Table of Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Adrian Magson
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
A selection of recent titles by Adrian Magson
The Marc Portman thrillers
THE WATCHMAN *
CLOSE QUARTERS *
HARD COVER *
DARK ASSET *
The Harry Tate thrillers
RED STATION *
TRACERS *
DECEPTION *
RETRIBUTION *
EXECUTION *
TERMINAL BLACK *
The Riley Gavin and Frank Palmer series
NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED
NO HELP FOR THE DYING
NO SLEEP FOR THE DEAD
NO TEARS FOR THE LOST
NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL
* available from Severn House
TERMINAL BLACK
Adrian Magson
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred,
distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as
specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and
conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable
copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct
infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be
liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2019
in Great Britain and 2020 in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2019 by Adrian Magson.
The right of Adrian Magson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8947-8 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-659-3 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0357-1 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described
for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
To Ann. Essential to everything.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To David Headley of DHH Literary Agency, for his continued support and belief in my writing.
To Kate Lyall Grant (who writes the best reviews of a manuscript EVER), for her continued belief in and support for Harry Tate and others; to her colleagues at Severn House and Black Thorn Books, Natasha Bell and Loma Halden, for the truly excellent editing work; to Holly Domney, cheerleader and production coordinator; to designer Jem Butcher, who keeps turning out those great cover images; to Canongate Books for keeping it all going.
ONE
‘Target on the move. Repeat, target on the move.’ The voice came from a phone on the van’s dashboard, startling the driver.
As he reached for the gear lever the woman in the passenger seat said, ‘Not yet. She’s on the sixth floor. We go when she leaves the hotel.’
‘Whatever you say. But I really do not like this.’ The driver’s accent was, like the woman’s, Russian, with a faint American twang. He checked his mirrors repeatedly and scratched at a recent tattoo on the side of his neck where the skin was red and puffy. It was meant to be a phoenix but bore only a faint resemblance.
He had good reason to be concerned. At a mere spit away from the Houses of Parliament in central London, one wrong move would bring a firearms team to the area within minutes. If they managed to get away, their actions would be captured by the extensive array of cameras on every street and they’d be tracked through the capital like watching a bug on a tabletop.
‘What you like is not important.’ The woman, whose name was Irina, was stocky, with wild, curly hair, and the way it bounced when she was agitated gave her the appearance of a caged animal. Dark clothing and black jump boots rendered her almost invisible in the gloom of the van.
‘Why do we have to speak English?’ the driver queried.
‘Because English with accents is common here – you know that. If anybody hears us, we’re just a couple of dumb foreigners working crazy hours.’
He shrugged. ‘Dumb and crazy is right.’
Her voice took on a hard edge. ‘Don’t let Kraush hear you talking like that.’
He shook his head and turned up the radio. A news announcer was talking, the mellow tones flowing around the interior of the van like treacle.
‘Amid shifting reports of the on-off relationship between Minsk and Moscow, Belarusian President Alexander Lukashenko has voiced characteristically blunt concerns about the supposed union between the two countries, telling a press gathering that the reality was of a proposed take-over by Moscow, undermining and destroying Belarus sovereignty. Russian Minister of Foreign Affairs Sergey Lavrov reacted—’
Irina reached out and hit the off button. ‘More lies,’ she said briefly. ‘We don’t listen to that—’
She was interrupted by the voice from the phone. ‘Target approaching exit. Repeat, target approaching.’
‘Once only!’ she snapped. ‘You think we’re in a freakin
g movie?’
Silence. When the voice came back on it was deliberately and dryly British. ‘Target to exit … five, four, three, two … one and out … and turning left. Over to you.’
Irina nodded. They had checked out the area around the hotel after hacking the target’s phone. They knew where she was going. All they had to do was choose their moment.
‘Now,’ she said, grabbing the door latch. ‘Go!’
The driver stamped on the accelerator, jumping the boxy delivery van away from the kerb. The sudden movement rattled the boxes in the back and pitched the phone on the dashboard into the woman’s lap.
‘Slower,’ she muttered, flat-handing a signal for him to ease off the pedal. Getting spotted by a keen-eyed cop wasn’t part of the plan. In the meantime, the watcher on the hotel would follow the target to ensure they didn’t lose her.
The plan of attack had been decided as soon as they had learned their target’s location. They had been down here three times the previous day, the first on foot and twice in the van. On the last two occasions they had stopped at the kerb feigning delivery drops, scoping the buildings and streets around them, then checked the intersections and alleyways, the routes in and out and the likely presence of police and traffic wardens. Nobody had given them a second look. And why should they? Delivery vans were a common sight in these streets, part of the patchwork of city life.
The driver, who knew the area a little, had pointed out that a fast exit wasn’t going to be easy. But Irina had accepted no argument, saying time was against them. With luck they’d be gone and far away before anybody could react.
‘Target turning left.’
The disposition of street lights cast patches of heavy shadow, while light refraction from elsewhere combined to create the false impression of movement.
‘We need a description!’ Up against the windscreen, Irina was searching for a sight of the target. ‘Clothing, bags – anything.’
‘Short hair, medium height, knee-length coat, collar up, black boots, a bag on the left shoulder. Padded laptop bag in her right hand. The street is clear. No traffic or pedestrians. Am now pulling back.’
‘Good. Go back in and clear out her room.’
‘Got it. Over and out.’
The driver increased speed towards the corner, which he knew would take them into a narrow street with double yellows either side. A movement in the shadows showed the watcher making his way in the opposite direction, his task complete.
Once round the corner they would have a clear pavement on a darkened street, with no obstacles save for an occasional rubbish bag or wheelie bin. Two of the street lights had been deactivated in readiness by the watcher less than an hour ago.
‘Slow as you turn,’ said Irina. ‘We don’t want her spooked.’
