Текст книги "Ghosts"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Chapter Forty-Four

Milton hauled Pope into the back of the Tiger. It was an All Terrain Armoured Transport, much like an American Hummer. The benches behind the driver’s and passenger’s seats had been cleared from the interior and Milton pulled Pope all the way inside, reaching back to close the rear door. Beatrix had climbed into the front and turned over the big turbocharged diesel. The locals were up at the gate and the blue and red lights of a police car flashed against the sides of the buildings down the hill.

They had to get away.

“Go, go, go,” he shouted.

The Tiger lurched forwards, the tyres slipping until they found purchase and then slinging them ahead. Beatrix aimed down the hill that led away from the dacha, hitting the brakes at the bottom and swinging them around to the left and the road that would lead to Privolzhsk.

The police car came around the corner and followed after them. It was faster and, provided the road stayed clear up ahead, it would very quickly overhaul them. Milton held onto the side as he glanced back through the windows: it was a hundred feet behind them and closing fast.

“Milton!” Beatrix yelled. “You need to do something about that car.”

Milton unlocked the rear doors and kicked them open. The blue and white painted car was fifty yards behind them now, close enough for Milton to see the driver and his passenger. He waited until they had passed onto a smooth section of road and, fixing his left hand around a stanchion, aimed his Sig with his right. The first shot struck the ground three feet in front of the car, throwing up a small cloud of grit and ice. Milton had not intended to hit the car, just warn the driver, but it did not have the desired effect: the passenger leant out and fired three shots with his own semi-automatic. The third caught the nearside mirror, shattering it.

Thirty feet.

Fair enough.

Milton extended his arm and aimed again, absorbing the recoil in his shoulder for a smoother shot. The bullet found its mark, slicing into the front-right tyre and shredding it so that it flapped off the wheel. The car swerved out of control, the driver braking hard and bleeding off most of the speed before the car spun across a sheet of ice and thumped into a deep drift that had been ploughed to the side of the road.

“Put your foot down.”

Milton grabbed hold of Pope’s jacket to hold him in place as the Tiger bumped and bounced over the uneven road, ploughing through the fresh drifts that had not yet been cleared.

“How far is it?” Beatrix called back.

“Sixteen clicks,” Milton reported.

“So say thirty minutes.”

“Come on, Beatrix, we’ve got no time. Pope needs medivac now. We need to be faster.”

Beatrix clunked the Tiger into fifth gear. She stamped on the accelerator and they lurched forwards.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s say twenty.”

Milton switched radio frequencies and brought the mic up so that it was pressed against his throat again. “Any station, any station. This is Blackjack Actual in the clear. Radio check in the blind, over.”

There was a moment of silence, adorned by static, and then an accented Russian voice replied: “This is Overlord. We have you five-by-five. Phase line Echo secure. State your position, over.”

Milton looked out of the window and did his best to guess. “Two clicks south of Plyos. Heading for exfil point. ETA twenty minutes, over.”

Milton could hear the sound of a big engine in the background. The speaker had to raise his voice to be heard. “Acknowledged, Blackjack. What is the sit-rep in Plyos?”

“Success.”

“The target?”

“Affirmative, Overlord.”

“Acknowledged, Blackjack. Make your way to exfil. We’ll be there. Over and out.”

Pope coughed, a tearing sound that came from deep inside his lungs. He reached up for Milton’s elbow. “John,” he said, his voice a ragged whisper.

Milton leant down nearer to his face. “Don’t talk. We’re getting you out.”

Chapter Forty-Five

The Kamov Ka-60 had been airborne for some time already and it had been forced to circle the exfil point for twenty minutes. Beatrix slalomed the Tiger through the deep snow at the side of the road, the Tiger decelerating sharply, and cut across the wide field to the clear space that Milton had indicated. He opened the door and dropped down, taking four chemlights from his Bergen, cracking them alight and tossing them out to form the corners of a wide rectangle. The chopper’s engines roared as it descended, the pilot flaring the nose and the vicious wash kicking up thick eddies of snow, blowing away the fresh fall to reveal the icy permafrost beneath.

Milton and Beatrix went around to the back of the Tiger and helped Pope down. They draped his arms across their shoulders and stumbled towards the Kamov, the toes of their boots catching against the ridges of snow and his carving long troughs behind him. There were two crew onboard, and the second man went back into the cabin and opened the door for them. Beatrix reached the chopper and vaulted up. Milton helped Pope inside, boosted him forwards and Beatrix hauled him the rest of the way. Milton vaulted up himself.

