Thunder (25 page)

Bingo.

He heaved himself upright, and made his way around the block and back to the cafe.

~~~~~

London

Ellard was hammering, with greater than usual levels of plastic-shattering ferocity, on the keyboard of his computer. Greere scowled in his direction then leaned forwards, closer to the microphone. “Fecske Street?” he asked his machine.

“Yes,” the computer’s tinny speakers were struggling with the deep rumbling voice. “Between Déri Miksa and Bérkocsis.”

“You’re ready?”

“Yes.”

Greere frowned, “And your plan?”

“Kill him.”

The frown deepened, “Exit? Egress? Tactics?”

“We’re on it. Tin is working up the details. Right now.”

Greere felt his bubbling apoplexy subside slightly, “Hmmm, I suppose that’s reasonable given the amount of notice.” Ellard glanced over at him, seemingly unimpressed. He ignored his subordinate.

“Tin thinks he will move again. Soon. Possibly without the pack.”

“Understood, Mercury. Now get back to Tin, work up your detailed strike plan and standby. Do not move without formal approval. Do you understand? Do not move without approval.”

“Understood. Out.”

Greere’s screen dimmed as the video image disappeared.

“Sikand is a pro,” Ellard observed agitatedly, still punching at keys. “I consider him the most dangerous of all of them. That’s why I allocated him to Tin in the first place. Nagpal is also a pro but Sikand is the worse. If they don’t catch him by surprise, it’ll be carnage.”

Greere nodded to himself. “Which is why I’m going to let Sentinel make the call,” he said calmly. “And also why you’re going to tootle off over there, straight away.” He could see Ellard’s expression hardening over the top of the monitor. The sight made him smile. “Tin and Mercury are both expendable but I want you out there and ready to tidy up.”

Ellard grunted and kept bashing at his keyboard.

“I think their assessment is correct though,” Greere continued. “This is a good opportunity. Better to try to take Sikand in isolation. While the group is separated. While we have the advantage.”

“And afterward,” said Ellard. “What then?”

“Whether or not the mission is successful, the survivors will run. Most likely together. We still have the other tags,” Greere snatched up his encrypted cellphone and prepared to dial Sentinel. “You’d better get moving, Deuce. Next plane. Pronto.”

~~~~~

Budapest

Sikand grabbed his jacket. “I can’t eat this shit,” he snarled.

The Hungarians sat in mute silence around a large table covered in takeaway boxes. They watched him nervously as he walked around them. He liked that.

“If you touch my pack,” he growled, “I’ll know.”

He reached the apartment’s doorway and pulled it open.

“I’ll know,” he repeated. “And I
will
kill you for it.”

The door slammed closed behind him.

~~~~~

Jack had just taken a large swig of his Americano when the bald pate of Sikand appeared, stepping carefully out onto the streetlamp-lit pavement. Jack almost choked on the hot liquid.

Sikand turned toward him.

“Shit,” Jack muttered quietly to himself.

If Sikand was heading for the car he could be going anywhere and, importantly, Jack couldn’t see any sign of the backpack.

“Bollocks,” he whispered under his breath, whilst gently easing himself out of sight behind the cafe’s large window frame.

Sikand reached the junction.

Where was he going?

The tall tan-skinned man stopped for a second, then turned right and proceeded along the opposite pavement, straight past the cafe where Jack was sitting, and then down Déri Miksa Street.

‘Thank fuck for that,’ Jack thought to himself, and watched carefully as his target continued to the end of the road. ‘Going into town, Big Man?’ He smiled to himself. ‘See you when you get back...’

~~~~~

London

Ellard was gone. Heading for Heathrow and a seat on the last flight out to Budapest’s Ferenc Liszt International Airport.

“Prepare a précis mission summary. Keep it vague,” said his boss’s voice over the speakerphone.

“Not much trouble with that, sir,” Greere replied. Sentinel had been in a meeting somewhere when he had originally called him, so he’d had to wait until now for him to call back.

“Deuce is en route?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. If things go south again then make sure you’re ready to sever all linkages.”

“Already on it, sir.”

