Ghosts - 05 (23 page)

“My comrades in Red Square, I presume?”

“What can I say? Turns out you’re not a very popular fellow.”

Milton turned the lights back onto Shcherbatov’s face and he squinted into them again. He laughed. “Then my congratulations, Captain. You have outmanoeuvred me.”

“Pope,” Milton called out. “Wake up.”

“Do not concern yourself. He has been well treated.”

“Is that right?”

“He has pneumonia. A doctor has been attending to him. He is not in danger.”

“Pope.”

“What will happen now, Captain Milton? You will finish the job you failed to do when we first met?”

“
Pope.
”

“I am not afraid of death.”

Milton had thought long and hard during the flight to Kubinka. Shcherbatov was not his enemy, not really, despite what he had done to Pope. The man wanted revenge for what had happened to Semenko and using him was his means to that end; that, Milton concluded, was reasonable. Milton was similarly inclined. They had both been burned by Control. His thoughts ran back to an innocent man, gunned down in cold blood in East London. He thought of all the men and women he had been sent to kill in the name of the state. He thought of the doubts that he now harboured about those jobs, about how many of them had been legitimate targets, deserving of the fate that he had dealt them. Really, how many? Two-thirds? Half? His doubts would never be answered as long as Control was in place at the head of Group Fifteen. But things might be different if he was removed.

That was the big picture; but it also served both him and Beatrix very well to leave Control with a problem that he would not be able to solve.

Shcherbatov’s arms were spread. “Please, Captain. You must do what you must.”

“I’m not going to shoot you, Colonel. I’m going to give you what you want.”

He tore open his thigh pocket and was reaching his fingers down into it when he heard footsteps behind him. His hand stopped as he half-turned, the beams of light raking across the wall towards the darkness of the doorway, just in time to see the muzzle flashes from Callan’s suppressed M4.

He turned back into the room.

Shcherbatov was on the floor. Callan had shot him cleanly in the head. Three rounds. The was blood and brain matter around the entry wound. He was still moving a little, the last spasms that would precede a certain death, but Callan trained his laser on the old man’s chest and fired two more rounds into him to hasten him towards his exit. The body spasmed again and then fell still.

“Ten, Group. Last man down.”

Milton turned to him, his fists clenched. “What are you doing?”

“We had orders, Milton. Everyone here is to be eliminated. No witnesses.”

“Those weren’t my orders.”

Callan was impassive. “You don’t work for us any more. I don’t take my orders from you.”

Milton surreptitiously sealed the pocket again, leaving the drives where they were.

“Six, Group,” Blake reported over the radio. “Hurry, please. There’s more of them on the way out here.”

“Bring him,” Callan said, indicating Pope with the muzzle of his M4.

Milton knew that the terrain was shifting beneath him.

He pulled his CamelBak hose from his kit and held it in front of Pope’s chapped lips.

“John?” he said, his voice weak.

“You’ve got to get up, Pope.”

“We need to move now,” Blake said. “I can hear police.”

Spenser’s voice was tense. “Ten, report.”

“Ten, Group,” Callan said. “Third floor secure.”

“Two, Ten. Copy that. Mission status?”

“Affirmative, Ten. SNOW is down.”

MILTON AND CALLAN helped Pope down the stairs. He was barely able to support himself and Milton wasn’t sure if he had even recognised him. They reached the ground floor and then the courtyard. He clasped his fingers around Pope’s belt for a better grip as they picked him up and hurried towards the outside gate.

There were lights on in most of the nearby dachas; the residents had been awakened by the explosions and the gunfire. Milton could see the silhouettes of locals in their windows and perhaps two dozen had come outside and were climbing up the hill towards them. They were keeping a cautious distance, wary of the soldiers, but some of the more intrepid ones were only fifty feet away. Blake could speak fluent Russian and he bellowed out for them to go back inside. They didn’t, but they didn’t advance any further. It was a temporary stalemate, but Milton knew that eventually their curiosity would win out. There was also the question of footage of the raid finding its way online; he could see the glow of several smartphones held aloft to record the action. It would be on YouTube before they had crossed the town limits.

