Ghosts - 05 (20 page)

“You think it’s as easy as that? Just make a few calls?”

“I don’t care how easy or how difficult it is. You just need to get it done.” He crossed the room until he was standing next to him; he knelt down so that their faces were on the same level. “You know me well enough, Control. You know me better than almost anyone. And you know that if I say I’m going to do something, I do it.”

“I know.”

“So here it is, just in case you need reminding: if anything happens to Beatrix Rose, I’ll be back. If I get a whiff that you’re about to do something I don’t like, I’ll be back. That’s a promise. I’ll be back with your gun, in this room, waiting for you. You’ll never see me coming. You know who I am, Control, don’t you?”

He felt his throat thicken. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

“I’m a bad man, Control. I’m a bad man who kills bad men. And you are one of the worst.”

ANNA VASIL’YEVNA KUSHCHYENKO had spent a long and tedious night waiting for John Milton to return. She had drawn a bath and soaked in it for an hour, thinking about the Englishman and questioning, once again, whether she had erred in allowing him to make his way into London alone. Colonel Shcherbatov had allowed her the latitude to judge how to proceed; he had trained her, nurtured her career over many years, and he trusted her. She was as devoted to him as a daughter to her father and the thought of letting him down was abhorrent to her. It was difficult to argue with her performance so far. Persuading Milton to come to Russia had been difficult but she had managed to do that. Delivering him to the colonel had been a challenge, too, and she had managed that. She had helped him to find Beatrix Rose, managed him as he persuaded her to assist their cause and delivered him back to the United Kingdom. None of it had been easy, but, here she was, seemingly with his co-operation assured and waiting for him to return with the evidence that the colonel had said would be of priceless importance in his fight against the imperialists. Nurturing the operation to a successful conclusion would be a coup and she knew that he would be grateful. That was all the motivation that Anna needed.

She visited an internet café after her bath. It was a small operation at the back of a Polish grocery store and the proprietor hadn’t even looked at her twice as she bought a token for an hour’s use and settled before the screen in a wooden cubicle that would guarantee her privacy. She created a new gmail account and posted a message on the bulletin board of a Justin Bieber fan site. It was a bland message, seemingly in tune with the rest of the comments, but the board was monitored and her message would be delivered to the colonel. The coded message reported that the operation was proceeding as planned and that she anticipated leaving the country with the package they had come to collect tomorrow.

She posted the message, logged out of the PC and went back outside. It was a brisk night, with a cool breeze blowing in off the darkened river, and she decided to go for a walk for some exercise and fresh air. She ambled along the quay at one of the nearby yacht basins. The wind was cold and there were only a few people out. She saw a man leaning against the metal rails that protected the drop into the water below, gazing out at the yachts moored out on a floating jetty, their rigging rattling in the breeze. She walked beyond the man, realising, but much too late, that something about him was not right. She turned just as he had started after her, closing the distance in a couple of broad strides, taking her arm just above the elbow and impelling her towards a car at the kerb.

“Don’t make a scene, Miss,” he said in a quiet, firm voice.

“Who are you?”

“British intelligence. Afraid we need to hold onto you for a while.”

MILTON WAS DRIVEN to RAF Northolt. Group Fifteen used the facility when agents were not able to fly commercially and he was very familiar with it. The driver swept off the main road, paused to register their credentials at the gate house, and then sped through the wire mesh gate as it was drawn aside for them. He drove past the row of buildings that housed the base’s administrative and engineering staff and out to a single story building right out on the edge of the runway itself. A Hercules C-130J aircraft was being fuelled nearby.

It was just after dawn.

Milton got out of the car and went into the building.

Control was waiting for him. There were five others there, too. He recognised one of them very well and the other three were familiar.

“Captain Milton,” Control said stiffly. “Are you ready to go?”

“I am,” he said.

“You know everyone?”

“Well enough,” Milton said.

He looked them over and put names, and assignations, to faces.

Number Two was Corporal Spenser: short, bald and heavily muscled. Now that Pope was out of commission, he would be
de facto
Number One.

