objectively, the mission had been a success. The casualties sustained, while higher than he had imagined, were acceptable. Men were just men and irreplaceable, even Major Volkov was merely a soldier … no. He was wrong. One of the men was not just a man, he was the best of the Werewolves and he was irreplaceable. Ruslan Akulov had not checked in since he’d ordered him to the hospital to execute Filler. He didn’t know how the bloody taxi driver had done it, but he knew that somehow he was responsible for squirrelling away his missing diplomats. Oleniuk was no fool, although if he had taken an objective look at the orders he had dished out, he would have to agree that he had acted like one. It was time to let go what was unsalvageable.
Oleniuk did not believe in myths and legends; such things to him were mumbo-jumbo but he did know that if he lost a Werewolf, he would be haunted. They were a small unit and fiercely loyal to each other. He would do well not to incur their wrath. He turned back into the expanse of the hangar. ‘Grisha!’
Moments later the bearded commando, who had acted as his personal bodyguard, appeared. ‘Sir.’
‘Listen to me. You are to take the last remaining Tahoe, my personal escape vehicle, and go to the George Washington Medical Center. That is the last known location of Ruslan Akulov. You are to return with Akulov, if he is alive, or his body if he is not. Have I made myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir, but what about your personal safety?’
Oleniuk snorted. ‘I am quite safe here, unless Simon Hunter sends me a strongly worded diplomatic letter! Now go!’
He watched Grisha hustle out of the hangar then heard the V8 of the Tahoe growl and the tyres chirp as he pulled away. The confirmation that Tate had been liquidated had raised his sagging spirits. As soon as the men on the helicopter and then of course Grisha returned, he’d issue the command to exfiltrate. Inside the second hangar, the second Gulfstream was ready with a matter of minutes’ notice to roll out across the taxiway, sprint along the runway, and leap into the dark summer sky. No. There was no way he would be stopped now.
A wide grin spread across Oleniuk’s face. The next time he returned to Washington, it would be as a benign benefactor leading the reconstruction of his country’s arch enemy. What imbeciles these Americans were with their open arms and “reset buttons”. This would be a reset, all right.
Soon Oleniuk would finish enacting his own personal revenge. He would relish explaining to Simon Hunter who had been responsible for the Camden, UK, bombing. And then he would present him with the reason why. And then Hunter would crumble. Oleniuk felt dizzy with the inner power that only true vengeance could unlock. And then what should he do with Hunter? Killing him was too merciful. He would bleed him first, physically and psychologically. In Moscow Hunter would talk, and spill his intimate knowledge of the twenty-first-century British Secret Intelligence Service, their operations, their agents and of course their secretive E Squadron. Oleniuk realised he was breathing fast. He took a deep breath, and after Hunter had divulged all he could then, and only then would Oleniuk finally execute him.
Oleniuk tentatively stepped back inside the hangar, his balance off due to the NVG’s lack of depth perception and, he had to admit, his own fatigue. Two men stood by the prisoners, who now kneeled on the floor in the centre of the empty hangar. The Frenchman was slumped forward, chin resting on his chest while the other two leaned against each other for support.
‘I must apologise for being such a poor host.’ In the total darkness, the Frenchman raised his head, and the others, eyes white in green-tinged bodies, squinted blindly in his direction. This would not do at all. For his judgement to be effective it had to be witnessed, and for this to happen there had to be light. ‘Turn on the lights.’
‘Sir.’ The nearest commando flicked the switch.
Oleniuk removed his goggles. The generator powered, commercial overhead lighting making him blink, but not as much as the unfortunates before him. ‘Now that’s better. We can see each other, eye to eye.’ Oleniuk chuckled; no one else did.
‘What do you want from us?’ the Frenchman asked, surprising Oleniuk.
‘I think you know why you have been brought here.’
‘I most certainly do not.’
‘No? A little bird overheard you talking to Hunter about what you had done wrong.’
Debois frowned. ‘I do not understand.’
‘You insulted a close, personal friend of the President of Russia. A very close and personal friend, and that is something neither she, nor he, can ever forgive.’
Debois’s forehead furrowed, frowned. ‘This is about Valentia Smetaniuk? The opera s
inger?’
‘And there we have it,’ Oleniuk stated flatly.
Hunter found his voice. ‘This is outrageous.’
‘I agree with you,’ Oleniuk stated.
‘I do not understand.’ Debois’s face showed incomprehension. ‘You have drugged me, abducted me and held me against my will all because your president and this singer are upset I banned her from performing in France?’
