Slingshot: A Spycatcher Novel (27 page)

“Yep.” In a quiet, controlled voice, Mark read out the number plate so that Suzy could note it in her hotel room. “He’s cautious. Traveling approx fifteen MPH.”

“Heard.” Suzy asked, “How far is the vehicle from the house?”

“About eighty yards.”

“Not enough time for me to ID the vehicle owner.”

Laith edged a few inches nearer to the road and slightly adjusted position. He started flexing his toes to aid circulation.

“Slowing down again. Approx ten MPH.” Mark paused. “Now he’s stopped, fifty yards from house . . . just waiting, engine still on. Driver’s middle-aged, Caucasian, blond hair, close-cropped beard.”

Laith withdrew his handgun and flicked off the safety catch. If the man drove fast out of the street, they’d have to let him go. He might not be Rübner, in which case if they forced the car to stop by shooting its engine block and tires, the wrecked car would be an almighty warning sign to the Israeli if he did subsequently turn up. Equally, if the driver was Rübner, he could bolt just to see who was flushed out by the action. They had to make him feel safe to approach the house on foot. But when that happened, there’d be no hesitation: Laith and Mark would explode into action, grab him, haul him back into his car, and drive fast away from the city.

Holding his gun in one hand and his binoculars with his other, he stared at the driver. The man was motionless, looking straight down the street in the direction of Rübner’s home. He stayed like this for ten minutes, just waiting.

Laith pressed the tips of his boots into the hard ground, readying himself to get to his feet and sprint.

“Driver opens his door . . .” Mark’s voice was now tense. “But he still ain’t moving.”

Laith muttered, “Come on,” between gritted teeth. He inhaled deeply, then held his breath as he saw the driver put one foot onto the pavement, then the other. The man got out of the sedan, quietly shut the door, glanced around, and began walking down the deserted street.

“Athletic build, roll-neck jumper, windcheater trousers, canvas boots. Looks like he can do a runner.”

“Yeah.” Laith moved his binoculars to keep the driver in his sights. The man was walking slowly and had one hand positioned over his stomach. “He might be carrying a weapon close to belt buckle.”

“Okay.” Mark was breathing fast. “I’m moving nearer to you. You’ve got point.”

The driver stopped, withdrew a cell phone, and held it to his ear. Two seconds later he replaced the cell into his pocket. In all probability, he’d just tried to call his daughter or wife. He continued walking, was now thirty yards from Rübner’s house.

Mark whispered. “I’m in position, fifteen yards to your east.”

Laith secreted his binoculars. The driver was easily visible to the naked eye and was walking on the other side of the road, across his line of sight. He reached the bottom of the driveway leading to Rübner’s property and looked around.

Laith and Mark would break cover when he was halfway up the drive.

The driver turned so that he had his back to the intelligence officers.

Laith raised his upper body onto his elbows and brought his knees under his chest.

The man took two steps along the drive.

And another.

Laith gripped his pistol tight.

The driver took a fourth step.

Any moment now.

Engine noise.

Loud.

The driver stopped, half turned.

Laith froze.

A rush of movement from the west side of the street.

Men. Four of them. All carrying handguns.

A car raced past them and screeched to a halt near the driveway.

The target ducked low, spun, pulled out a gun.

One man shouted, “Rübner,” a fraction of a second before he and the others opened fire.

The force of the volley caused Rübner to flip backward, release his gun, and fall awkwardly onto the driveway with bullets in his head and chest.

Two of the men rushed to the body and quickly examined it. One of them nodded, and called out in Hebrew, “It’s done. Go, go!”

The men piled into the car, and it sped away.

Laith shook his head with disbelief. A Mossad hit team had finally caught up with Simon Rübner and expertly punished him for betraying their agents. But in doing so, they had unwittingly killed the last lead to Kurt Schreiber and Kronos.

