‘Just me. There were no stops, no drops and no contacts. Can’t tell what they were doing once they were inside, of course. The tall one’s in charge and shorty’s the driver.’ He paused to listen as the controller gave an update feed on the Astra’s location. ‘This driver’s good, whoever he is. Very good. I don’t think he knows we’re on him yet, but if he gets a sniff of us, we might have a chase on our hands. He must know the ground pretty well.’
‘He doesn’t,’ said Harry. ‘As far as we know it’s their first time here.’
‘Really?’ Bruce was even more impressed. ‘Good thing we’ve got eyes in the sky, then.’
Harry wondered at his calm demeanour, and sensed he was happier chatting, even when concentrating. ‘Do you do this a lot?’
‘As much as I can.’ He grinned. ‘I used to drive interceptors with Essex Police, in Subaru Imprezas. Then I got a transfer to this lot. This is a lot more fun.’
‘Let’s hope it stays that way,’ Harry told him. ‘You know these two are armed, don’t you?’
‘So I noticed. Bad boys.’
‘Bad enough. How did you notice?’
‘The way they walked, the way they sat, holding one hand against their jackets. Classic signs when someone’s carrying.’
A burst of chatter interrupted to tell them that the speeding Astra had crossed the river and was heading towards the south-east. Moments later, it was crossing the A3, still heading in the same direction and using back streets which were less busy. Local police patrols were being warned to stay well clear and give the men in the Astra no reason to start shooting.
‘Where’s he going?’ Bruce mused aloud. ‘There’s Heathrow, Gatwick or the Channel — that’s all there is down this way, unless he’s got another hidey-hole.’
‘Blue One, the target’s picking up speed.’ The controller’s voice was cool, economical. ‘Estimates are he’s heading for Herne Hill, Dulwich and Catford areas, then further south.’
‘Why would he pick up speed?’ asked Rik. ‘He can’t see us.’
‘He doesn’t have to,’ said Bruce. ‘He knows we’re here.’ He accelerated again, whipping past a bus and two cars, slipping past a traffic island on the wrong side before slotting back onto the right side of the road. ‘The good ones have an instinct. If they’ve done this before, they pick up the signs somehow. Same as us when we see a suspect car; it doesn’t look right. Can’t tell you why, it just does. Nine times out of ten, we’re right. He might not even be trying to outrun us — he could be fixing to get some space between us so he can dump the car and walk away.’
Suddenly the controller uttered a mild curse. ‘Signal’s going. . we’re losing pictures. Trying to recover. . Blue One, picture’s gone. . last seen target was slowing down, slowing down hard. Be ready to decamp.’
‘Why no picture?’ Bruce cried. ‘And why now?’
They were fast approaching a crossroads, with minimum traffic in sight. Then, just beyond it, they saw the Astra. It had almost stopped, and seemed to be idling in the centre of the road. They were now close enough to see two figures inside. Suddenly it sat back on its suspension and pulled away hard, blue smoke issuing from the exhaust.
‘He’s off,’ said Bruce. ‘Over to you. What do you want me to do?’
Harry considered the consequences. The longer this chase continued, the more likely it was that the Russians would either panic and start shooting, or they would get away. Without the overhead camera coverage, there were too many side roads the Astra could duck into, losing their pursuers in an instant.
‘Go for it,’ Harry said. He and Rik took out their weapons and did a quick check, then sat and waited for Bruce to find a suitable place to stop the Astra. This was his expertise and they were just along for the ride.
‘Hold onto your panties, girls,’ Bruce murmured, and tramped hard on the accelerator, sending the BMW streaking towards the traffic lights, which were green and clear. The row of houses and shops became a blur, and figures on the pavements seemed frozen in mid-step.
‘Look out right!’ Rik yelled a warning just as a dark shape loomed up on that side, filling the windows.
A large 4X4 had deliberately jumped the lights.
Before Bruce could react, there was a sickening blow against the rear wing, ripping the BMW off-course and sending it into a neck-wrenching spin. The tyres shrieked in protest and a shower of glass fell around the interior of the car as the windows gave way under the force of the collision.
Harry managed to stuff his gun inside his jacket and hold on, grabbing hold of the door handle and the seat belt to stay upright, while feeling the sharp torque of the whiplash effect as the car spun and rocked on its suspension, with Brice fighting the wheel to keep it upright.
Then the world stopped moving just as suddenly as it had started, and they were left in total silence as the engine stuttered and died.
‘He’s gone!’ Bruce shouted furiously, twisting in his seat for a sighting of the vehicle that had hit them. He spat out a mouthful of blood. ‘Damn, I bit my tongue. Bastards!’
Harry unhooked his seat belt and climbed out, followed by Rik, nursing his elbow from the collision. Bruce was right, there was no sign of the other car, and the Astra had also disappeared.
‘It was a set-up,’ Bruce muttered sourly, joining them on the side of the road and stretching his neck with a wince of pain. ‘They had another car waiting to run interference.’ He looked at Harry. ‘Who the hell are those people?’
‘Foreigners,’ Harry told him. ‘They all drive like that.’
‘Blue One. . come in. Blue One. . you OK?’
SIXTY
‘What a shit hole.’ Serkhov shivered and pulled his jacket collar up around his chin. He and Votrukhin were standing outside an abandoned cottage with a corrugated iron roof, set against a grey, sludgy expanse of the Thames where it spilled out into the sea.
After being forced to flee the apartment in Knightsbridge, they had taken a prearranged route through south London, using small hotels for one night each while awaiting further instructions, aware that this mission was now almost certainly over.
Votrukhin in particular had been shocked at coming so close to being caught by the two security men, and had angrily asked Gorelkin how they could have been traced to that address. Gorelkin had expressed no specific opinion, suggesting in a roundabout fashion that he and Serkhov must have been careless. It had been enough to leave the atmosphere between them soured and distrustful.
The next time Gorelkin called, it was with orders to make their way north to a point on the coast of Essex, just across the Thames.
‘What about the hire car?’ asked Serkhov.
‘The car doesn’t matter,’ Gorelkin insisted. ‘You won’t be returning it, anyway.’
Their destination was near Canvey Island, on the Thames Estuary. The car’s satnav guided them along a winding lane lined with houses and fields. Then the houses stopped, leaving nothing but scrubby fields and what looked like mud flats. It looked bleak and unwelcoming, driving both men into an even more sombre mood than before.
‘Wait right at the end, on the point,’ Gorelkin had told them earlier. ‘A deep water channel runs close to the shore. A trawler will pick you up and take you to Ostende, where you’ll be picked up.’
‘Why can’t we fly out?’ Serkhov had queried. He was past caring what Gorelkin thought of his questions and just wanted to get the hell out of this godforsaken country any way he could.
‘All airfields are being monitored, that’s why,’ Gorelkin had replied tersely. ‘You go anywhere near one and you’ll be picked up. Nobody is watching trawlers leaving the coast.’
It made sense and Serkhov had shrugged it off. As long as the trawler didn’t sink, he could put up with a few hours at sea. Anything was better than sitting around waiting for the British security services to pick them up.