‘Yes,’ Oleniuk said.
‘It was my right to so do!’ Debois said defiantly.
‘That is of course your opinion, but not ours.’
‘And what is it you want? Do you expect me to change my mind? Rescind her ban? Apologise to the lady and your president? To repent?’
‘I do not expect you to do anything.’ Oleniuk held his hand out toward his nearest commando. ‘Give me your sidearm.’
‘Sir.’ The guard unclipped it from its holster and placed it in Oleniuk’s palm.
Oleniuk turned the pistol one way and then the other in his hand as he took his time to study it. ‘We Russians make excellent assault rifles, but in terms of pistols, there is nothing finer in my opinion than a well-balanced Italian Beretta. Oh and the retort it makes is just exquisite – it is such a shame to dull it with a suppressor but I am mindful of our neighbours.’ Oleniuk thumbed off the safety toggle. ‘Simon, say goodbye to your friend.’
Hunter’s eyes went wide. ‘What?’
Oleniuk fired a double tap into the Frenchman’s chest. ‘Au revoir.’
Debois fell sideways and a wave of exhilaration crashed over Oleniuk. It washed away his weariness but replaced it with rage.
‘You’re crazy!’ Terri screamed.
Oleniuk’s eyes narrowed. He was impressed by her acting ability.
Simon all but spat his words at the Russian. ‘You’ll pay for this, Oleniuk!’
Oleniuk handed the pistol back to the commando. He was no longer able to trust himself with it. ‘Not in your lifetime. Take them back to their cell.’
The two commandos lifted Hunter and Terri to their feet, but Hunter twisted, broke free and threw himself at the older, heavier Russian. Oleniuk sidestepped Hunter and, as he passed, jabbed the Englishman’s nose with his right fist. Stunned, Hunter fell as blood streamed down his face. ‘I boxed at school, Simon, but even then you English toffs wouldn’t accept me. I was undefeated. I beat the living daylights out of the older boys, yet they deemed it unsporting behaviour! You see, I would not accept their white towels. I demanded a knockout. In the real world one does not simply suspend hostilities because the other side are weak! One continues until the enemy is crushed.’
Hunter was on his knees. He coughed, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. ‘You are pathetic. Is that what this is all about?’
Oleniuk slowed his breathing, and took longer breaths as he attempted to calm his ire. When he spoke it felt as though his voice was not coming from his own mouth but emanating from somewhere far away. ‘I have a question for you, Simon Hunter.’ He paused. He could feel his body starting to shake and hear a rushing of blood in his ears. ‘Did you love Sofia Antonova?’
Hunter looked up from the floor. Through the blood Oleniuk could see the shock register on his face.
Oleniuk ground his teeth, flexed his fingers. His voice no more than a whisper he said, ‘Answer me!’
Hunter coughed. ‘Yes.’
‘Why did you kill her?’ Oleniuk hissed. ‘You killed Sofia Antonova!’
‘I didn’t. I loved her,’ Hunter replied. He had started to shake and tears now streamed and mixed with the blood on his face and dripped on the hard, concrete floor.
‘Pick him up, take them to their cell,’ Oleniuk ordered.
*
As one commando dragged Terri away, the other lifted Hunter. This time he did not resist. Once inside their small room the door was locked again. Terri put her hands to Hunter’s face. He pushed her away, leaned against the wall and slumped down into the corner.
‘Simon. Please. Simon, talk to me?’
Hunter didn’t reply. He couldn’t. He felt his body start to shake as the sins of his past reappeared.
Simon Hunter had met Sofia Antonova after he graduated. He was a young SIS officer and she had worked for a law firm. They’d met over a lunchtime sandwich in the park. He had never told her he worked for the SIS. She thought he was a regular FCO junior civil servant. They had been together for fourteen months when the car crash happened. It had been after a summer party. Both of them had been drinking. Hunter had told her they’d take a taxi. But Sofia was too strong-willed. She asserted that her Russian genes gave her the ability to hold her booze far better than he could. Vodka did not get her pissed.
And like a fool in love, Hunter had drunkenly accepted her assertions because he had seen her in action on numerous occasions; plus she became very angry when he argued with her. Sofia drove fast, she always did, just above the speed limit, always slowing just in time to beat the speed cameras and all the while singing along to Alicia Keys at the top of her voice. This time, as she was singing and driving above the speed limit her Fiat 500 ploughed into the back of an unforgiving, slow-moving truck.
