The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (98 page)

Milton had been in Victoria, Texas, for twelve hours. He had dropped the Dodge back at the Hertz office and was just wondering what to do next. He still had four thousand dollars in his go-bag, enough for him to just drift idly along the coast with no need to get a job just yet. He thought that maybe he’d get a Greyhound ticket and head east from Texas into Louisiana and then across to Florida, and then, maybe, he would turn north up towards New York and find a job. That was his rough plan, but he was taking it as it came. No sense in setting anything in stone. He had taken a room in a cheap hotel across the street from the bar, and rather than spend another night alone with just his paperbacks for company, he had decided to get out, get something to eat, and watch the game.

Milton took a bite out of one of the chicken wings.

“Good?” said the man sitting on the stool to his right. Milton looked at him: mid-twenties, slender, acne scars scattered across his nose and cheeks.

“Very good.”

“All in the sauce. Hot, right?”

“I’ll say.”

“That’s old Bill’s original recipe. Used to call it Suicide ’til folks thought he ought to tone it down a bit. Calls it Supercharger now.”

“So I see,” Milton said, pointing to the menu on the blackboard above his head. “It packs a punch.”

“Say—where you from?”

“Here and there.”

“Nah, man—that accent, what is it? English, right?”

“That’s right,” Milton said. He had no real interest in talking, and eventually, after he made a series of noncommittal responses to the man’s comments on the Cowboys’ chances this year, he got the message and quietened down.

The two newcomers were loud. Milton examined them a little more carefully. One of them must have been six-five and eighteen stone, built like one of the offensive linemen on the TV. He had a fat, pendulous face, a severe crew cut and small nuggety eyes deeply set within flabby sockets; he had the cruel look of a school bully, a small boy transported into the body of a fully grown man. His friend was smaller but still heavyset and thick with muscle. His head was shaved bald, and he had dead, expressionless eyes. The other men in the bar ignored them. It was a rough place, the kind of place where the threat of a brawl was never far from the surface, but the way the others kept their distance from these two suggested that they were known and, probably, that they had reputations.

The bald man saw Milton looking and stared at him.

Milton turned back to the screen.

“Alright!” the man at the bar exclaimed as the fullback plunged over the goal line for a Cowboys’ touchdown.

The two men sauntered over to the table where the girls were sitting. They started to talk to them; it was obvious that they were not welcome. The big man sat down, preventing one of the girls from leaving. Milton sipped on his Coke and watched as the girl pressed herself against the wall, trying to put distance between him and her. He reached across and slipped an arm around her shoulders, she tried to shrug it away, but he was persistent. The bald man went around to the other side of the table and grabbed the arm of the nearest girl. He hauled her up, encircled her waist with his arm and pulled her up against his body. She cursed him loudly and struggled, but he was much too strong.

Milton folded his napkin, carefully wiped his mouth with it, and then stood.

He walked to the table.

“Leave them alone,” he said.

“Say what?”

“They’re not interested.”

“Says who?”

“I do. There’s no need for trouble, is there?”

“I don’t know—you tell me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe I
do
think so.”

Milton watched as he sank the rest of his beer. He knew what would come next, so he altered his balance a little, spreading his weight evenly between his feet so that he could move quickly in either direction.

The bald man got up. “You ought to mind your own business.”

“Last chance, friend,” Milton said.

“I ain’t your friend.”

The bald man cracked the glass against the edge of the table and rushed him, jabbing the sharp edges towards his face. Milton took a half-pace to the left and let the man hurry past, missing him completely with his drunken swipe. He reached out with his right hand and snagged the man’s right wrist, pivoting on his right foot and using his momentum to swing him around and down, crashing his head into the bar. He bounced backwards and ended up, unmoving and face down, on the floor. The big man reached out for a pool cue from the table. He swung it, but Milton stepped inside the arc of the swing, took the abbreviated impact against his shoulder, and then jabbed his fingers into the man’s larynx. He dropped the cue; Milton took a double handful of the man’s shirt, yanked him down a little, butted him in the nose, and then dumped him back on his behind.

The bald man was out cold, and the big man had blood all over his face from his broken nose.

“You had enough?” Milton said.

“All right, mister! Get your hands up!”

Milton turned.

“Come on,” he groaned. “Seriously?”

The man he had been talking to earlier had pulled a revolver and was aiming it at him.

“Put your hands up now!”

“What—you’re police?”

“That’s right. Get them up!”

“All right. Take it easy.”

“On your head.”

“You want me to put them up or on my head?” He sighed. “Fine—here.” He turned away and put his arms behind his back. “Go on. Here we go. Cuff me. Just relax. I’m not going to resist.”

The young cop approached him warily, moved his hands behind his back, and fixed handcuffs around his wrists.

“What’s your name?”

“John Smith.”

“All right then, buddy. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney.”

“Come on.”

The fat man wiped the blood from his face and started to laugh.

“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?”

“Of course.”

“With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”

“Not particularly.”

“John Smith—you’re under arrest.”

THE VAN WAS PARKED at the side of the road. It was a white Renault and it had been prepared to look just like one of the maintenance vehicles that Virgin Media used. It was parked at the junction of Upper Ground and Rennie Street. The spot had been chosen carefully; it allowed an excellent view of the entrance to the Oxo Tower brasserie on London’s South Bank. The interior of the van had been prepared carefully, too. A console had been installed along the right-hand side of the vehicle, with monitors displaying the feed from the low light colour camera that was fitted to the roof. There was a 360-degree periscope that could be raised and lowered as appropriate, various recording devices, a dual band radio antenna and a microwave receiver. It was a little cramped in the back for the two men inside. The intelligence officer using the equipment had quickly become oblivious to any discomfort. He reached across to the console and selected a different video feed; they had installed a piggyback into the embassy’s security system two weeks ago and now he had access to all those separate feeds as well as to an array of exterior cameras they had also hijacked. The monitor flickered, and then displayed the footage from the security camera that monitored the building. He could see the big Mercedes S280 that the chauffeur had parked there, but, apart from that, there was nothing.

