In the gloom up ahead, bright headlights glittered through the downpour. The blue lights in the front grille of the BMW flickered into life and the fast German car returned to a halt beside the three Landrovers. Windscreen wipers swished, sending splashes of rain dancing onto the slick road. One of the patrol car’s doors opened, and a muscular man wearing a bright yellow waterproof over-jacket over his body-armour, climbed out. He walked warily forward, his hand on his holstered pistol. Behind him, the other officer remained standing by the BMW, wedged between the door and the car’s body, eyes alert, Heckler & Koch MP5 machine pistol held across his chest body-armour.
The lead policeman tapped on the driver’s side window of the lead Landrover and said in a raised authoritative voice. “Please open the door and step down from the vehicle.”
Nothing moved; the lead Landrover remained still, engine rumbling, the rain running in rivulets down the dark windscreen and bonnet. The police officer repeated his request.
Still nothing happened.
A moment later, the driver’s window slid down on smooth electrics; the police officer took a step backwards and at the same time slipped the leather safety strap off of the holstered Glock. The officer peered inside the Landrover to be confronted with the muzzle of a silenced pistol.
The bullet hit the middle of his forehead with a dull thud. The officer was hurled backwards, dead before he had had time to shout a warning to his colleague. Through the gloom came a shout of — “No!” — as the second officer brought the MP5 up and began to fire. Three bullets slammed against the side of the Landrover before a stream of automatic gunfire cut through the BMW and into his body, spun him off his feet and left him lifeless and bleeding on the tarmac.
All three Landrover Defenders moved off in unison. The last one swerved a little and ran over the body of the first police officer to have been killed, leaving wide tyre tracks across his crushed chest.
They roared off into the gloom, leaving a ghostly scene of carnage, and the flashing blue lights of the police car, in the mist.
Dillon watched the convoy of luxury Mercedes limousines sweep up the drive towards the house. Standing outside Zhenya’s room as she dressed for the party that evening, his attention drawn to the small window out of which he gazed. Rain was still falling heavily from black murderous clouds directly overhead and an oppressive gloom had settled over Cornwall.
Dillon half listened to the live orchestra tuning-up, guitars, keyboards and percussion sounds floating up the wide sweeping staircase at the end of the lavishly carpeted landing and coming from the huge ballroom — and the rhythmic sound of Beyoncé from Zhenya’s bedroom. Dillon un-holstered the automatic pistol from under his right arm. He passed the Glock from hand to hand, feeling its perfectly weighted balance, checking that there was a full clip in and one round in the chamber then checked the six other clips he carried about his body. Ninety-two rounds in total. Dillon had learnt over the years to always be prepared. As he had always told the younger members of the Ferran & Cardini — Special Projects Department: “Who wanted to die because they ran out of bullets.”
The door opened. Zhenya appeared — stunning in a small black cocktail dress that showed off her pale complexion and auburn hair.
“You ready?” asked Dillon, immediately sensing her nervousness, and added. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.”
Zhenya took a deep breath. She knew — as well as he did, as well as the MI6 agents around the house and in the grounds — that tonight was a golden opportunity for an Assassin to strike. If the threat were for real and not just a hollow blackmail attempt. A hoax…
“I want you to stay close by at all times. Do not leave me for one moment.”
“So you’ll be coming with me to the toilet?” She laughed at her own joke.
“Of course.”
“Really?”
Dillon smiled. “Yes. Easy location for a hit — it’s the one moment when, shall we say, a person’s guard is well and truly down.”
They decended the extravagantly wide sweeping oak staircase, the walls lavishly decorated with contemporary abstract artwork. Working for a secret research department funded by the British taxpayer obviously paid well.
Dillon had been very specific with his instructions to Zhenya Tarasova earlier that evening: to stay inside the house, no alcohol, and definitely no wandering off without him. If Zhenya wanted to survive this potential threat then she had to minimise the opportunity.
Damn this party, thought Dillon.
Damn Kirill! Stubborn bastard.
A hundred and fifty guests. Dillon had almost shot Kirill himself when Mark Palmer, head of the MI6 security operation, had handed him the slip of paper.
Guests mingled. Waiting staff with trays of drinks and canapés circulated and Dillon’s gaze swept across the large, glitteringly decorated suite. Rich velvet drapes hung to the floor, obscuring the view of any outside observers — and more importantly from any longrange snipers.
Dillon stayed close to Zhenya. She knew many of the people who had come to the party and Dillon allowed the conversation to wash over him. If anybody approached or spoke to him he was dismissive to the point of being rude, and had no intention or interest engaging in conversation with them — it only distracted him from his job at hand.
He watched. Zhenya socialised and, as she had promised, stayed off the booze.
Kirill, obviously suffering from a little stress, was well on his way to a serious hangover and was holding court with a small group in a corner. Dillon checked the security units status and found everyone where he or she should be. Everything was okay.
The many hundreds of acres of woodland and moor surrounding the Castle Drago estate rose and fell, following the slopes and dramatic contours of the land — spread out for many miles. Several rough tracks, littered with fallen trees and branches, crisscrossed the estate, but on this dark and rain-filled night everything except the thick branches swaying in the wind high above, was still. The rain ran in violent rivulets down the nobbled bark of the oak trees — a deep rumble cut through the gloom, and three dark blue long wheelbase Landrover Defenders crept smoothly over the moor and through the woodland. Heavy wheels crushed branches and negotiated fallen trees with 4x4 ease… slowly the all-terrain vehicles came to a halt in a small clearing, one behind the other.
All three engines died — and a silence crept back.
Doors opened, and black clad figures climbed out of the Landrovers. They moved stealthily forward and crouched, peering through night vision goggles towards Castle Dago, its lights glittering with promise in the distance.
The many shadowy figures bristled with weaponry.
There were various clicks as magazines were slotted home. Commands were given through concealed earpieces; and slowly, with an infinite and precise care, the unit of armed killers moved off through the undergrowth, untroubled by the rain and the threat of death to come.
Stevenson squatted beside the old garden potting shed listening to the commands being issued by Mike Palmer. He hoisted thesniper’s rifle up and rested its tripod atop the rough stonework of a low wall just in front of him. It was late and he had been positioned there for a number of hours, he glanced up at the rolling clouds obscured by the driving rain. “Damned weather,” he muttered. “Sent to torment a man”.
He sighted down the high velocity rifle’s scope, and swept the grounds in front of him, rotating the rifle on the smooth-action tripod. He could see nothing through the rain, even with the nightvision intensifier switched on. Stevenson stretched his arms and rolled back his shoulders to relieve the tension in them and craved a cigar and a cup of hot tea. Yes, he could almost taste the richly satisfying tobacco and steaming brew.