Forty-Six

K
ronos lit tobacco in his old briar pipe, opened a metal container, and delicately removed one of the cigarette-lighter-sized devices supplied to him by the Dutch merchant captain in Rotterdam. He examined all sides of the device, unscrewed the bottom cap, and eased out a section containing a circuit board and timer. After making adjustments to the timer, he quickly slotted it back into the device and jogged across the large, empty warehouse. In the center of the building were drums crammed with scrap metal. He placed the device into the center of a drum and ran back to the other side of the warehouse. Checking his watch, he waited.

Ten seconds later, there was an explosion.

The device had torn apart the barrel.

He examined the debris, deciding that the explosion had caused too much damage. Retrieving another spare device, he unscrewed the top cap and removed the PE4 plastic explosive. Tearing it in half, he placed one piece of the explosive back into the device, sealed it, set the timer, and placed it into another barrel.

This time the explosion didn’t penetrate the barrel.

Kronos looked inside. The bomb had done exactly the right level of damage; he would adjust the quantity of PE4 in the two devices he’d shortly be using so that they would do the same amount of destruction.

It was time to go. He had one last task.

Forty-Seven

T
he hood was removed, and Will blinked fast and for a moment felt disoriented. He’d been blindfolded for at least four hours, maybe much longer. Beside him, Mikhail rubbed fingers against his eyes, cursed, and looked around. They were in a brightly illuminated room that was furnished with a functional metal table and chairs and nothing else. Kapitein Derksen was sitting on a chair, one leg resting over the other, smoking a cigarette while keeping his gaze fixed on the intelligence officers. Two of his men were standing close by, their expressions hostile and suspicious.

In English, Derksen said, “Long journey.” He took a drag on his cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. “Bet you feel like shit.”

“I’ve done worse.” Will’s eyes ached as they gradually adjusted to the light. “We’re here?”

“We’re here.” The black-haired Special Forces commander stood and stubbed out his cigarette. He was of average height but had a physique that some might conclude derived from bodybuilding, though Will suspected it came from the rope-climbing and other skills required of hostage rescuers—skills that produced strength and stamina well beyond those of an Olympian gymnast. “You want water, tea, coffee? We can’t offer you anything better than that because we don’t keep liquor on the base.”

Mikhail answered, “Black coffee.”

Will smiled and put on his most gentlemanly voice. “I’d like a cup of tea, please, but could you make sure it’s made with leaves, that the pot is prewarmed before the boiling water’s added, the tea is infused for three minutes, and it’s served without milk or sugar?”

Derksen looked at him with a stern expression, though he had a twinkle in his eye. “This isn’t fucking Claridge’s Hotel. A tea bag, warm water, and that’ll be it. Good enough?”

Will pretended to look disappointed. “Never mind.” His expression changed. “Forget the tea, let’s get to work. I’ll need to have a complete tour of the base, its perimeter, and any land beyond it that overlooks the base, need to study maps of the area, look at the airstrip where the aircraft will take off with the witness, a complete breakdown of the flight plan, and will also need every detail you have about the secure facility in The Hague. Oh, and of course I’ll need to speak to the witness.”

The twinkle in Derksen’s eyes vanished. “The boss—she’s a clever lady and keeps us on our toes. Her office has a safe containing ten thousand euros. Every week, we play a game of guards versus intruders. We take turns so that we know what it’s like to be on both sides. The guards never know when or how the intruders will strike. In one of our barracks there’s a life-size dummy of a man. If an intruder can reach him, or knock his head off from a distance, or blow up the building he’s in, then that man gets Superintendent Engert’s jackpot. Trust me—we could all do with that cash. But so far, no one’s succeeded.” Derksen sat on the edge of the desk. “The base covers one square mile. It was designed from scratch to protect men who entire countries wish dead. At any one time, we have a minimum of three hundred specialists on duty here, and twice as many can be on duty within one minute of an alert. If your assassin had managed to grow wings and had superpowers that made him invisible, he might be able to penetrate the perimeter of the base. But he’d never be able to reach his target.” The Special Forces officer slapped his hand on the table. “Regardless, I’ll give you want you want, with the exceptions that the maps won’t show this base’s location in Holland and you’re not going to meet the witness.”

“You have to let me see him . . .”

