The Swords of Babylon (Matt Drake 6) (9 page)

Drake and the team made ready. As the dawn
’s gray light began to illuminate the eastern horizon, they were already driving steadily toward Tverskaya Street. Yesterday, they had observed the place, noticing how difficult access would be. The building itself was close enough to Red Square to get away with the extra security machinations, but also fronted by a private car park and surrounded by civilian offices and a few shops, not to mention the main thoroughfare that was Tverskaya Street. But this was the weekend. Many of those places would be unoccupied.

The traffic was sparse, most of the citizens and tourists still snoozing at this hour. Drake had spotted Zanko twice yesterday and two other men, but there had been no sign of Razin, although the man would most likely have a legitimate business or two in the area. The backpack between Drake
’s legs was full of guns and ammo. It would not do to get stopped by the police at this point, even though the team’s ultimate purpose would explain everything away. The Russians were hardly known for their tolerance.

The professor was being held for the purpose of providing information indirectly linked to the tombs of the gods. That in itself was enough for Drake
’s team to make a move, never mind that the information may have relevance to the doomsday device.

With this being a sensitive target, a dawn raid, and one that would undoubtedly meet resistance, they had decided to limit the strike force to three members.
Drake, Mai and Alicia. The Englishwoman parked the car across the street. The three of them watched the door of their target building for a while, and the windows to either side.

“Yorgi,” Drake said over the car phone. “You had better be bloody right about this.”

“I will stake my reputation on it.”

Alicia grumbled, “Reputation? You
’re a thief.”

Drake glanced her way. “So was Belmonte. And he died saving our lives.”

Alicia nodded. “So he did.”

After a moment, Drake hefted his pack. The three of them exited the car and shouldered the bags. They were dressed in jeans and large-size jackets to help hide the padding of a Kevlar vest. Alicia voiced their concerns as she negotiated the wide road.

“Do we look like tourists or undercover police officers? ‘Cause I can never tell the difference.”

Mai gave her a fleeting look. “All you need is your mask, Myles. Drake and I will hold your hand.”

Alicia snorted. “Yeah. Right after you let go of each other’s.”

Once across
Tverskaya Street, the trio moved quickly into the car park that fronted Razin’s building. Ducking behind a pair of parked cars, Mai took out a small but powerful, hand-held spotter scope and studied the building.

“No movement,” she reported.
“And sparse furniture. The front is likely a façade. The real action goes on in the back.”

“Helps the plan.”
Drake stayed low as he ran across the car park, pausing briefly between another small group of parked cars to slip a balaclava over his head. “Ready?”

“It itches.” Alicia complained, rubbing where the material stretched across her forehead.

“I thought you would be used to them,” Mai said slyly. “Don’t Lomas and you . . .”

“Piss off, sprite.”

Drake caught their attention with a cough. “Ready?”

He moved before they could answer, weapon at the ready. They ran around the side of the building, hugging the wall, and stopped three feet short of a side door. Drake lacked the tact and subtlety that might have led him to investigate ways of bypassing the low-tech magnetic strip alarm system, and simply leaned forward, took aim, and fired two muffled shots into the lock. The mechanism twisted and dropped to the floor; the door inched open.

Shouting sprung up from inside.

Drake pushed his way inside, immediately surprised to find that the back of the house resembled a police holding area. Each one of the mini-cells was empty, but two more rooms attached to the back wall were spilling out tough-looking Russians. Drake heard distinctive American tones coming from the furthest room, then a sharp slap and a cry.

“He’s here.”

Drake fired constantly. Mai and Alicia fanned out behind him. The first Russian fell at their feet, the second pinwheeled into a row of bars, crushing his nose. The next two came up together, trying to overwhelm the attackers, but Mai and Alicia took them out from the sides. Drake threw a small flash bang grenade, then instantly hit the deck, hands pressed firmly over his ears. Even then the explosion, when it came, was louder and more effective than those he remembered from training. He blinked hard, fighting the disorientation, stood up, and was immediately hit by a body. Arms wrestled the gun from him. His sense of survival kicked in and he abandoned the weapon – if you allow an opponent to concentrate on his strongest point he will quickly reveal his weakest – and scrambled out from underneath. His attacker
lay, a gun in each hand, unable to defend himself as Drake crushed his windpipe and his nose, then broke both wrists. He recaptured his weapon, whirling through the mayhem.

A man burst out of the nearest room, machine pistol firing. Bullets pinged and zipped off every wall, bouncing away from the solid steel bars and even ricocheting through
his own men. Drake ducked low, raising his own gun and firing blindly in the man’s general direction. A rake of holes appeared in the ceiling, signifying that Drake’s effort had paid off. He raised his head, trying to peer through the second room’s open door.

