Lakes smiled faintly. ‘Coles told you everything before you killed him, I see. I presume you killed him, since he’s not with you now.’ She looked for a reaction from Porter, then went on. ‘Yes. You’ve figured it out. I helped Brozovic during the war. With some help from our American friends, naturally. But something had to be done. We couldn’t just stand back and do nothing while our governments abandoned our Christian brothers.’
‘We?’
Lakes nodded. ‘The movement. Look around you, John. There’s an Islamic takeover of the West happening right now, in front of our very eyes. Look at the mosques. The faith schools. Multiculturalism.’ Her voice trembled with anger. ‘In the days of the Crusades, it was the job of the Knights Templar to fight Islam. Now it’s up to those of us inside Whitehall and Washington to carry on the struggle.’
There was a fanatical look in her eyes as she spoke. Christ, Porter thought. Lakes really does believe this crap.
‘You’re fucking insane.’
‘No. Not really. You’d be surprised how many people share my beliefs. Mine and my grandfather’s. There are plenty of people inside the establishment who agree with what we’re doing, even if they can’t say so publicly.’
‘Bullshit.’
Lakes chuckled. ‘Come on, John. Do you really think a single MI6 agent would be able to arrange an illicit deal to funnel weapons and intelligence to Brozovic, without any of her superiors taking notice?’
‘Who else?’ Porter said. ‘Who else is in on it?’
‘Too many to name. But we have friends in the cabinet. In the upper echelons of the civil service. The media. Indeed, in every corner of the establishment there are people who support our agenda. We’re more powerful than you could ever imagine.’
Porter said nothing. He thought back to what Nealy had told him before the mission briefing. About Lakes’s family being highly connected. About how her grandfather had been a mate of Oswald Mosley and his Blackshirts. How her father had been a top civil servant under Ted Heath. Now he wondered if they were all part of this secret movement. A state within a state.
Christ, how deep does this thing go?
‘But why support some Serb warlord on the other side of Europe?’
‘Brozovic shared our beliefs. And he needed our help. He was on the frontline, and the Americans had betrayed him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The CIA was supplying weapons to the Bosnian Muslims. Unofficially, of course. When the war broke out, the Saudis wanted to help their cousins in Bosnia. So they called in their debts to Washington. The Americans owed the Saudis after the Gulf War. But supplying guns to the Bosnians was strictly illegal. We heard about it through our friends in the agency. We had no choice but to intervene. We had to support Brozovic, in whatever ways we could.’
Porter could barely believe what he was hearing.
There was a secret arms race going on in Bosnia, and no one even knew about it
.
‘Then the war finished,’ Lakes continued. ‘We had to hide Brozovic. Keep him out of sight. In hindsight, it was a mistake. We should have simply disposed of him. Still, we’ll take care of that problem now. And you two will die as well. It’s all working out rather nicely, I’d say.’
‘How the hell did you know where to find us?’ Bald seethed.
‘It was easy enough. Once you failed to show at the RV I knew the plan had been compromised, and you’d have to get out of the country by road. There are only two crossing points near Nyon. And you wouldn’t have tried to cross at Geneva. Not with the heavy security presence there. This was the only route open to you. Then it was just a case of waiting until our guys in the Defender caught sight of you.’
Porter turned to Keppel and jerked a thumb at the gunmen. ‘I’m guessing this lot belong to you. What’d she offer you? A lifetime of far-right bollocks? An invitation to the BNP’s Christmas party?’
Porter was stalling, trying to buy himself time. He didn’t know what for. But every second was another second he was still drawing breath, and kept alive his faint hope of finding some way of escaping.
Keppel raised a smile. It wrinkled his smooth face. ‘Something better, actually. Contracts.’
Lakes saw the puzzled look on Porter’s face and said, ‘Once I’m calling the shots at Vauxhall, I’ll have the final say on who gets awarded dozens of major contracts. We’re talking tens of millions of pounds. Templar will be at the top of the pile. With a commission skimmed off the top for myself, of course.’
‘Bastard.’ Porter glared at Lakes. ‘I thought the Serbs were bad enough. But you’re a real fucking piece of work.’