“I don’t
have to
do anything you ask of me! There are extremely strict rules about who can access people under our protection. We never deviate from those rules because we know how to keep people alive.”

Will felt exasperated. “Anything the witness can tell us about the assassin must be of value to us.”

Derksen shook his head. “No. It would be a hindrance. The witness’s potential knowledge about Kronos’s past assassinations will naturally skew our thinking toward believing he’ll do something similar to those previous hits. It’s safer if we have a blank canvas and believe that he’s capable of anything.”

Will was about to respond but stopped. What Derksen was saying made sense. “Who is the witness?”

“Nice try, but I know you’re not permitted to know that information until we move him from here.” The Dutchman’s expression softened. “No doubt, I’d be a complete amateur trying to do the things you do in the field. At the same time, I suspect you’ve never spent every waking second of months on end trying to establish how someone”—he waved his hand around—“could break into one of the world’s highest-security facilities.”

Will nodded. He’d never spent months on end in one place, let alone somewhere like this. He lowered his head, deep in thought. More to himself, he asked, “What the hell is Kronos going to try to do?”

“When protecting a high-value target, the greatest point of vulnerability is if he’s being transferred from one place to another.”

Will looked up. “You think he’ll attack him during the trip north?”

Derksen shrugged. “Maybe, if he’s got access to a jet fighter or a sophisticated long-range heat-seeking military surface-to-air missile system.” He smiled. “But on the basis that he hasn’t got those things, I believe that we’re safe. Most of the flight will be at twenty thousand feet. It will take off and land in our secure facilities. We can’t be reached.”

Will glanced at Mikhail, then the Dutch commander. “The only remaining possibility is that the assassination attempt will be made at the hearing itself.”

Derksen nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“Are you worried about that?”

“No. It is impossible to kill a man there. Every inch of land, air space, and subterranean space around the courts is protected.”

Frustration coursed through Will. Though he would analyze all the security around the witness, he could tell that Kapitein Derksen was a no-nonsense professional who knew exactly what he was talking about. Part of him wished that weren’t the case. Kronos would attack a crack in Derksen’s security and that’s where they’d get him. But Will was convinced that there were no cracks. His phone bleeped; he had a message from Mark.

No chance for chit-chat with Rübner. Israelis got to him first, right under our noses. We’ve released mother and daughter. Rübner’s dead.

Will kicked one of the metal chairs and spat, “What the fuck is happening?”

Forty-Eight

K
ronos was motionless as he stared at the complex through night-vision binoculars. He’d been observing the place for two hours, watching vehicles move back and forth, men and women at work, establishing patterns of behavior. Dressed in blue overalls and boots, he looked like many of the people he could see, though he hadn’t really needed to adopt the disguise. He’d easily infiltrate the low-security base and reach his goal without being seen.

But he couldn’t take any chances.

He’d wait in his hidden location for at least another two hours, while observing everything beyond the high-wire fence that separated him and the complex. Then he’d complete his final task.

F
ive hours later, Kronos stripped out of his clothes and tossed them onto the bed. The big German stretched his muscular and scarred frame, and sighed as he heard the headboard in the adjacent hotel room begin to bang against his wall, just as it had done an hour earlier. He supposed he couldn’t complain—the seedy Amsterdam hotel was a favorite venue for prostitutes and their customers. That’s why he’d chosen it; the hotel employees turned a blind eye to everything.

He started running a bath and opened the case containing the stripped-down sniper rifle. After his bath, he’d spend two hours checking the weapon and making preparations. Then he’d leave the hotel and hit the road. There was still a lot of work to do before sunrise.

He felt calm and in control of matters, and knew that this was because he’d spent nearly two decades planning the potential assassination of one of the men who’d attended the disused barracks in Berlin. Every possibility had been considered—an assault in the States, Russia, Europe, elsewhere; urban, rural, mobile, or static. He’d cultivated assets who could get him things at short notice and thereby allow him to enter and exit countries with nothing compromising on his person. He walked to the window and stared at the city. The Hague was less than two hours away.

Kronos smiled.

He’d considered and planned for
every
possibility, including killing a man in a maximum-security courtroom.