“Excellent. It would be better if we had more time to verify the operatives’ plans, but on the other hand maybe it’s best we know so little? Either way, given my experiences, this sort of action is almost always subject to very short notice. I suspect we need to grab the opportunity.”

“Exactly, sir.” Greere waited patiently for a few seconds, then continued carefully, “So are we ‘go’, sir?”

“Go,” said Sentinel.

~~~~~

Budapest

We walk casually along the road toward the tenement block. Jack’s description was accurate. It’s a scruffy looking place. I should be feeling nervous but I’m not.

I felt a short spike of adrenalin-fuelled excitement, back in the cafe, when Jack showed me the simple text message –
‘GO’
– but since then, I’ve been keeping my thoughts focussed firmly on you and Lizzie and my fiery memories of Victoria Station. This worthless lump of flesh stole my world. It’s time for me to take something back.

Jack nods upwards. The top floor windows look dark. Jack thinks this flat is a prearranged rendezvous point and, with Sikand currently out of the building, we’re planning to sneak in and wait for him. “We’ll let the target come to us,” he had explained.

With a final glance up and down the street, we head toward the entrance.

Its doors remain wedged wide open and we head inside.

A staircase leads up from the small, rubbish-riddled atrium. Jack moves to a position beneath it, and peers upwards between the flights of stairs as they wind backwards and forwards above him. There’s a hum of muted television noise coming from the door next to me, and more from upstairs. Jack notices it too and pulls a suppressor from one of his side pockets. I mirror his actions, draw my weapon, and screw my own lightly oiled silencer smoothly onto its barrel.

He checks I’m ready, then makes a hand signal: two twists upwards.

I nod.

~~~~~

Sikand shovelled the last of his meal into his mouth and reached for the almost-empty bottle of red wine. The wine round here was very good.

For the first time in months he was enjoying himself. It had been a long time since he’d had a comfortable meal. Maybe he should find himself a hooker too? Something to distract him. Something disposable, to keep him entertained through the night.

As he sipped at his wine, he wondered how much his Hungarian hosts would appreciate it if he left them a parting gift of an incriminating cadaver or two?

It was the least he could do.

He smiled viciously to himself.

~~~~~

Jack pauses on the second landing.

My earlier calm and icy intent is being disturbed by rising feelings of self-doubt, inner-conflict and anxiety. I suppose this is only natural. I am not some battle-hardened operative, I’m just an ordinary person who has been thrust by circumstance onto an extraordinarily different life-journey. The bitter realities of my situation, of where I find myself, have suddenly become all too clear to me, and Jack can see it in my eyes.

“Relax,” he whispers. “It’s going to be fine. Focus on the mission. The most important thing, in circumstances like this, is that we have the upper hand; the element of surprise is on our side. He has no idea we are onto him. This is perfect.” He jerks his head upwards. “The flat is empty. We’ll get inside, set up a clean field of fire and wait. I’m going to take the shot. I need you to be positioned to cover the exit for me. I’m hoping we can conceal you, just inside, so you’re behind him when I strike. It will be quick. You only need to fire if it looks like he’s going to get away.” He puffs himself up, but I sense his bravado is a playact for my benefit. “Remember, I’ve done this lots of times. We’ll keep things simple and professional. It’s a walk in the park.” His bravado vanishes and a momentary glimmer of sadness drifts across his eyes.

“Thought of something?” I ask quietly.

He shakes his head quickly, “Nah... It just feels a bit clinical. A bit too one-sided. I prefer a fairer fight.”

“Like the fair fight he orchestrated in London?” I murmur angrily, as a bubble of fresh hatred pops, surprisingly pleasantly, into my stomach.

He smiles at my words. “You’re back,” he observes. “Good. Let’s get going.”

Jack heads on up the stairs, moving in front of me like a shadow drifting silently over the ground. I follow. My breathing on its own seems louder than Jack’s carefully placed footfalls, and I’m painfully aware of every creak and bump from the staircase, but the surrounding building remains quiet other than for the gradually receding sounds of televisions from the lower floors.

Reaching the final landing, Jack pauses again, and signals for me to stay quiet.

It’s a small landing. One door – fitted with an old, heavily scratched Yale lock – faces us.

There’s also a small ladder, leading to a boarded loft entrance, fixed to the far wall. I move and check it. It doesn’t look too sturdy and the loft door has been painted closed. Several times. No-one has been up this for a long time.

I turn and shake my head to Jack – there is no risk of this being used for exit or, perhaps, to get above us – and he nods then leans gently against the door, listening carefully for any sound from within.

After a few seconds he stands and gestures for me to approach. “Not a sound from in there,” he breathes into my offered ear. “And there’s no light at all.” I look to where he’s pointing and can see that it is dark all around the frame of the door. “I had a view of the entrance from the cafe. There’s been very little movement in or out of the building. Just a couple of old people who must live downstairs.” I nod and he plunges one hand into his jacket to pull out a small, thin, leather pouch. “Hold this,” he whispers, passing the pouch to me after fishing out a couple of strangely shaped thin metal lock picks. He turns to the Yale lock. “Thirty-seconds and we’ll be inside – you just watch me...”