‘Got it.’ The driver hauled on the wheel, the headlights flaring off glass on each side, illuminating the rich gloss-painted iron railings and the polished brass of door furniture.
Irina jabbed at the windscreen. A solitary figure was walking away from them on the left-hand side of the street. ‘There!’
She released the door latch. They had rehearsed the manoeuvre many times, tracking, spotting and moving in. The vehicle type had been similar and the tactics transferable. Only the scout in the hotel was different, a local contractor with no connections to them and no knowledge of what was about to take place.
Stop. Snatch. Go.
The driver was humming again, working the simple mantra in his head, seeing it unfold just as they’d practised. He waited until they were thirty metres behind the target before lifting his foot a fraction, ready for a quick stop.
Then the mantra was ripped apart. Without warning Irina grabbed the wheel, yanking it downwards and out of his hands.
TWO
‘What the hell—?’
The van swerved sharply, tilting under the sudden torque. The driver tried correcting the direction but it was too late. There was a teeth-shaking bump as they hit the kerb, then they were on the target before she knew it. The headlights blasted the scene with a flood of clarity, highlighting the white blob of the woman’s face turned in alarm, mouth open.
It was her. Irina hissed in triumph. The short, cropped hair framed a pale face over a long, dark coat and boots, the style fashionable, almost Goth-like, couldn’t be mistaken. Probably pretty once, but no longer.
Terror has a habit of draining prettiness like a pulled plug.
The driver braked but it was too late; the van a relentless and deadly 7,000-lb weapon. A sickening bump signalled the collision and the figure was gone, snatched out of the glare of the headlights with brutal finality and the briefest ghost of a scream.
‘What have you done?’ he protested. This hadn’t been part of the scenario. Stop and snatch was what he’d been told, nothing more. This was insanity.
No answer. Kicking the door back Irina was gone, hitting the pavement with ease and sprinting on rubber soles towards the figure lying against the railings of a house with a shiny front door and a potted bay tree.
The driver rode the clutch, unable to believe what had just happened. He checked his mirrors and the nearby windows for signs of observers. Nothing yet, but it wouldn’t stay that way. The collision would have been heard. Ahead of them was an intersection, and fifty metres from there was an underground station the target had probably been heading for. All it would need was for one person to turn the corner and come this way—
Then she was back, breathing heavily and eyes staring with the adrenalin-rush of action. She tossed two bags on the floor and slammed the door, then opened her mouth.
‘I know!’ said the driver, cutting her off. He felt sick. He took the van off the pavement and down the street, making another turn and heading south, forcing himself to reduce speed. The downside to a sudden burst of adrenalin was an unwanted loss of control.
‘Is she dead?’ he asked. He didn’t really want to know, but all he could think of was the woman lying on the pavement. Killing a person in battle was one thing; it was you or the enemy. But this was different. More personal.
Irina snarled, ‘I wasn’t about to check her pulse, was I? Concentrate on driving and get us away from here. I have to check something.’ Saying that she reached for one of the bags and took out a slim laptop computer and switched it on, the screen light making a witch’s mask of her face.
The driver shook his head. The crazy bitch had lost it. But caution clamped his mouth shut. After what she’d just done he wouldn’t put it past her to sign him off if she got the idea he was surplus to requirements.
‘What?’ she demanded, sensing his disapproval. This time she was speaking in her mother tongue: Russian. ‘You have something to say?’ She tapped furiously at the keyboard. ‘Drive more slowly – I’m trying to do something here.’
He shook his head but slowed down. ‘I meant no offence.’ The language switch made her seem suddenly all the more threatening, and he wondered how much longer he could take her overbearing attitude. He’d been given this job because it demanded little and he could do the tasks expected of him with his eyes shut. As long as he didn’t have to handle weapons he’d be fine. But this vile creature had changed all that. As soon as they completed the mission, he was going to ask for a re-assignment.
She finished typing, then took out her phone and dialled a number. When it answered, she said, ‘As we thought, the target’s contact’s name is Rik Ferris. I’ve sent him a message from her laptop.’ She waited, then nodded. ‘Yes, the place in Stepyanka.’
THREE
Minsk International Airport – Belarus.
Clare Jardine watched as a line of passengers from the latest inbound flight made their way into the terminal building. They looked by turn tired, impatient, rushed and even robotic under the bright lights, as if disconnected from the real world. The steel, glass and aluminium structure of Minsk International airport was impressive, but like a giant greenhouse its glaring light exposed every flaw and furrow, especi
ally in travellers who’d been cooped up in a recycled-air capsule for hours, cheek by shoulder with people they didn’t know and probably wouldn’t want to.
Most looked like business types in suits, heavy coats and carrying briefcases. Among them was the occasional figure fitting none of the expected norms, looking instead like an oddball member of somebody’s family turning up for a surprise visit. And a few Russians, she noted. Returning home and in transit, or here on some other business to further tighten Moscow’s grip on their small neighbour.
Not that she could criticize; she had her own Russian here in the form of her partner, Katya Balenkova. An officer with the Russian Federal Protection Service or FSO, Katya wasn’t here to undermine Belarus but to improve their equivalent organisation. After her failed participation in a honey-trap mission against MI6, the posting had been a slap in the face but better than the bleaker alternative.
Clare checked faces and body profiles out of habit while trawling through her memory for the face of the passenger she had come to meet. Heinrick Debsen, a Danish businessman on a one-city, two-day visit, was seeking commercial premises to set up a major distribution centre. Her job was simple: collect and ferry him around as and where needed, keeping him safe until it was time for his return flight. Debsen, a high-profile millionaire in his home country, didn’t seem overly concerned but, as Clare had been advised by her employers, the rest of the board and his investors were, which was why she had been retained to look after him.
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