“Where are rest of your team?” the crewman called out.

“Didn’t make it,” Milton said.

Milton was no pilot, but even he could tell from the anxiety in the open cockpit that the crew were concerned that they would have enough juice to make it back to Kubinka.

Nothing he could do about that. He spun his finger in the air, the signal to take off. “Let’s get out of here.”

He sat with his back against the fuselage. He took off his helmet and scrubbed his fingers through his sweaty, bedraggled hair, then swiped the sweat from his eyes. Pope was shivering and Beatrix found a blanket and draped it over him. The crewman shouted back that there was hot coffee in the vacuum flask in the pack fastened to one of the chairs. She took it, poured out a cup and held it to Pope’s lips. He sipped at it. Beatrix looked over at Milton with concern. He was very sick and very weak.

He turned to the pilot. “How long to Kubinka?”

“Forty-five minutes,” the man shouted back.

“Is that at top speed?”

“Top speed, maybe thirty-five, but fuel…”

“Do it,” Milton said. “He needs a doctor.”

* * *

The lights of Kubinka airfield blinked brightly in the snowy night. The runway was delineated by converging horizontal lines and then, beyond, red and green vertical stripes that marked the runway edges and the centreline. They could see the Moscow suburbs away to starboard, the urban glow shining through the darkness like a golden mantle. The pilot radioed that they were on final approach, swung the Kamov into a sharp turn and then bled the height away. They were coming down on the runway itself, aiming for the darkened outline of the Hercules, its white landing lights refracting brightly against the wetness of the cleared asphalt beneath it. The rotors eddied the stubborn flakes as their ride touched down and Milton was the first to disembark, bent low to manage the wash as he crossed to the RAF Flight Lieutenant who had flown the Hercules that had brought them in. He was standing with three Russian airmen. The Hercules was twenty feet away, the four big engines already rumbling and the propellors turning slowly.

“Welcome back, sir. Everything alright?”

“Everything is fine, Lieutenant.”

“Where are the others?”

“They’re not coming back.”

“What happened?”

“They were ready for us,” he lied. “Heavy resistance. They others didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“We need a stretcher. Captain Pope is very weak.”

“Already sorted that out, sir. We’ll bring it across.”

“And the doctor?”

“Over there, sir.” The Flight Lieutenant pointed to the medic who was running towards the Kamov.

“Are you ready to go?”

“We’ll be on our way in five minutes. Don’t see much point in hanging around, do you?

“No, Lieutenant, I do not.”

“Get aboard then, sir. I’ll make sure our man gets on in one piece.”

Milton paused. “Got a smoke?”

He didn’t but one of the Russians nodded that he understood and offered Milton a packet of Java Zolotaya. Milton thanked him, took one and tried to hand the packet back; the Russian held up his hand and shook his head. Milton thanked him again. He put the cigarette to his lips and lit it.

The Flight Lieutenant led the Russians to the Kamov. Beatrix stepped down and walked over to him.

“Thanks,” Milton said.

“I thought I was going to be late. The car Mamotchka gave me broke down in the middle of nowhere. I hitched the rest of the way.”

“You hitched?”

“Truck driver took pity on me. Probably thought his luck was in.”

She cocked an eyebrow in amusement. It wasn’t difficult to imagine how quickly he would have been disabused of that idea.

They walked across the airstrip to the Hercules. The ramp was already lowered and they climbed aboard, knocking their boots against the hydraulic struts to clear the compacted snow away.

Milton watched her. “You know Spenser was surrendering, don’t you?”

“I know,” she said.

“I’m not being critical.”

“I wouldn’t care if you were,” she said. “He had it coming to him.”

“You had history?”

“We did.”

“He was one of the ones Control sent after you?”

“He took my daughter,” she said absently. “I’d kill him twice if I could.”

“The score is settled, then.”

“With him, yes. Just five more now.”

Milton looked at her: there was steel in her face and fire in her eyes. He didn’t press.

He finished his cigarette and threw it onto the runway outside. The Russians had Pope on a stretcher and they were bringing him across to them.

He took out the packet. “These taste like shit. You want one?”

“Go on, then.”

He handed one to her and then gave her his lighter. She lit it, holding it between her lips as she took the pistol from its holster, secured the manual safety and then ejected the magazine. The action was completed easily and smoothly, with minimum effort. He knew she would have been able to strip and reassemble the gun when she was blindfolded, too. He was just the same. He remembered what she had been like when she had selected him from the other applicants who had been competing to join the Group: fierce and intimidating, and none of that edge had been dulled in her lost years. Her anger had become a crucible and she had submerged himself in that slow-burning, pitiless flame, until the emotion had been smelted out of her.