She suppressed a laugh. ‘No, John. I’m just a lot smarter than you. That’s why you’re in the gutter, and I’m about to become the chief of Six.’ She turned to the Scouse gunman. ‘You can kill them now.’
The Scouse grinned and took a step forwards. He drew up his MP5 so that the snout was level with a point between Porter’s eyes. Porter stared back. He wasn’t afraid of dying. But he hated the thought of getting killed while Lakes and Keppel lorded it up over at the Firm. He gritted his teeth and braced himself for the gunshot. Imagined the nine-milli round smashing into his face and tearing through his skull before punching out of his neck. Blood all over the fucking place. The last thought to enter his mind was, I never got to see my Sandy again.
I never got to see her smile one last time
.
Porter closed his eyes and waited to die.
THIRTY-NINE
1142 hours.
The gunshot rang out.
Porter opened his eyes.
I’m still breathing.
The shot hadn’t come from the Scouse’s MP5. It sounded from further away to the right. At Porter’s three o’clock. Another crack split the air, and then a third. The Scouse spun away from Porter and glanced across at the treeline. Porter looked in the same direction, just in time to see the two gunmen on the right side of the road spasming as bullets thumped into their backs. Between the gaps in the trees Porter could see half a dozen figures moving through the woods towards the road from thirty metres away. Five of them were gripping Heckler & Koch UMP submachine guns with the foldable stocks fully extended and pressed tight to their shoulders. They were pissing bullets at the mercenaries in rapid two-round bursts. The sixth shooter wielded a Colt Commando assault rifle, a cut-down and more compact version of the regular M16, with thirty rounds of 5.56x45mm in the clip. Porter recognised the operator at once.
Ophelia.
It’s a counter-ambush. The Firm’s here.
The two gunmen at Porter’s three o’clock were already dead. They were slumped on the blacktop six metres away. The other four gunmen all turned towards the Firm operators rushing towards them from the cover of the woods. So did Keppel and Lakes. The two mercenaries over at the Defender arced their weapons towards the treeline. Ophelia got there first and squeezed off a three-round burst from the Commando. One of the mercenaries let out a throated cry as the bullets punched into his groin in a close grouping, shredding his balls. He fell away, cupping a hand to his testicles. The second gunman grabbed Brozovic and dragged him behind the Defender’s front wheelbase as Ophelia unleashed another three-round burst. Bullets pinged and clattered off the Defender.
The Scouse spun away from Bald and Porter. He put down a two-round burst with his MP5 before diving for cover behind the Beemer. His mucker never made it. Two of the Firm operators had almost reached the treeline and let off a couple of bursts at the mercenary. Evelyn stood among them, brandishing a UMP. The first rounds slapped into the asphalt less than six inches from Bald and Porter, forcing them to hit the deck next to the Merc. The second burst nailed the mercenary through the upper chest, exiting through his neck and killing him instantly. He dropped four metres from Bald and Porter, four away from the Scouse. Porter glanced at his six and saw Lakes and Keppel scrambling past the Merc towards the Defender, eight metres to the rear of the Merc.
He spun around as Bald lunged forward and clasped his right hand around the UMP lying on the ground next to the slotted gunman. Bald swiftly brought the submachine gun up and took aim at the Scouse. The mercenary was still putting down suppressive fire at the treeline. He turned towards Bald. Too late. Bald fired before the Scouse could get a shot away, emptying a pair of rounds into his guts. The guy fell back, clutching his stomach and hissing sharply between his gritted teeth. There was a sudden break in the fire coming from the treeline. Bald raced forwards and jammed the barrel against the Scouse’s neck and fired twice. The Scouse jerked, then went still. He was good and fucking dead. He wouldn’t be claiming any more Jobseekers in this lifetime. Bald grabbed the guy’s MP5 and chucked it to Porter.
‘Mucker!’ he shouted, nodding towards the Defender.
Porter seized the weapon. Shot to his feet and glanced at his six o’clock. Lakes and Keppel had reached the Defender. The last remaining mercenary was crouching by the wheelbase, spraying rounds wildly at the treeline and keeping the operators pinned down. Eight metres south of the Defender, Brozovic was hurrying back down the bend in the road in a lumbering gait, his hands still cuffed behind his back. Lakes yelled at Keppel. The ex-CO turned towards the warlord and raised his USP. He’s going to slot Brozovic, Porter realised.
