by Andy Maslen
“Meaning?” Don prompted.
“Meaning he is dead, boss,” Eli said. “We fully intended to follow your orders, but Kamenko grabbed a gun. It was self-defence. Him or us. I shot him myself.”
Yes, I bet you did. “Your version, Old Sport?”
“What she said. He had a Makarov.”
“Hmm,” Don said, breathing out through his nose. He looked up at the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling, wondering how to handle this instance of disobedience. “On the plus side, that makes it much less likely he’ll regroup and start supplying ammunition to the bad guys. And his nasty little nationalist glee club will almost certainly fold up its tent and walk away. On the minus side, I now have to have a very difficult conversation with the Foreign Secretary, a gentleman not prone to forgiveness of his underlings.”
“Sorry, boss,” they said in unison.
“Yes, well, can’t have my people being shot at without being able to defend themselves. The body?”
“Probably inside the bellies of wolves, bears and buzzards by now,” Gabriel said. “We gave him a sky burial.”
“Good. The house?”
“Put back as it was, minus the safe.”
“I think I can spin this with the FS. You two don’t need to worry about that. It’s what they pay me for. Now, we need to talk about our next move.”
Gabriel leaned forward and placed both hands palms-down on Don’s desk.
“I need to find Britta. I think they’ve taken her. I’ve left dozens of messages and she hasn’t returned them. I don’t care about MI5 SOPs. Britta would have found a way to let me know she was safe.”
Don drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. He nodded, unsmiling.
“I know, Old Sport. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. I talked to my oppo in MI5. Britta’s missed her last three scheduled contacts – and that is a standard operating procedure.”
Gabriel leaned back, slowly. “Fuck,” he said, quietly.
Don watched as Eli turned in her chair and laid a comforting hand on Gabriel’s shoulder.
“We’ll get her. You know that.”
“Or they’ll kill her like they did everyone else I care about. Shit! What did I do and who to for all this to be happening?”
For once, Don felt he had little to say to Gabriel that would reassure him.
“I’ve reviewed all your operations for the Regiment from the day you joined to the day you left. I’ve also looked at all The Department’s files for your operations. Everyone who might want revenge for what you did to them is prevented from doing so because they’re dead. It’s generally the way we operate, as you know.”
Gabriel pushed up from his chair, and looked first at Eli, then at Don.
“We have a name, we have an address, or the best part of one. I fly to Manhattan, track down Erin Ayers, find out where she’s holding Britta, then take her out and go get Britta.”
Don knew he had to control Gabriel if he wasn’t to cause the kind of trouble that would be definitely not spinnable.
“Sit down, Old Sport.” Gabriel remained standing, breathing heavily. “Please, Gabriel,” Don said, pointing at the chair.
Gabriel sat.
“I’m not going to just sit here while some vengeful, I don’t know, some vengeful … twisted fuck,” he shook his head, “tortures or kills my fiancée.”
“And I’m not asking you to. But this is my problem. When you lot are running about in Europe, or Central Asia, or Africa, killing the bad guys, well, we can usually smooth things over with the authorities, or just leave minimal traces and extract you. No harm, no foul.” He permitted himself a small smile. “Except for the bad guys, obviously. But if you go across the pond and start taking potshots at a US citizen – a very, very rich and therefore, we can assume, connected US citizen – that will unleash the kind of shitstorm, pardon my French, that will have you handed your marching orders, me given a gold watch and a nice sherry party at Number 10, and The Department closed down.”
“So what, then?” Gabriel said, his voice rising. “What are you saying? Can I go or can’t I?”
Don could feel the desperation pouring out of Gabriel in waves, but he knew he could say nothing that would please him.
“No. You can’t. I’ll put wheels in motion and,” he said hurriedly, as Gabriel opened his mouth to protest, “I mean today, and get our American friends onto it. You, I want in the UK. I have the details of the mission Britta was working on here.” He reached into a desk drawer and passed a folder across to Gabriel. “Work the UK angle as much as you like. And if you make a mess, you call me immediately, yes? But you stay in the UK.” Don looked at the folder clutched between Gabriel’s white-knuckled fingers. Hoped it would be enough. “That’s an order, Gabriel. Do you understand?”