Just five more now.

He knew the identity of one of those five.

There was nothing that could have persuaded Milton to swap places with him.

PART SEVEN

LONDON

Chapter Forty-Six

Control sat at the wide table and glared with undisguised disdain at the three men opposite him. It was a senior deposition: the foreign secretary, a particularly oleaginous politician called Jonathan Coad of whom Control had always had a rather bleak opinion, together with the heads of MI5 and MI6. It was midnight and the meeting had been called as a matter of the greatest urgency. The evidence had been delivered earlier that day. It had arrived by email, from an anonymous account that had been accessed at an internet cafe in Hounslow. Agents had been sent to the cafe to question the owner but he could not remember anything of the customer who had booked fifteen minutes at the machine from which the email had been sent. When they checked his security cameras, they found that they had been disabled. Whomever it was who had sent the email, they had an interest in hiding their identity.

Control had not been given advance warning of the subject of the meeting although, after the failure of any of the five agents to respond, it was not difficult to guess. They had taken thirty minutes to run through the extensive evidence with which they had been presented. There were the pictures of Control with Alexandra Kyznetsov and the correspondence and financial details that had been culled from the flash drives. That, in itself, would have been enough to damn him, but they hadn’t stopped there. They had obtained ex camera search orders and collected his bank details for the last ten years. He was not foolish enough to have passed the money he had received from Kyznetsov, or the other people like her who had come afterwards, through accounts that could easily be traced. There were other accounts for that, ones in jurisdictions that did not so easily divulge their secrets, but even with those precautions in place they had put questions to him that he had struggled to answer: how had he found the money to purchase his property outright, for example? He had paid for his Jaguar in cash. Where had that come from? The holidays, the extravagant purchases. They suggested that they exceeded his income. They accused him of living beyond his means. Where was the money coming from? Control knew that they had already reached their conclusion and that anything he said could only incriminate him further, and so he deflected them all with bluster. How did they find the temerity to question a man who had given so much to his country? It didn’t matter. He had already started to plan his next steps. He had already started, in truth, as soon as it became obvious that the mission to Plyos had failed. Forewarned was forearmed and he had always feared that this day would come, no matter how careful he had been. He had steps in place and, knowing that, he was able to brazen it out.

“Do you have anything you want to say?” Coad asked him.

“Just that I find it difficult to understand how you could accuse me of wrongdoing.”

“No-one is accusing you of anything,” he corrected calmly. “We’re simply saying that there are some questions that need to be answered.”

“Semantics,” Control snorted derisively.

Coad held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “We don’t really have a choice in this, old man. We’re going to have to suspend you until this can be cleared up. Shouldn’t take longer than a month, I should think. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good set of answers that will make this all go away. And, when we have them, you’ll be back in post.”

Control got up. “Is that all?”

“Stay in the country, alright?”

“Anything else?”

“No. That’s all.”

He nodded curtly, collected his overcoat from the stand next to the door and made his way to the street outside.

* * *

He knew he didn’t have long and so he drove straight to Waterloo. There was a large warehouse not far from the station that had been transformed into a secure storage facility, and Control had rented a space there for the past five years. He took a walk-on suitcase from the trunk of the car, showed his driving licence at the desk and went through the doors into the warren of corridors that had been fashioned by hundreds of crates of varying sizes. The one he wanted was of medium size, big enough to stand erect but small enough that he could touch all four walls from the centre. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and switched on the light. He closed the door behind him. There was just one item inside the room: a hundred litre crate made of opaque plastic. He opened the lid and began to inventory the items inside.

Weapons first. He took out the Heckler & Koch MP7A1 machine pistol wrapped in oilcloth, followed by the sound suppressor. Beneath that were three thirty-round magazines and six boxes of ammunition. There was a FNP-45 .45 calibre double action semi-automatic with one extra magazine.

He put the guns into the suitcase and went back to the crate.

There were six Tesco plastic bags, the heavy duty ones that were supposed to last for life, and, inside, was thirty thousand pounds and ten thousand dollars, all in tens and fifties. A ziplock freezer bag held French and German passports in different names and matching driver’s licenses. There was a wallet with a third driver’s licence, a credit card in the name of Peter McGuigan that would allow him to access the Cayman account with two hundred thousand dollars in it. There was a packet of hair dye, a pair of spectacles with clear frames and a handheld GPS.