Number Six was Corporal Blake: darker skinned; foreign, perhaps, although Milton did not know enough about him to say from where.

Number Eight was Lance Corporal Hammond: female; early thirties; five eight; black hair, cut short; compact and powerfully built. Milton had surrendered to her in El Patrón’s mansion. She had a reputation for callousness.

Number Nine was Sergeant Underwood: the tallest of the four, well over six foot; broad shoulders; old acne scars scattered across his nose and cheeks.

Control turned to the final man. “And Lance Corporal Callan.”

“Yes,” Milton said. “Number Twelve.”

“Number Ten now,” Control said, “at least until Captain Pope is recovered.”

Callan was tall and slender and strikingly handsome. His hair was in tight curls and so blond that it was almost white. His skin was white, too, like alabaster. There was a cruelty to his thin lips and unfeeling eyes that Milton remembered very well indeed. He had executed Derek Rutherford in cold blood and then shot Milton in the shoulder; Milton had overcome him and put a bullet in his knee. According to Pope, he had been keen to end him there and then when they captured him in Mexico.

“They were all in Juàrez,” Milton said.

“That’s right.”

“They’ll need to do better this time.”

“We found you,” Spenser said. “We took you.”

“You did. And you took out a dozen cartel soldiers doing it and, yes, that was impressive. But then you let an overweight Mexican police officer on his last day undo all of that good work. So you can count me not especially impressed. Shcherbatov’s men won’t be as easy as the cartel. They’ll be well trained, well equipped and they might be expecting us. If you’re as lax as that when we go in tomorrow, I guarantee you one thing: we’ll all get shot.”

Spenser glared at him but said nothing. Milton felt Callan’s eyes burning into his back, too, and knew that he would have to proceed very carefully if he wanted to get out of Russia in one piece.

“Shall we discuss the plan?” Control suggested.

Milton held Spenser’s stare long enough to let him know that he was far from intimidated; Number Two broke first and looked away. “Go on,” Milton said.

“The Russians are going to give us some low visibility help.”

“Why would they do something like that?” Underwood asked.

“Shcherbatov is off the reservation. There could be an incident if we don’t get Pope back and they know that is not in their interests right now. They won’t support you if you get into trouble but they don’t mind making it easier for you to get to where you need to go.”

“Go on, then,” Milton said. “I’m all ears.”

There was a iPad on the table. Control selected a map of Russia and they all gathered around it. “You’re going out in the Hercules. It has just enough range to get you to Kubinka air base, south east of Moscow. You’ll be travelling under the pretext of a military exchange: senior members of the RAF flying in for a joint exercise with their Russian equivalents. Happens reasonably frequently. Won’t draw unnecessary attention.”

“And from Kubinka?”

“The Hercules will be refuelled. You’ll head north and do a HALO jump twenty clicks south of Plyos. And then the Hercules turns around and heads back to Kubinka”

“ATC?”

“We’re told that they will be looking the other way.”

Hammond looked sceptical. “We’re dropping twenty clicks from the target?”

“That’s right.”

“In the Russian winter?”

“You’ll be taking transport on the Hercules. The Russians are arranging it.”

“What do we know about the target?”

“It’s a dacha,” Milton explained. He didn’t have to work hard to remember it; he had a photographic memory for tactical information and he relayed it quickly and easily. “Three storeys, walled, two internal courtyards. Good security.”

“How many?”

“I’d guess a dozen.”

“Any good?”

“Spetsnaz. Very good.”

“Armed with what?”

“AN-94s and AS Vals. Like I said, they’re proper soldiers.”

Milton gave them all the additional information that he thought might be helpful: the internal layout of the dacha, the basement cell where it was likely Pope would be held.

“And you’re sure Pope is still there?” Control said.

“I’m sure enough.”

“How sure?”

“Eighty per cent.”

Hammond shook her head. “So twenty per cent says this is us putting our necks on the line for nothing?”

He stared her down. “And eighty per cent says that you’re not.”

She turned to Control and protested, “We need better odds for something like this.”