“Fine. Yes,” Gabriel said, but he sounded like a sullen teenager after being grounded, rather than a disciplined soldier accepting a legitimate order.
“What about me, boss?” Eli said.
“Help Gabriel. He may still be a target over here, so be a second pair of eyes and ears.”
She nodded.
Because something tells me Gabriel’s lost his bearings over this, Don thought. I need someone focused to look after him.
Outside in the street, Gabriel turned to Eli.
“Where are you staying?”
“At my flat, of course! You should bunk with me for now. Once this is over, I guess you’ll need to start house-hunting.”
Gabriel squinted against the sun as he looked up and down Whitehall. A sudden gust of wind whirled past him and a woman screamed, and he spun round, heart pounding, hand reaching for an imaginary pistol at his waist.
Lucky Charm
CHASING a flowery umbrella tumbling and bouncing past him along the pavement was a young woman of about twenty-six or seven.
“Stop it!” she shouted at Gabriel.
He just watched as the umbrella flipped over and over towards the Houses of Parliament like an urban tumbleweed.
She shot him a contemptuous look as she passed.
“Thanks,” she shouted.
He sighed. “I would have chased it down for her a month ago.”
Eli linked her arm through his and pulled him around and back towards Trafalgar Square.
“Good for you. But Britta needs you to be Sir Lancelot. She,” she jerked her chin at the receding form of the young woman, “can manage without you. Come on. Let’s get a drink.”
The pub was full of tourists, rattling away to each other in a dozen languages, taking selfies and laughing as they sipped Diet Cokes or swigged pints of bitter or lager. The sunlight was tinted rose-pink, emerald-green, and royal-blue by the random squares of coloured glass set in double leaded rows across the tops of the windows. Gabriel and Eli found a quiet spot in a corner, slipping into two chairs just vacated by a middle-aged couple in matching scarlet-and-charcoal windcheaters.
Eli took a pull on her pint of Guinness, then placed it on the beer mat in front of her.
“We’ll go back to mine and get going on the file,” she said. “Find out who she was tailing and then work it from there.”
Gabriel drank half of the large gin and tonic he’d bought for himself. He shook his head.
“You do that. I’m going to Heathrow.”
Eli’s eyes opened wide. She took another drink of the Guinness.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? You heard what the boss said.”
“No, I’m not sure, am I? But what else am I supposed to do? Piss around in London while some psychopath murders the only woman I’ve ever loved?” He glared at Eli, feeling, suddenly, that he would like nothing better than to run out of the pub, find someone big, and beat the shit out of them.
His raised voice caused a few of their neighbours to glance round, their frowns and narrowed eyes speaking of anxiety that their holiday was about to turn sour. Gabriel stared back at them until they turned away back to their maps and their phones.
“OK. Go. I’ll cover for you. If the boss asks, I’ll tell him we’ve split up to cover more ground. If he calls you, you can still tell him you’re in London.”
Gabriel shook his head, lips set in a grim line.
“He won’t call. He never does.”
“Then be careful. I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’ll be thinking of you. Hey, before you go, I want to give you something.”
Eli reached into a pocket and withdrew her fist. She opened her fingers to reveal a silver metal badge. The design was a sword wrapped in an olive branch centred on a Star of David, with a banner containing a Hebrew inscription underneath.
“It’s the Israeli Defence Forces insignia,” she said. “The sword represents war, the olive branch our yearning for peace.”
“What does the inscription say?”
“Tsva ha-Hagana le-Yisra’el. It means The Army of Defence for Israel. It was a gift from my father when I joined.”
“Thanks, Eli.”
“Keep it close, yes? For good luck. Promise?”
Gabriel drained his glass, then leaned over and kissed Eli softly on the left cheek, wondering whether he’d see her again. And if they’d both be wearing black if he did.
“I promise.”