So far, there was no sign of anyone he knew. Several men lay groaning or disorientated, some crawling across the floor, clearly at a loss as to which way was up or down. Alicia leapt for the door, hiding to the side with her back against the wall. Mai drifted toward Drake.

“Soldiers!”
a voice cried out, all but quaking.
“Soldiers stop! If you come further I put bullet through his head. You hear me? You have come for American, no?”

Drake motioned at Alicia to wait. He squinted hard. The flying bullets had punched several holes through the room
’s plaster wall. If he could just . . .

A shot rang out. Drake
’s heart sunk.
No!

“That was warning. The next goes through brain! Now back off.”

“Alright,” Drake said. “Just cool yer engines, mate. We’re leaving.”

Through the holes he managed to piece together a patchwork puzzle of the scene inside the room. A man stood holding a gun over the professor who was seated, possibly even chained to a desk, but the man was standing
beside
the professor, not behind him.

“Just one thing.
Look to the window behind you.”

Drake signaled to Mai, who raised her weapon. He pointed to the external wall, held up three, then four fingers and pointed to his head. He watched the man turn briefly, the gun swinging away from the professor
’s head.

“I warned you—”

Mai fired three times, aiming between three and four feet from the exterior wall. Drake watched his body fly backwards, the gun drop, and the professor jerk against his bonds. He signaled to Alicia.

“Go.”

He and Mai covered the retreat as Alicia dragged the struggling professor out of the room.

“He
’s a feisty one,” Alicia spoke up, grimacing slightly.

“You don
’t understand,” the professor shouted. Drake saw signs of torture on his face and etched into both his arms.

“They have my wife! The bastards have my wife. They will kill her if I don
’t cooperate.” The man burst into tears, still trying to drag Alicia back.

“Where?”
Drake scooped up his other arm and took some of the weight.

“Pittsburgh.”

Drake stared at Alicia. “You’re kidding? Pittsburgh, America?”

“Please. Please save her. I will do anything you want. But my wife, she doesn
’t know anything about this.”

Drake dragged the professor into the streets. “We
’ll do our best to save her.”

Dahl and Akerman made their way down to the old harbor, scanning the various sized vessels moored to their right. The inner harbor was home to dozens of small boats and larger ships, some owned by Reykjavik residents, others visiting from near and far. The two men parked near the entrance and proceeded on foot, Dahl keeping a surreptitious watch on every angle. The real danger, if indeed there was any at all, would come after they met Jakob Hult.

A harsh wind blew in from the sea, carrying with it the sting of spray and salt. They passed a myriad of different colored signs, each one promising ‘Sea Tours’ or a ‘Festival of the Sea’ or ‘Whale Watching’ and, especially, ‘Sea Angling’. The Atlantic looked like an undulating gray swell beyond the sea walls, and out on this spit of land Dahl saw it on three separate horizons. He imagined how different a story it would be if, like Drake recently, you found yourself swimming out there, adrift, lost.

He shook it off, looking off to the eastern horizon in the direction of Sweden. Somewhere over there his wife and two children were going about their day, oblivious to his location.
A blissful ignorance,
he thought. He wondered what Johanna was doing at that exact moment.

Then Akerman spoke, “Are you thinking what I
’m thinking?”

Dahl shot him a suspicious look. The translator was also gazing wistfully to the east. “I bloody well hope not.”

“I miss her terribly, don’t you?”

“Olle—” Dahl
’s voice carried a warning tone.

“Stockholm,” Akerman said innocently. “Why? What were you thinking of?”

Dahl stopped. They had reached the area where Akerman had seen Jakob purchasing the boat. The older man pointed to a relatively small vessel, white hulled, with a high rail at the prow and a single blocky cabin in the middle. A ladder ran up the side of the cabin and the mast stood behind it, a curved area of wooden deck leading aft.

Dahl started down the quayside, coming to stop at the mooring post in front of the boat. Through the grimy window at the front of the cabin he could just make out some movement. At that moment, the glass shattered and a man
’s head came part of the way through. Dahl then heard another man’s malicious laughter. He cleared the quayside and landed on the boat, sprinting hard. Within seconds he had reached the cabin. Through the wide-flung door he saw an older man who could only be Jakob Hult falling to his knees, looking up at a much younger, fitter man. The second man wore a black t-shirt that emphasized his bulging muscles, had a grim set to his face and a bearing that screamed military.

Dahl moved in fast, coming close to the military man. “What
’s going on here?”

The youngster
’s eyes went wide. Clearly, he had been enjoying himself too much to even notice the Swede’s approach. “Who the—” he began, speaking with an accent.
Something mid-European
, Dahl thought.
Hard to pinpoint.

“Walk away,” Dahl was told. “Leave now and you won
’t get hurt.”

The Swede could barely keep the smile from his lips. “
I
won’t get hurt?”