~~~~~

A pile of half-empty takeaway boxes were roughly stacked on one side of the apartment’s spartan dining table, along with an associated collection of dirty cutlery. The three men remained seated, between their rubbish, playing cards. Over in the far corner the muted television was tuned to the BBC News channel. From time to time, they would all, individually, glance over at it.

“How long do you think he will stay for?” one of the men asked, in Hungarian, as he fed another handful of prawn-crackers into his flabby mouth. This mouth matched his flabby waistline, and his waistline matched the fat arms protruding from the arms of his crumpled tee-shirt.

“Dunno,” the smallest man of the trio studied his cards carefully. “Probably not long. The rest of the group must be waiting for him somewhere.”

The last man at the table was tallest of them all. Strong and muscular, he was the only one of the group that you might consider dangerous if you were to see him out on the streets. “As long as they don’t come here too,” he said angrily. “I don’t give a whore’s-ass about their cause. They’re being hunted. The British won’t have forgotten about them. We had no idea they’d pull a mad stunt, like that bombing, when we agreed to this. We’re all going to end up in the gulag if we’re not careful.”

The short man moved a card around carefully in his hand. “We took their money easily enough, and then used it to set this place up for ourselves,” he said. “I don’t think we’ll ever see them again after Sikand leaves. He only came here to see if the boy had turned up. They’ve been compromised somehow. That’s why they didn’t show up weeks ago. We should be pleased that they’re heading elsewhere, and there are three of us, and one of him. He’s no real threat to us, unless we do something stupid to get him riled.”

The fat man glanced nervously at the rucksack propped up against the far wall. “What do you think’s inside it?” he asked through another mouthful of crackers.

“Probably his gay magazines,” muttered the tall thug: triggering a fit of badly swallowed snack-induced choking from his overweight colleague.

“Or a bomb,” muttered the short guy grimly, as he picked up a two hundred forint note and tossed it into the pile in the centre of the table.

~~~~~

Thirty-seconds have been, and are now long gone. We’re still on the landing...

I edge over to the stairs and peer down over the bannisters. I can’t see all the way down to the lobby because the staircase to this top floor comes up in a single flight, whereas on the lower floors it rises back and forth on itself, zigzagging through the centre of the building. This flat must be different to those below. It must take up the whole width of the upper floor.

That would also explain why there’s only one door up here.

“Come on,” Jack breathes in frustration to his clicking lock picks.

I edge closer, and lean around him so I can see the solitary door handle. It’s hanging, to my eyes, loosely beneath the Yale.

“Careful,” he hisses into my ear.

I press gently down on the handle and the door pops open.

It wasn’t locked.

“Shit,” I hear him mutter behind me, and he quickly grabs the handle from my hand. “Get the light,” he instructs quietly.

There’s a switch on the wall next to the door, so I throw it, and we’re plunged into darkness.

~~~~~

“Did you hear something?” The fat man turned anxiously away from the table, and stared over at the steel-framed, black door which led to the outer corridor and stairway.