They carried Pope onwards. “He won’t be able to travel on the snowmobiles,” Milton said.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Spenser said.

“What do you mean?”

Callan released his grip on Pope and stepped away. Milton had to bear the weight alone.

Callan raised his handgun and aimed it at Milton’s head. “On your knees,” he said.

Milton looked at Callan and then at the others. None of them looked surprised. Hammond and Spenser had stepped back a little, their hands resting on their automatic weapons, standing ready to provide support should it be necessary. Blake and Underwood had one eye on the crowd outside the wrecked gate and another on Milton. There was his confirmation, then: they were all in on it. It had always been part of the plan. Control was going to call his bluff after all. Bravo.

“Get it over with,” Spenser said to Callan. “You wanted to do it, so do it.”

“Callan.” It was Pope; his voice was quiet and hoarse. Milton turned to look and saw that he had managed to raise his bruised face. “What are you doing?”

“Control’s orders,” Callan said, his gun arm unwavering. He was only six feet from Milton; it would have been impossible for an amateur to miss from that range, and Callan was not an amateur.

“What orders?”

“He needs to be gone.”

“Take him into custody. You don’t need to shoot him.”

“Be quiet,” Spenser snapped.

Underwood approached from behind and drove his boot into the back of Milton’s knees. His legs folded and he fell forward, bracing with his left arm. Pope fell down with him, Milton’s looped right arm preventing him from falling face first into the snow.

Milton felt calm. He had faced the prospect of death for most of his adult life and he was accustomed to it. It was a possibility that he had accepted; the long-term prognosis for agents working for Control was not good. Milton did not know the average, but he did know that plenty of men and women had been killed in duty in the time he had been in the Group. He had managed to avoid the same fate thanks to a combination of careful planning, decisive execution and good fortune, but that was never going to work forever. Luck always ran out. And, as he knelt there in the snow and the muck, he realised that he was tired of running. Control would never stop. He was relentless. Maybe it was better to just accept the inevitable.

“It’s alright,” he said. “Do what you have to do.”

He closed his eyes. The snow had quickly chilled the muscles in his calves and thighs and it was was working up his spine. He breathed in and out and thought about the last six months: the long trek through South America, the time he had spent in San Francisco. Saving Caterina Morena. Meeting Eva. He had helped people. His account was far from being settled. It was still soaked in the blood that he had spilled, but he had started to make recompense. It was not his fault that he had not been able to do more. He had simply run out of time.

“Callan…” Pope was protesting weakly.

“It has to be done.”

“Of course it doesn’t.” The anger put a little of the steel that Milton remembered back into his voice.

“Enough, Pope,” Spenser spat.

Milton opened his eyes. Callan had taken a step away from him: pitilessly professional, sizing up the shot.

Pope was on his hands and knees, struggling to push himself upright. Spenser intercepted him and kicked his arms away. “You too, I’m afraid. Control doubts your loyalty. And you’ve already seen too much.”

Milton saw the satisfaction in Callan’s handsome, cruel face as he racked the slide to cock the hammer, chambering the top round in the magazine. He had seen it before, in a church hall in the East End of London. Callan was a killer, pure and simple. Each of Milton’s kills had scoured away a little more of the humanity that was left in his soul. Each had been a cause of the most exquisite regret, especially latterly, but Callan was different: he found pleasure every time he pulled the trigger or used his knife or his garrotte. He took pleasure in his job. In that sense, he was the perfect agent. No wonder he was Control’s favourite new creature. He would go far.

Callan straightened his arm and aimed at Milton’s head.

He knew with certainty that there would be no successful appeal to his better nature.

He closed his eyes again and waited.

He heard the crunch of snow.

The shot didn’t come.

Milton paused, holding his breath, wondering why he could still feel the cold working its way up between his shoulder blades, feel the rough texture on the inside of his gloves, the cold breath of winter on the patches of bare skin around his eyes and mouth.

He opened his eyes.

Callan wasn’t there any more.

