Zhilev kept the choke on for a little longer, to make sure, before releasing him.
He got to his feet to look at his handiwork. It was a strange experience taking a life in that way, but he felt no remorse. He had rid the world of one more piece of scum. Zhilev urged himself to get on with it and, taking hold of the man’s feet, dragged him around to the side of the car and, with some effort, rolled him on to the back seat. Zhilev took a moment to catch his breath and glanced at the driver lying across the front seats; the man was conscious and staring up at him.
The Turk guessed his partner was dead and knew he was next. He tried to get his arms and legs to move to pull himself out of the seat, and he might have managed it if he had all day to try. When Zhilev put a hand on him and held him down on to the seat, he gave up the effort knowing it was hopeless.
Zhilev leaned over and put his hands inside the Turk’s collar as before. The Turk did not struggle. It was pointless against this powerful man. He stared into Zhilev’s eyes and Zhilev stared back as he twisted his wrists and clamped the Turk’s carotid artery. Like his comrade, he struggled for a few seconds, an involuntary reaction caused by oxygen deprivation, then it was all over.
Zhilev climbed out of the car, closed the doors, leaned in through the driver’s window and pushed it to the edge. It rolled down the hill as gracefully as the Volvo, penetrating only a little further into the wood.
He took his map from his pocket and studied it. He had been heading for Marmaris, a good-sized seaport some thirty kilometres away, and he decided it was still his best bet. It would add another day to the planning if he did not come across an alternative mode of transport, but that was not a major concern as long as he was not on anyone’s list of wanted persons, which he was positive he was not. As regards the recent incident, with the efficiency of the Turkish authorities, or lack of it, the cars could be discovered five minutes after he was gone and it would still take days, perhaps weeks, before the deaths could be linked to the man from Riga and any kind of manhunt organised. By that time he would be wanted in connection with a far more serious event.
He pulled a flat, transparent-plastic prismatic compass from a pocket and laid it over the map, placing the edge so that it formed a line from where he was standing across country to Marmaris. He turned the dial of the compass until it lined up with the north pointer on the map, pocketed the map and, holding the compass steady, orientated his body until the needle settled in its box. He looked directly ahead, in the direction the compass was pointing, and found the furthest object on the horizon, so he could walk towards it without constantly checking his compass.
He pulled on his backpack, picked up the heavy bag and was about to set off when he stopped and patted his breast pocket quickly as if he had forgotten something. His eyes darted to the rock where he had sat and ate his bread and honey. On it was the photograph of him and Vladimir. He walked over, picked it up, studied it for a moment, then placed it in the plastic bag with the others and pocketed it safely by his breast. He set off, leaving the road after a few metres and headed across country, trying to think what else Vladimir and he had done during that day.
In many ways this journey across country on foot carrying all he needed to complete the operation was quite satisfying. It had the feel of a real operation: weight on his back, map in pocket, compass hanging from his neck, blood on his hands and the objective within reach. The travelling part of the mission, the approach phase, was half over and, but for a handful of Turkish highwaymen, the trail behind him was clean.
As he trudged on the Mediterranean came into full view, filling the horizon and stretching as far as the eye could see. Somewhere between the furthest hills and the water, out of sight, was the harbour of Marmaris where he would get a boat and leave the land behind. How he longed to be at sea once more, a phase of the journey he had delighted in planning.
The ground gradually began to drop away. He was 880 metres above the sea, according to the map, which meant the journey was practically all downhill, and a rough estimation would have him on the outskirts of the town soon after first light as long as he had no more than four hours’ rest. He wanted a complete day at the seaside town to carry out his next phase, reasoning he would be able to rest all he wanted when at sea. A good hearty meal on arrival, then to work. There was plenty of time. He suddenly felt very pleased with himself, a delayed euphoria after his victory in battle, made all the more pleasing because he had taken on three assailants and destroyed them without so much as a nick to himself. He was pressing on relentlessly, victoriously, and in complete control. And why not? He was Spetsnaz and, as long as he stuck to his plan, unbeatable.