Control regarded him carefully. “Are you going to tell me why you think he’s still there?”

“No,” he said. “I have intelligence. But you’re going to have to trust me.”

“Alright,” Control said. “I’m happy to proceed on that basis.” Milton knew that he had no room for manoeuvre. He had evidence on him that would have him locked up in an MI6 Black Site for the rest of his natural life. He had no choice but to give the operation the green light.

Spenser pointed down at the map. “Say we manage to get in, find the dacha, take out the guards and get Pope. How do we get out again?”

Control dragged his finger down the screen, adjusting the map. “You make your way south to Privolzhsk … here. Sixteen kilometres. Provided you get there in one piece, the Russians will give you a ride back to Kubinka and you’ll fly out again on the Hercules from there.”

Milton looked at the five soldiers, gauging their reaction to the plan. They did not look impressed but there was little to be done about that. He would be able to fill them in on the smaller details
en route
, but there was nothing to be done about their obvious antipathy and suspicion towards him. That was something that he have to live with.

THE FOUR Allison AE turboprops were fired up and the six-bladed propellors started to spin. Milton strapped himself into his seat and prepared for the flight. He needed something to distract himself and so he took out his Sig Sauer P226 and started to disassemble it. He released the magazine, pulled the slide, checked it was unloaded, separated the slide from the frame and took out the recoil spring. He removed the barrel from the slide and then, using a cotton bud and a small pot of oil, he cleaned and lubricated it. It was a ritual that he had followed throughout his career, especially when he was facing a situation that concerned him. That word, concern, didn’t quite do justice to what he was now proposing to do. He was going to fly into Russia, skydive from ten thousand feet and then trek across the frozen tundra to a confrontation with Russian special forces where they would be outnumbered and outgunned, with no guarantee that the man they were going to rescue would even be there. He emptied the magazine, counted the bullets and slotted them all back again. The cabin of the Hercules was large and sparse, the cargo bay empty with temporary chairs screwed into their housing. The agents were going through their own routines: reading, listening to music, looking out of the tiny porthole windows as the buildings at the edge of the runway accelerated into an indistinct blur. He didn’t trust Control. There was nothing to say that he wouldn’t call Milton’s bluff and there would be nothing he could do if he did. The other agents had made their disdain for him obvious and there was no doubt in his mind that they would shoot him if given half the chance.

Callan turned to look at him and, noticing that he was watching him, held his gaze.

Milton looked away.

He was not among friends.

As the Hercules reached the end of the runway and lumbered into the air, Milton started to put the gun back together.

THE SIX MINUTE CALL. The ramp of the C-17 opened, slowly lowering and letting moonlight spill into the darkened cabin of the plane. The fresh air was a welcome relief. Milton used the fabric ties attached to the walls of the plane to pull himself upright and took a step forwards. They were up high, thirty thousand feet, and the landscape below was indistinct. Milton was wearing arctic battle gear: his field jacket had a hood concealed in a zipper pocket at the back of the collar, four large cargo pockets and a double zipper. He had buttoned in a separate Gore-Tex liner for additional warmth, he was wearing polypropylene knit undergarments and full face goggles over a balaclava that was unrolled all the way down to his throat. Right now, he was breathing pure oxygen through a mask to prevent nitrogen bubbles forming in his bloodstream. He stared out of the open end of the plane. It was minus forty outside and, were it not for the goggles, his eyes would have frozen instantly.

The jumpmaster signalled that they were ready to start the jump. Milton stood back as they released the drogue parachute that was attached to the first of the three Snowmobiles on which they had stowed the rest of their gear. The chute snapped open and dragged the skidoo backwards. It clicked across the metal rollers that were arranged across the width of the cabin, started to pick up speed as it rolled down the ramp and then disappeared out the back of the plane. They opened the chutes on the second and third skidoos and watched as they followed the first into the night. The plan was to drop their vehicles and gear first and then have the agents follow behind. Milton watched as the three main parachutes opened and the skidoos started their slow, gentle descent onto the snowy plains below.