He’s going to kill the target before the Firm can get their hands on him
.
Porter had a second. Less than that, even. There was no time to properly aim. He had to rely on his instincts and his training, and the feel of the MP5 in his grip.
He depressed the trigger, twice. There was a bright flash and a puff of smoke as the muzzle lit up. Two jackets spat out of the ejector located on the side of the weapon. Porter’s aim was surgical. Keppel jolted before he could let off a round. The bullets punched into his upper back with a deadly
whump-whump
. The ex-CO fell away. As if someone had cut the strings on him.
Three metres to the left of Keppel, the remaining mercenary heard the gunshots and swung his weapon towards Porter. He unloaded a three-round burst. Porter ducked low to his left. He felt the heat from the rounds as they grazed past him and slapped into the Beemer. The mercenary was already zeroing in on Porter before he could heft up his UMP and get a shot off. Shit, thought Porter. I’m fucked.
Then Bald sprang forward. UMP raised, the mercenary lined up in the sights. The UMP barked as the Jock fired off two rounds at the gunman. The first round missed by several inches, ricocheting off the Defender hood. The second round struck the mercenary in the throat, right on the Adam’s apple. The guy made a garbled scream and went limp by the front wheel on the Defender. Blood fountained out of the hole in his neck and splashed down his front, gleaming sickly red.
Porter swung his gaze back across the road. Beyond the Defender. Brozovic had tripped and fallen to the ground. He was moaning and writhing and struggling to get to his feet. Seven metres away, Lakes had grabbed the USP pistol from beside Keppel’s lifeless corpse. Now she moved towards the warlord, drawing the barrel level with his head. Porter brought up his submachine gun in an instant and trained it on Lakes, shouting at the top of his voice.
‘Put the fucking gun down!’
Lakes was still holding the USP. Aiming it at Brozovic.
‘I said, drop the fucking weapon,’ Porter yelled.
Lakes kept her finger on the trigger. In the same moment, a figure swept into view from behind the rear of the Defender.
Ophelia.
She had the Colt Commando tight to her shoulder and her sights centred on Lakes. She unleashed a rapid burst. The rounds struck Lakes in the back of the head before she could depress the trigger. Her head snapped forward, spraying Brozovic with bits of her skull, brain and eyeball. Her fingers loosened on the USP’s polymer grip. Then Lakes fell away. A second later, Evelyn and the other Firm operators were pouring forward across the road.
Porter lowered his weapon.
It was over.
He slumped to the ground. He was shattered. Never mind a beer, he thought. I need a flagon of Bushmills after that.
As soon as the firefight was over two more vehicles raced into view beyond the bend in the road and pulled up just short of the Beemer. A pair of Ford Sierras. Evelyn and Ophelia hauled Brozovic to his feet and dragged him over to the Defender. A well-dressed figure debussed from the front car and ran his eyes across the scene. Clarence Hawkridge was wearing a Barbour jacket and corduroys and Wellington boots. He looked like a banker heading down to the country for a weekend of wine-tasting and clay-pigeon shooting. He narrowed his eyes briefly at Brozovic as the two Firm lasses bundled the Serb into the boot of the other Sierra. Then he marched over to Bald and Porter. He took great care to avoid the spent brass and puddles of oily blood.
‘We’ll take it from here, chaps,’ Hawkridge said. ‘You two should get going.’
‘Not even a fucking thank you,’ Bald muttered under his breath. ‘Bloody typical.’
Hawkridge appeared not to have heard him. Porter said, ‘We’re not coming back with you?’
Hawkridge rustled up a knowing smile. ‘Of course not, old fruit. You don’t work for the MoD, remember? No, I’m afraid you’re on your own. You’ll have to make your own way back. Take the Mercedes and head back down to Geneva. I’d advise taking the back route to Chamonix. Best to avoid the main roads. It’s a pleasant train ride to Paris from there, I gather.’