Stratton sat in the departure lounge of Heathrow’s second terminal, his feet stretched out in front of him, reading his Knights Templar book with a small backpack on the seat beside him. He sighed and looked up across the crowded hall unable to concentrate. Nearly two weeks had passed since the Thetford Forest incident but he was still feeling niggled by its outcome, specifically his failure to protect Gabriel. Sumners had indeed been angry, mainly because of how it reflected on him personally. Gabriel had been diagnosed with a severe concussion and forced to remain in a hospital until further notice, and Stratton had been sent back to Poole without another word on his immediate future. Asking for another assignment was obviously out of the question, and, after complete silence from London, once again Stratton began to give up hope of getting another call to return to work for MI6. Deep down he now realised it was what he wanted to do, despite the plethora of negatives. It was the most exciting game in town and even though some of the jobs, such as the remote-viewer gig, were boring and others unsavoury, there were always many good assignments as compensation.What annoyed Stratton was how unreasonable Sumners had been. He knew what a dead-end job looking after Gabriel was and how far removed from Stratton’s particular skills. And Gabriel had not died.
Stratton urged himself to calm down and accept it was over. He was at the airport waiting for a flight to Norway and a three-week skiing holiday, taking some long overdue leave. To spend it mulling over his failure was pointless and the time would be far better spent planning the holiday.
He would start off in the north of the country, above the tree line, cross-country skiing, of course. He fancied the idea of revisiting some of the old routes he used to take with his team while shadowing the Russian Special Forces units that frequented the fjords during the winter months. Stratton had enjoyed those days working against the Eastern Bloc, especially when it involved diplomat surveillance.The Norwegian and Swedish fjords were favourite locations for Russian spies and diplomats to move documents, equipment and people in and out of the West. On one memorable operation Stratton and his team followed a Russian diplomat from Oslo to a lonely fjord miles from the nearest habitation on a route that covered hundreds of miles. The extremely paranoid man had taken months to house, or to discover his final destination, from the Russian embassy without him knowing. It had to be taken step by step, following him for only part of each trip, pulling off before he became even remotely suspicious, piecing together his various routes and dummy runs and recognising the tricks designed to catch would-be followers. The diplomat practised anti-surveillance at every opportunity, such as doubling back along a route, pausing periodically, taking loops to check if anyone was following, suddenly stopping and getting out of his car to scan the skies and horizon with binoculars, looking for aircraft or vehicles on mountainsides and regularly having his car swept for electronic devices which made it impossible to bug him. Such was the painstaking technique of surveillance.
Finally, one day, while Stratton was shadowing the diplomat’s car from a hilltop using a skidoo, it stopped by the edge of the lonely fjord and he climbed out. It was a quiet road with hardly more than a vehicle an hour, less during winter. Stratton climbed off the skidoo and took out his petrol cooker and makings so he could have a quick brew while he kept an eye on his man several hundred feet below.
After a quick check around him the diplomat busied himself removing several items from his boot and set about constructing something. He was moving quickly and positively, having obviously rehearsed whatever he was doing. His next noticeable step was to start pushing something up and down with his foot that turned out to be a pump. Within minutes a rubber dinghy began to grow on the verge beside his car. When it was fully inflated, he placed a pair of paddles in it and carried it down a rocky bank to the water’s edge a few feet away. He came back to the car, collected his briefcase and a fishing rod, and went back to the boat.
He climbed in, paddled into the fjord for several hundred metres, picked up the fishing rod and lowered a device of some kind on the end of the line into the water. He sat there for quite some time as if fishing, waiting for a bite, when eventually the end of the rod bowed to the water several times and the diplomat quickly reeled in his line, removed the device and replaced it with his briefcase, which he then lowered into the water. A moment later he retrieved the end of his line, now minus the briefcase, and paddled back to his car. Within a few minutes, he had deflated the boat, packed everything back into the boot and was driving down the road on his way back to Oslo.