Insubordination in the Ranks
MANHATTAN
ERIN Ayers was not used to insubordination from Guy. So his behaviour was puzzling, more than enraging. Ever since Sasha Beck had called to say she had the Swede safely confined at the house outside Ithaca, Guy had been edgy. Now he’d crossed over from edgy to something more like the brooding anger of a caged animal.
“You need to calm down,” she said now, pouring herself another martini from a jug chinking with ice cubes. “Wolfe will do what he’s told, and we’ll have him.”
Guy was pacing up and down and she looked down, irritably, as his boots ground away at the white carpet.
“But Erin, look at the facts. You’ve killed an ex-SAS guy’s mates and his old foster father, or whatever the fuck he was, and now you’ve kidnapped his fiancée. I’m telling you, this game is too dangerous. He’ll come for you and it won’t be with a fucking peashooter, neither. You heard what Sasha said that first time we talked. He’s a stone killer.”
“Guy!” she shouted, as his abrupt about-turn gouged the heavy leather heel into the carpet once more. “Sit down. Now! I told you, you do not engage Wolfe unless I say so. You do not speak to him unless I say so. And you do not, I repeat, you do not, try to kill him. If you do, I’ll pay Sasha another three million to kill you. Or I’ll do it myself.”
Guy slumped into the corner of the white leather sofa facing Erin. Then he put his huge hands on his knees with a slap and leaned forwards. Clearly he wasn’t ready to give up.
“Let it go, boss. I know what he did to you, to your father. But this isn’t going to end well. I have the same background as him. Please, I am begging you. Let me take him out for you. He still ends up dead, doesn’t he? You can even be with me. Watch as he dies.”
“I said no. The whole point of this is so I can look Wolfe in the eye as I kill him and explain why his life is forfeit. Now, if you want to make yourself actually useful, as opposed to a pain in the fucking arse, go and fetch the Testarossa for me. I’m visiting someone in East Hampton, and I feel like driving. You can take the rest of the day off.”
She watched Guy’s back as he stumped off to collect the Ferrari. Erin sipped her drink, reflecting that Guy would have to go after this little business was out of the way. He’d been useful, but she couldn’t have the staff countermanding her orders every time they got a stupid crush on her. She thought back to her recent night with Ava. How civilised her company was. Maybe she’d have a spare foot soldier she could borrow. She’d ask her tonight.
A Fair Fight?
ITHACA, NY
IN a fair fight, who’s to say which of the two women would have prevailed?
Ladies and gentlemen! Fighting out of the blue corner, this woman is a former Swedish Special Forces soldier. She stands five foot five, weighing in at 125 pounds. She has seen action in Africa, the Arctic Circle, Scandinavia and Central Europe, is a skilled knife-fighter and a qualified sniper.
Fighting out of the red corner, her opponent is a full-time assassin. She stands five foot six, weighing in at 128 pounds. She has killed men, and occasionally women, on all seven continents using firearms, blades, bespoke weapons, poisons, and her bare hands.
But this wasn’t a fair fight. Britta Falskog’s left hand was cuffed to a radiator. She had no weapons. She was underfed, she was thirsty, and she was suffering from the effects of intravenous Valium that her captors – Sasha Beck included – had been administering every day since her capture by Torossian. She had a fading, greenish-yellow bruise on her right temple where one of Torossian’s men had pistol-whipped her after she’d struggled against the first injection.
As Sasha walked in, Britta turned to the door, clenching her right fist behind her back and readying herself to strike if her captor came within range.
Sasha put a plate of bread and cheese on the floor and pushed it towards Britta with the toe of her right boot. A bottle of water followed it. Then she stood back.
Britta relaxed her fist and ate greedily, washing the food down with great gulps of water.
Sasha stood over her, watching, a smile playing on those dark-red lips, her fine, black eyebrows arched with amusement.
“Not long to go now, darling,” she said, once Britta had pushed the plate away. “Gabriel will be here any day now, galloping in on his white charger, come to rescue his lady-love. Sadly, he’ll only have the opportunity to watch her being killed by the wicked fairy. Rescue’s simply not on the cards, I’m afraid. And then, who knows? Maybe my employer will kill him. Or maybe he’ll somehow triumph and realise the wicked fairy loves him after all.”