The second man was sitting just to the side of the technician, watching the action over his shoulder. This man was anxious, and he knew that it was radiating from him. “Change views,” he said tensely. “Back inside.”

The technician did as he was told and discarded the view for another one from inside the restaurant. The targets were still in the main room, finishing their desserts. The first target was facing away from the camera but she was still recognisable. The second target was toying with an unlit cigarette, turning it between his fingers. The second man looked at the footage. It looked as if the meal was finally coming to an end. The two targets would be leaving soon.

“Group,” the second man said into the headset microphone. “This is Control. Comms check.”

“Copy that Control, this is One. Strength ten.”

“Eight, also strength ten.”

“Twelve, copy that.”

“Ten, strength ten.”

“Eleven, same here. Strength ten.”

“Five. Ditto for me.”

“Eleven, what can you see?”

The agent code-named Eleven was standing at the bar, enjoying a drink as he waited for a table. His name was Duffy and he had latterly been in the Special Boat Service. Control could see him in the footage from the camera and watched as he angled himself away from the couple and put his hand up to his mouth. “They’re finishing,” he said, his voice clipped and quiet as he spoke into the discreet microphone slipped beneath the strap of his watch. “The waiter just asked if they wanted coffees and they didn’t. Won’t be long.”

Satisfied, Control sat back and watched. Very few people knew his given name. He was dressed well, as was his habit, in a pale blue shirt and tastefully spotted braces. He held his glasses in his right hand, absently tapping one of the arms against his lips. He had been in day-to-day command of Group Fifteen for several months but this was the first operation that he had overseen from the field. He was a desk man by nature. He preferred to pull the strings, the dark hand in the shadows. The puppet master. But this operation was personal and he wanted to be closer to the action. He would have preferred to smell the gun smoke, if that had been possible. He would have preferred to pull the trigger.

Watching would be an acceptable substitute.

It was an expensive and exclusive restaurant. The wall facing the river was one huge expanse of glass, with doors leading out onto a terrace. The views were outstanding and Control knew, from several meals there himself, that the food was just as good. The bright sunlight refracted against the watch that the first target wore on her wrist and the diamond earrings that must have cost her a small fortune. Control watched and felt his temper slowly curdle. He had been introduced to her by a mutual Iranian friend. The name she had given him was Alexandra Kyznetsov. He knew now that that was not her name. Her real name was Anastasia Ivanovna Semenko and, instead of being a businesswoman with interests in the chemical industry, she was an agent in the pay of the Russian Federal Security Service. She was in her early forties but she had invested heavily in cosmetic surgery and, as a result, she could have passed for a woman fifteen years younger. Control had found her attractive and he had enjoyed her flirtatious manner on the occasions that they had met.

Now, though, that just made her betrayal worse.

Control stared at the screen and contemplated the frantic action of the last three days. That was how long he had had to plan the operation. It was hopelessly insufficient, especially for something as delicate as this, but the role that Semenko played cast her as something of a globetrotter and it was difficult to find a reliable itinerary for her; she tended to change it on a whim. She had only just returned from business in Saudi Arabia. Control had only green-lit the operation when it was confirmed that she was stopping in London before returning to Moscow. The team had then been assembled and briefed. Control had considered the precise detail of the plan and, by and large, he was satisfied with it. It was as good as he would be able to manage in the limited time that he had available.

The second target laughed at something that Semenko said. Control switched his attention to him. He had introduced himself as Andrei Dragunov but, again, that was a lie. His real name was Pascha Shcherbatov. He, too, was Russian. He was in his early middle-age and he was a long-time KGB agent, an intelligence man to the quick; since the fall of the Wall he had amassed considerable influence in the SVR, the successor to his notorious previous employer, and was now considered to be something of an operator. A worthy opponent, certainly.

Semenko clasped the hand of the
maitre d’
, her face beaming. They both got up, leaving money on the table, and made for the archway that opened into the lobby.

“DOLLAR and SNOW are on the move,” Control reported. “Stand ready.”

Shcherbatov’s phone rang and he stopped, putting it to his ear. Semenko paused, waiting for him. Control stared at the pirated feed, willing himself to read Shcherbatov’s lips, but it was hopeless: the angle was wrong and the quality of the image was too poor. He watched, frowning hard. Shcherbatov smiled broadly, replaced the phone and spoke with Semenko. Control hoped that their plans had not changed. That would throw things into confusion.

“Control to One and Twelve,” Control said into the mike. “They are on the move.”

“One, Control. Copy that.”

Control watched as Semenko and Shcherbatov headed towards the exit. The pair stepped beneath the camera and out of shot. “Keep on them,” Control said, and the technician tapped out a command and switched views to a new camera. This one was in the elevator and, as he watched, the doors opened and the two of them stepped inside. Shcherbatov pressed the button for the ground floor. The camera juddered as the lift began to descend.

“Targets are in the lift,” Control reported. “One and Twelve, stand ready.”

“One, Control. Copy that.”

The technician swung around on his chair and brought up another feed on the second monitor. It offered a wide angle view of the street outside the restaurant. Control could see Semenko’s chauffeur. He was a large man, powerfully built, with a balding head. They knew he had a background in the Spetsnaz and would certainly be armed. He wore a pair of frameless glasses and was dressed in a dark suit and open-necked shirt. Control watched as he stepped out of the shadows, tossing a cigarette to the floor and stomping it out.