The diplomat had obviously made a drop to a mini submarine and, as a result, two months later Stratton’s team took part in the capture of a Russian submarine, a full-sized one, which was the mother ship of the mini-subs used to rendezvous with Russian spies and diplomats. It was not a complete success though. Two Russian mini-sub drivers, Russian Special Forces or Spetsnaz, got away after the trap was sprung. Stratton and several of his team gave chase along the bank of ankle-breaking rocks and ice but the Spetsnaz ran with a recklessness the SBS were not prepared to match that day. The Russians had far more to lose than their freedom if they were caught, and had the SBS closed in, the fight would have been a bitter one with survivors on one side only. They had an ambiguous respect for the Spetsnaz, mainly because hardly anything was known about them. It was assumed they were of a high standard although there was no evidence to support that. They were undoubtedly tough, illustrated by the operations they mounted, and, like their British counterparts, preferred training in the worst possible conditions. Stratton had met members of most country’s Special Forces but never a Spetsnaz.
As he pondered his route across Norway, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and checked the screen but there was no indication of the number. His first thought was the camp and one of the secure lines. Perhaps it was an operational recall. He was technically on standby, even though on leave, since he was attached to an operational squadron. It continued to ring. There was a time when he would never have considered not answering. It was indicative of his mood these days that he would forgo the opportunity of an operation just to go skiing. He might have continued to let it ring but he was cursed, and, like a drug addict, could never resist a fix.
He pushed a button and put it to his ear. ‘This is Stratton,’ he said.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
It was Sumners. Stratton could only wonder what the man wanted. He had given him every piece of information during the debrief, at which he was cross-examined by Sumners and two other MI6 non-ops. Stratton had an urge to ignore him and turn off the phone, which would piss him off no end. He might be Stratton’s superior but he was Military Intelligence and Stratton was SF field ops, and, frankly, Stratton could say what he wanted to the man without any real fear of repercussion. But the very same reasons that made him answer the phone in the first place pushed him to find out what Sumners wanted.
‘I’m at Heathrow Airport.’
‘I know where you are.You work for me now, and if you want to go anywhere you ask me first, or have you forgotten how the system works?’
‘But I thought—’
‘What? That you’re off the assignment? Stop acting like some prima donna for God’s sake. I’ll tell you when you’re off the assignment. Have you checked in yet? Or are you in the departure lounge?’
‘I’m in the departure lounge,’ Stratton said.
‘I need you to get over to terminal one. You’ve got half an hour. You’re booked on an Olympic Airlines flight to Athens then on to Rhodes. You know Rhodes?’ Sumners asked.
‘The largest of the Dodecanese islands. Rhodes is also the name of the old fortress city which was built by the Knights of Saint John in the fourteenth century.’
‘I’m impressed,’ Sumners said, though he might not have been had he known Stratton had just read as much in his Templar book which was still open at the relevant page.
Stratton was about to ask what the job was and decided against it. The message was clear. He was back in the game and he could not help feeling good about it.
‘I’ll have your baggage transferred to the Olympic flight.’
‘Not my skis,’ Stratton said. He did not want to look a complete wally walking around Rhodes carrying a pair of cross-country skis.
‘That might be too much for the system but I’ll try. I’m going to give you a ticket re-locater number,’ Sumners said.
Stratton took out his pen and notepad and scribbled down the number.
‘They’re expecting you.They’ll hold the plane but don’t take all day.’
‘Do I get to know what this is about?’
‘Can’t say anything on this means, other than you’ll be meeting a familiar face who you recently had a little adventure with.’
Stratton’s heart sank. He thought he had seen the back of Gabriel.
‘Your friend’s been in Turkey the past few days and now he needs to go to the Mediterranean. Stratton. Listen to me. I stuck my neck out for you on this. The Boss voiced doubts about you but I assured him you were up to it. I’ve never done that for any operative before in my life. The Agency assigned one of their own people to him in Turkey but nothing came of it. Despite your misgivings about him, it seems you made some kind of connection. He asked for you personally.’