He rubbed the snow from his eyes and looked. It looked as if a patch of the deep white drift at the side of the drive had detached and risen up. Snow and ice fell away, revealing the figure of a woman dressed in a makeshift ghillie suit. She was twenty feet away. He saw a parka with a mesh across the opening and shaggy threads sown across it in horizontal lines to break up its outline, similarly adorned waterproof trousers and chunky boots. Her face was visible within the loop of the fur trimmed hood.

Beatrix Rose.

She had two throwing knives, one in each hand.

Callan had fallen backwards and now he was facing straight up. Her first knife was buried in his throat. The knife was made of a single piece of steel. His carotid artery was severed and his still beating heart spent its terminal beats spraying aortal red blood across the dirty snow.

Milton’s head snapped around just as Beatrix flicked out her right arm and sent her second knife on its way.

Blake’s padded jacket seemed to absorb the knife, the blade disappearing into his gut, the impact and the surprise sending him staggering backwards, his hands clutching at the grip.

Spenser got a shot off but the bullet went wide, ricocheting off the wall of the dacha.

Milton crawled across the gritty snow, pressed right down into it, until he reached Callan’s body. He still had his Sig in his hand. Milton took it.

Hammond raised her rifle and fired an unaimed spray towards Beatrix. The bullets peppered the trees and the ground behind her, a dozen little explosions of snow jagging backwards. Beatrix ducked behind a tree, out of sight.

Hammond wasn’t looking at Milton. He shot her in the right temple, her head jerking hard to the left as she fell to the ground.

Underwood saw him shoot and brought up his rifle but Milton was quicker with the Sig and put two shots into his gut.

Spenser was last man standing. He turned and started to run but Beatrix's left arm flicked out again and her third knife caught him in the thigh. His leg went out from beneath him and he collapsed sideways into a drift of snow. He scrabbled around so that he was facing back towards them.

Milton aimed at him with the pistol. “Drop it!”

He flung his weapon aside and raised his hands. “Don’t shoot,” he called out.

Beatrix came out from behind the tree and stalked through the drift towards him.

“On your knees,” Milton yelled back. “Hands on your head.”

“My leg,” he said. “I can’t… my leg…”

It was moot: Milton might have been clement but Beatrix was not so inclined. She reached down to the bandolier that was hidden beneath the ragged strands of the ghillie suit, a leather strap that stretched diagonally across her chest, with half a dozen sheathes spaced across it, and took out another knife. She knelt down in the snow and spoke to him quietly; Milton couldn’t make the words out. He protested. She ignored him, stepped around, slid the fingers of her left hand into his hair and yanked back, exposing his neck. She drew the knife across his larynx, opening his throat, the razor-sharp blade severing his trachea. His fingers clutched at the gruesome rent, helplessly trying to close it even as it gaped open and closed with the frantic up and down of his head. His hands slicked red, his body toppled backwards, hinging at the waist, his torso thudding back into the drift, the abundant blood drenching the snow a bright crimson.

Jesus, Milton thought.

“Is that it?” she called out.

He hurried back to Pope and helped him up. “Are you alright?”

“Who’s that?”

Beatrix was over Spenser’s body. She wiped the bloodied blade on his jacket and slid it back into its sheath.

“You don’t know her,” Milton said.

“Who?”

“Her name is Beatrix Rose. She used to be Number One.”

MILTON HAULED Pope into the back of the Tiger. It was an All Terrain Armoured Transport, much like an American Hummer. The benches behind the driver’s and passenger’s seats had been cleared from the interior and Milton pulled Pope all the way inside, reaching back to close the rear door. Beatrix had climbed into the front and turned over the big turbocharged diesel. The locals were up at the gate and the blue and red lights of a police car flashed against the sides of the buildings down the hill.

They had to get away.

“Go, go, go,” he shouted.

The Tiger lurched forwards, the tyres slipping until they found purchase and then slinging them ahead. Beatrix aimed down the hill that led away from the dacha, hitting the brakes at the bottom and swinging them around to the left and the road that would lead to Privolzhsk.

The police car came around the corner and followed after them. It was faster and, provided the road stayed clear up ahead, it would very quickly overhaul them. Milton held onto the side as he glanced back through the windows: it was a hundred feet behind them and closing fast.