Except for one tiny problem.
He wore thin Nitrile gloves to prevent prints. The skin-coloured thumb of his left hand started to beat a small involuntary tattoo against the stock. Sean stared at the movement, astonished. He pressed the digit against the wood, but still felt the twitch of electric nerve endings. It couldn’t have occurred at the worst possible moment.
He ignored the tremors and continued to check each car as it turned the corner from the Burgring onto Universitätsring. Five minutes passed, and every vehicle proved to be clean. Then a man’s face appeared in the scope; the olive complexion and the characteristic way the head drooped forward were enough for a positive identification.
‘Target in the cross-hairs. Confirm good to go.’
There was a long pause. Sean touched the ear-bud mike again. ‘Confirm good to go.’
‘We’re waiting for clearance.’
The car filled the field of view. If Sean didn’t get a decision now it would be too late.
‘Stand by, we will get back to you.’
They must be getting cold feet. As if to confirm the thought, Sean’s mike buzzed.
‘Stand down and wait for further instructions.’
Sean dismantled the rifle, the movements quick and practised. He removed the suppressor and magazine, folded the bipod and unscrewed the scope, packing the items away in the metal transit case. Wrapping it in the mat, he collected the detritus of the night’s stake-out; water bottles and food wrappers went into the rucksack, the case and mat strapped to the outside. He inspected the area for any remaining signs of his occupation.
‘Sniper one, you have been blown.’ The voice sounded matter of fact, but the message electrified Sean. He crouched low and sprinted to the rear of the theatre roof where he had attached a climbing rope. The wail of police sirens carried in the distance as he clipped the descender onto his harness and hopped over the balustrade. Holding on to the brake bar, he rappelled in long quick hops. Three seconds afterwards he felt the hard tarmac of the street and squeezed the remote release. He remembered at the last moment to dodge out of the way before the rope and tackle fell to earth.
He gathered up the kit and ran to the van parked around a corner in a side street. The first police car came into sight as he started the engine. Sean resisted the urge to flatten the accelerator; they might not know he was using this vehicle. The car shot past, screeching to a halt at the back of the Burgtheater. A second followed more slowly, turning after it passed him. Sean kept his speed down and eyes on the road. At the Minoritenplatz he went right at the end, attempting to work his way towards the river.
A glance in the mirror showed the second cop car following at a respectful distance. Police sirens grew in volume as more cars converged on the theatre. Sean turned left and then right along the Rudolfspark. The police car closed up the gap on Saltztorgasse, and by the time he reached the Salztorbrücke Bridge they put the siren on and started to overtake.
Sean jammed his foot down and swung the wheel ahead of the overtaking vehicle, pushing it hard up against the central barrier. He heard the satisfying crunch of metal as the driver tried to brake and extricate himself from the crush, but the car’s front tyres were shredded.
He considered their next move. They were going to send all available cars over the bridge. Good. He wanted them to think he was making for Bratislava, some 50 miles further along the motorway. They would follow him into Slovakian territory because the Schengen treaty allowed the police force hot pursuit over neighbouring borders. A plan grew in his mind, and Sean was happy for them to assume he didn’t know the rules — it could be a way to give them the slip.
He wound the window down to listen out for the distinctive sound of a helicopter. If they sent one up he would just have to abandon the van and try his luck on the streets. The lack of preparation for the assignment, absence of mission support from an Executive, and now the exposure of his presence meant he was on his own. He had become a pariah to the British Government, and could not expect help from them or anyone else. Sean drummed his fingers on the wheel in irritation.
The traffic slowed, and he saw a queue developing up ahead. What now? A minute later he knew; they had strung a roadblock across E58. He swerved to the inside lane then turned down a side-street. The road looked clear until he overtook a parked car. Fifty metres away another police car stood side-on, blocking the street. Behind the driver’s door a policeman crouched, pointing a gun. Sean glanced back, but his retreat was cut off by a large truck.
He slowed down, braked hard, and prepared to stop. The policeman rose, keeping a taut grip on his handgun. Ten metres away, Sean slipped into first gear and hit the accelerator. The car struck the bonnet square on, shunting the police vehicle backwards and felling the officer. Sean dashed out, dodging around the cars to find the man’s gun on the road. As the policeman got to his feet, Sean waved the firearm, a clear command to move away. He slid into the driving seat of the police car, keeping the gun trained on the officer while groping for the keys. He reversed in a tight circle and drove off in a squeal of tyres.
Wait till they hear about this in London, he thought. There would be muttered warnings from the civil servants and angry exchanges between the bureaucrats in the corridors, but it couldn’t be helped.
Sean began to hunt for an underground garage, eventually finding one on Lavarterstraße. The barrier was automatic and no-one paid attention when he entered. He still intended to reach Bratislava, but not by road. First he needed to change his appearance.
It had started to drizzle, so he took a taxi to Schwedenplatz and purchased a raincoat, briefcase and umbrella in a nearby men’s clothes store. He bought a ticket for the Twin City Liner, a fast catamaran that plied between the two cities. The wharf was opposite the subway station.
Boarding the ship and the journey itself were uneventful. Just over an hour later, he watched as Bratislava came into view. By the time the boat arrived it was raining heavily, and the police were waiting.
Sean followed the businessmen and tourists down the gangway and onto the wharf, opening his umbrella. There was always a risk when presenting new documentation, but with the change of clothes and the briefcase, he hoped he had done enough. He handed his passport over to the younger of the two waiting men. The man pursed his lips and eyed Sean. Not satisfied, he passed it to his senior who gestured for Sean to lower the umbrella. Sean complied, shaking the brolly vigorously, at the same time complaining about the weather in passable German.
‘Please step this way sir.’ The older officer spoke in English. He indicated the junior should continue to inspect passengers arriving off the ferry.
The man walked across the street to his car, and Sean followed. He reached in for the car’s microphone, but never got a chance to speak to headquarters. Sean ensured his coat blocked the view while holding the officer’s eye. Transferring his weight from the back foot to the front, he followed through with a concentrated jab to the Solar Plexus using a triangular knuckle strike. The wind went out of the man and he dropped the receiver. Sean eased him into the driving seat, then ripped the handset from its socket, closed the car door and faded into the crowd.
It was hard to believe the Section café could be so cosy, situated in such a nondescript office block, north of the Thames. Just two miles away lay the imposing grade II listed building that was home to their sister organisation, SIS. The Section preferred anonymity on the other side of the river.