“Don
’t fu—” ended up being the last two words he was going to speak for a while as Dahl smashed the bridge of his hand under the guy’s nose. His eyes rolled up and he slithered to the ground like a set of falling curtains.

“Oh, thank you.” Jakob Hult breathed a sigh and moved so that his back was against the bulkhead. “I don
’t know—”

“Cut the crap,” Dahl said quickly. “I know what those men were doing here and I know what you did. Now, speak to me. Fast. There
’s no way he was acting alone.”

As he spoke he heard a whisper of sound at his back and spun. The man there – another military figure – was actually leaning around Dahl
’s bulk, pointing a weapon at Jakob.

“Stop!”

The gun went off, the bullet shattering Jakob’s collarbone. Dahl used the seconds at his disposal to lunge and take hold of the gun hand, shatter it against the door frame, and twist it first to the left then right, dislocating the shoulder. Before his opponent could even scream, Dahl slammed his face into the ship’s side.

Akerman was screaming. Dahl looked up to see the translator running down the quay, a man in black chasing him. Dahl cursed. He looked to Jakob, took in the gr
ay pallor and pouring blood. Hult was dead, but wasn’t quite there yet.

Damn.

Dahl scooped up a handgun and fired at the figure chasing Akerman. Within a moment he had pulled up and backed away, giving Akerman precious moments to hide. Dahl gritted his teeth, put his feelings aside, and ran to Hult’s side.

“Tell me,” he hissed. “Tell me what you know.”

Jakob’s mouth worked, his eyes wide. Blood flew from his lips. “I . . . can’t—”

“They
killed
you,” Dahl spat. “For what? Tell me. There is no man better equipped to avenge you better.”

The eyes closed, life slipping away. Dahl leaned in as sound flitted through the torn lips. “Found a translation . . . relating to . . . about the device.” His head lolled. Dahl held it steady between his hands.

“There shall remain one other way to activate . . .two failsafes . . .”
Jakob sat up a little, suddenly stronger. His eyes flew open. “Three minds, three tombs, three bones. Do you see? Do you see?”

Dahl was silent for a heartbeat.
Then, “Not really.”

“And Cayman.”
The translator’s head sagged for the last time, his entire body now going limp. “He . . . he too knows . . .”

Dahl cursed loudly. Hult was dead. With no time to spare he lifted his head and looked out the window. The last remaining merc was still casting about for Akerman.
Time for Dahl to pay him a visit. He grabbed another weapon and exited the cabin, making sure he could be seen on deck.

“Hey!”

The black-clad figure turned and took in the situation. He would know Dahl had taken out his two mates. He fired. Dahl didn’t move. The shot ricocheted off the boat’s white railing. Dahl ran forward, taking aim. He needed to wing this one and draw some answers out of him. He fired once. The merc half turned, looking surprised, and stared at a ragged, red streak that had just been made along the top of his shoulder. Close.

In another moment he was turning, running back up the quay. Dahl pocketed the guns and took off after him, breathing easy, conscious of their surroundings and what lay further ahead. If the merc continued in that direction, he would head toward an outdoor market. Dahl increased his speed, but the soldier was pretty fast, maintaining the gap. They passed several gawping locals and two fishermen, who just shook their heads in bemusement before casting another line. Dahl yelled at the man to stop, but
may as well have saved his breath. They darted across the harbor, cutting across to the left toward the market. Maybe the merc thought he could lose Dahl there.

The merc barged through the pedestrians, pushing them aside and into the wooden stalls. Dahl closed at first, but then found his way hampered. He
hurdled several rolling individuals, one injured, and leapfrogged over a damaged stall. The merc charged on, heading for a set of stairs. He glanced back, his look of surprise apparent as Dahl got closer. Up the steps he dashed, at the top rebounding off the side wall, using it to jump higher and attain an almost unreachable ledge.

Then he ran across the narrow ledge, arms out for balance, forty feet above the market, until he managed to grab on to a rail at the far side and leap over, accessing another level.

Dahl emulated him with ease, using the side wall to give him lift and landing feet first on the ledge without needing to steady himself. Five seconds and he was across it, leaping atop the rail itself and then leaping again, instantly breaking into a sprint.

The merc stepped out from behind a corner, launching a series of hand strikes which Dahl deftly blocked. The Swede used elbow and shoulder to catch the blows,
then struck back. When the merc started kicking up close, Dahl stopped him with a raised knee, jabbing constantly and snapping his opponent’s head back every time he landed a blow.

It didn
’t take long for the merc to realize he was outclassed. With a last flurry, he managed to break free and dart away, rushing toward a far set of steps that led down to the street.

Dahl hurried after him, unable to keep the grin off his face.

The mad Swede hadn’t had this much fun since he’d been forced to give back that Shelby Mustang.