He packed the items into the suitcase, left the empty crate behind him, locked the door to the storage room and went back outside to his car. He put the suitcase into the trunk and, before he closed the lid and after checking that he wasn’t observed, he opened the case, withdrew the semi-automatic and covered it beneath his overcoat as he went around to the driver’s side and got into the car.

* * *

It was a two hour drive to the south coast from Waterloo. He drove carefully so as not to draw attention to himself, following the A23, M23, A23 again and then the A26 until he reached Lewes. He passed the Beachy Head Hotel and the sign for the Samaritans at the side of the road: ‘Always There, Day or Night’, the last appeal to those who were intent upon doing away with themselves. It was a beautiful spot, the exposed promontory whipped by the winds that blew in from the Channel. The white chalk cliffs were five hundred feet high here and the vertiginous drop to the spume-crested rocks below had claimed hundreds of lives; Control had read somewhere that it was the third most popular place for suicides in the world.

He parked the Jaguar in the car park, leaving the keys in the ignition, collected the suitcase from the trunk, and wheeled it back to the bus stop that he had passed as he drove in. There was a telephone box next to it. He went inside and called the local minicab office that had left business cards wedged into the sides of the window.

The operator picked up after a dozen rings.

“I need a taxi.”

“Where are you, mate?”

“Beachy Head.”

“And where do you want to go?”

“Southampton Airport, please. Quick as you like.”

Control stood outside the telephone box and watched as the fiery rim of the sun slid above the edge of the cliff, the light flooding into the midnight blue of the sky. The dawn chorus greeted it noisily and, back at the pub, a milkfloat rattled and chinked as the driver pulled in with his delivery. Control drew his overcoat around him and breathed in a lungful of fresh, salty air.

It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Milton got off the underground at Heathrow Terminal Five. The platform was crowded with travellers, some with handheld luggage, others hauling cases on wheels. Milton was unencumbered: all he had was his watch, his oxidised Ronson lighter, a packet of cigarettes and three thousand pounds that he had withdrawn from an account he had opened five years earlier and never touched. He didn’t need anything else. He took his place on the escalator and rode it all the way to the first floor and the departure lounge. A travelator hurried the seemingly endless queue of travellers onwards: parents corralling boisterous children; business travellers with newspapers open before them; backpackers with grungy t-shirts and brightly-coloured bracelets on their wrists. Milton waited in line. There was no sense in rushing; he wasn’t in any kind of hurry.

The huge, cavernous shed opened out before him: hundreds of check-in desks, thousands of passengers. There was a Starbucks concession this side of security and Milton headed for it.

A man was sitting at one of the shiny metal tables. Milton sat down opposite him.

“Pope.”

“Milton.”

Pope’s face still bore the evidence of his beating at the hands of Pascha Shcherbatov. His eyes were still bruised, but the vivid purple had faded away, to be replaced by a dull puce. He shifted in his chair, better to accommodate the residual pain from the ribs that had been broken.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it.”

“But I look better than I did?”

“You look old.”

“We both look old, John. We are old.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Anna Vasil’yevna Kushchyenko walked towards them from Boots, a small bottle of water in her hand. She stood at the table and offered Milton her hand; he took it.

“Mr. Milton,” she said with cold formality.

“Anna. How are you?”

“I’m very well.”

The conversation was stilted; he had hurt her pride for the second time.

“Are you going to sit down?”

“I don’t think so. My flight leaves soon.”

She was dressed in a business suit with a white shirt, similar to the outfit that she had been wearing when she had got him out of trouble in Texas. That seemed an awfully long time ago now.

She looked down at him: beautiful, frigid, haughty.

“I’m not going to say I’m sorry, Anna. It was business. It had to be done. But, for what it’s worth, you are an excellent agent. You just need a little seasoning.”

She stiffened. “I don’t need your apology,” she said curtly, “and I don’t need your advice.”

“I’m sorry about the colonel. What happened to him wasn’t what we planned.”

Anger flashed. “No? What did you have planned?”

“I was going to give the flash drives to him.”

Did she believe him? It didn’t look like it. She shook her head derisively, the curtain of red hair shifting across her shoulders. She collected her bottle of drink from the table. “I should be going,” she said. “Goodbye, Mr. Milton.”

“Goodbye, Anna.”

“Perhaps we will see each other again.”

“Perhaps.”