Britta sneered up at her gaoler, replacing her free hand in her lap, willing Sasha to come closer. Just for a second. Maybe I need to provoke you.
“You sick slyna. Is that the story you tell yourself while you frig yourself to sleep every night?”
Sasha laughed loudly. “Such bravado!” Then the laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun. “No. Of course not. I prefer remembering how I let him fuck me in the casino in Hong Kong.”
“Liar! He said he drugged you and turned you over to that Triad boss.”
Sasha leaned down and pulled Britta’s chin up with one sharp, deep-red fingernail. Britta shook her head free, glaring up at her.
“Oh, he drugged me all right. But not before I submitted to his advances. He can be very persuasive. As I’m sure you know.”
It was all the opportunity Britta needed.
Her right hand jabbed up from her lap, aiming for the soft part of Sasha’s throat. But the target seemed to slip sideways, and her fist sailed harmlessly past, jolting her shoulder as her arm reached the end of its travel.
The retaliation was swift and brutal. Sasha punched down, twice, once to the side of Britta’s neck, once to the right breast. Britta cried out at the pain exploding in her chest and lunged again at Sasha. It was too late, and the counterattack failed as dismally as her first strike.
Sasha was on her feet again as Britta slumped back against the radiator, nursing her injured breast.
“Close, darling,” she said. Then she swung her right boot back and planted a heavy kick into the centre of Britta’s left thigh. “But no cigar.”
Live Free or Die
MANHATTAN
BEFORE he boarded the flight to New York, Gabriel had bought the minimum he required: a change of underwear, a couple of T-shirts, and a washing and shaving kit. But for what he had planned, he needed more gear, more clothes and, if possible, a gun. He realised the latter would prove difficult.
The authorities in Manhattan were even stricter than their counterparts in the rest of New York State, he knew, and without US citizenship or any proof of permanent residence, it would be a struggle. Option one: he still inten
ded to try this route. He felt sure Erin Ayers would have muscle. And the muscle would be carrying, or would be until Gabriel took his weapon. Option two: he could find one of the less salubrious parts of the city and hang around late at night looking simultaneously lost, rich, and stupid, then relieve some gangbanger of his piece. Option three: he could try calling in a favour from Lauren. Option four, but a long shot, he could go old school and use his hands and a knife. For now, he decided to concentrate on the less contentious elements of his equipment. A new outfit was first on the list. Gabriel had left London in a hurry, wearing the clothes he stood up in: Levi’s, a white T-shirt, a grey hoodie under a leather jacket, and a pair of heavy-soled tan brogues. He had in mind two different looks now. One, something tactical, in case he needed the advantage of stealth. Two, something altogether smarter, should he need to blend in with more sophisticated types that he assumed would surround a rich, powerful woman living in a Fifth Avenue penthouse.
The hotel he’d picked was positioned about halfway up Central Park West, on the block between West Ninetieth and West Ninety-First Streets. The Rockford Inn bore no outward advertising of any kind, just the polished brass number plate to the left of the door. No marquee announced the hotel’s presence, no uniformed doorman stood ready to welcome guests. He’d booked a room on the nineteenth floor. Not the penthouse, but high enough to have an unobstructed view of the park, the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, and the tall apartment buildings beyond on Fifth Avenue itself.
After breakfast in the hotel dining room, he returned to his room to collect his jacket, ready for his shopping expedition. The day was bright, and sun was streaming through the net curtains that billowed across the window facing the park. He went to the window and slid the curtains aside. A small balcony accessible by a single unlocked door overlooked the park. Unlike many of their more cautious counterparts in New York’s hospitality industry, the owners of The Rockford Inn were more than happy to let their guests hang over a hundred foot drop if they so chose. Of course, they were still minded to avoid litigation from a guest’s dependants or employers. So they asked each guest on arrival to sign a waiver, absolving the hotel of responsibility should they jump, fall or otherwise leave the safety of their balcony for a one-way trip to the sidewalk.