Hunter had awakened two days later to see his parents sitting at his hospital bedside. It had been what the police called a FATACC – a fatal accident. Sofia had died instantly at the scene. He had blamed himself – he should have stopped her from driving, he could have, but he didn’t. Legally he was in the clear but morally he knew he was not. Nothing anyone could say would stop him from blaming himself.
He knew that part of the guilt he’d felt had been because Sofia had loved him perhaps more than he had loved her. She had wanted to get married, dropped subtle and not so subtle hints and he had not been man enough to say no. She’d introduced him to her mother, who explained that Antonova was her maiden name. Sofia’s father was an abusive man they’d left in Russia. Hunter liked both mother and daughter but felt trapped, and then the accident had freed him.
Hunter realised Terri was talking to him, questioning him. How could he possibly reply to her, how could he possibly tell her? He knew he had to. She deserved to know the truth. His confession spilled out in one concise sentence, like an intelligence report. ‘Sofia Antonova was my first love and she died in a car crash because I let her drink and drive.’
British Embassy, Washington, DC
Tate stood in the dark, empty embassy foyer and dialled Vauxhall Cross on the Russian sat phone taken from the Tahoe. Pamela answered on the third ring. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Tate.’
‘Jack, where are you?’ She sounded on edge.
‘Washington.’
‘Sit rep. Have you re-established contact with Wicket Keeper and Opening Bat?’
‘Negative. Wicket Keeper is dead.’
The line warbled, bleeped. ‘Repeat?’
Tate was tired. He was finding it hard to stick to protocol. ‘Blackline have assassinated Wicket Keeper and abducted Opening Bat. Maksim Oleniuk is in Washington.’ Tate explained the situation as succinctly as he could.
‘Jack, stay where you are and wait for assistance.’
Tate snapped, ‘Wait for what, the bloody cavalry? They have my brother!’
‘Jack! You must keep your head!’ The line bleeped again. ‘Things have developed since last we spoke; we are discussing an evac mission with the Canadians.’
Tate fumed. He had wasted too much time coming to the hospital, but at least he had located Filler’s party. ‘Filler is safe. Filler will continue to be safe. You know where he is; send the Canadians here. I have to go after Simon. Oleniuk may leave at any moment.’
‘Jack, that’s a negative. Listen to me, you must stay …’ Another bleep and Newman’s voice faded.
Tate scrutinised the display; a battery icon flashed and then the screen went blank.
Chang handed him the keys to the Tahoe. ‘You’ll need these. It’s around the side.’
‘Thank you.’ This was it. This was the end. He was go
ing to save his brother. Tate hurried down the steps in search of the Tahoe.
Arriving at the SUV, Tate saw that Chang had followed him. He held out his hand to Chang. ‘Thanks, thanks again. What you did today was above and beyond the call of duty.’
Chang’s eyes darted to Tahoe and back as he shook the much taller man’s hand. ‘Killing people?’
‘Saving people.’
Chang shifted from foot to foot for a moment. And then he nodded. ‘I’ll come with you, as backup.’
‘I can’t ask you to risk your life for my brother.’
‘I have a duty, like you said, and it’s to “Protect and Serve” any way you need me. I’ve got an idea how we can get into the airport,’ Chang explained.
Tate smiled.
*
The pain told Akulov he was still alive. It seemed to come from all over his body at once. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at a star-speckled sky. He was outside on the flat roof of a building, but which building was it? His arms were by his sides, his fingers splayed and pressed into the pitch-covered felt. He looked past his feet and now saw another part of the building rising at least eight storeys higher.
And then he remembered being shot, twice in the chest. The taxi driver somehow countering his attack and throwing him over his shoulders with a simple judo move. The pain became less vague, more focused. Akulov coughed and felt as though he’d been stabbed in the solar plexus. Broken ribs, a cracked sternum? He would need to see a doctor. But he was in a medical centre. He moved his arms and felt his chest. What he immediately felt were the two holes in his windbreaker and underneath his ballistic vest, which had saved his life, caught the two 9mm rounds and held them.
Tentatively Akulov tried to move his head. From side to side was fine but lifting it caused a violent pain. He could move his legs. He rolled slowly onto his side then pushed himself up. There was a pain in his chest but he felt nothing move. That was broken ribs ruled out then. He took a deep breath and as he inhaled felt the pain grow in his chest; a cracked sternum, possibly. Cracks healed on their own. He managed to get up to his knees, his head hammered and the world around him spun. Akulov got to one foot and stumbled forward, managing to now push against the exterior wall of the main hospital building to leverage himself to his feet like a drunk.
