“Get back,” said Harper, grabbing Cohen’s coat and pulling them towards the terminal. “And get your heads down.”
An explosion ripped through the vehicles, sending shards of metal hurtling through the air. Half of one of the vans crashed back down onto the road and scattered flames across the car park. Harper raised his head and saw Ashansky slumped on the floor, crawling towards them, his trousers soaked in blood from a bullet wound to the leg. A man with a shock of blonde hair was approaching him from behind, a pistol with a silencer in his left hand. Ashansky crawled faster, looking towards them, terror in his eyes. He stopped moving as the barrel of the gun pressed against his temple.
“Mishhhkkaaaaaaaa!” The bullet hit his skull and his face hit the concrete. The gunman nodded to Harper and ran back towards the road, jumping into a getaway vehicle and speeding away from the terminal.
“Come on, let’s move,” said Russell.
“Wait,” said Harper. “Where’s Vitsin? Where’s Varndon?”
They looked amongst the carnage. Plumes of heavy, black smoke billowed out from the vans and into the air. Both were gone.
“We have to go,” said Cohen. “Come on.”
“We can’t leave without Vitsin.”
“Forget Vitsin,” shouted Russell. “Let’s get out of here.”
Harper looked across the wreckage, but there was no sign of Vitsin’s slight frame. Cohen grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the road. The three of them ran across the road, jumped a barrier and headed under a small bridge. A security guard shouted at them in Mandarin from a nearby building. They quickened their pace, jogging along a flyover and climbing down some metal steps into a coach park below. The screech of sirens got closer as they listened to hordes of police cars making their way to the terminal.
“So I suppose we played a part in that trap?” said Cohen.
“I needed you there so they’d let their guard down,” said Harper. “I’m sorry, but there was no other way.”
They broke into a sprint as the sirens got louder behind them. Passengers were disembarking their coaches and wandering towards the chaos and hardly noticed the three westerners running in the opposite direction. Harper and Cohen slowed up as Russell started to drop behind. They walked across the road towards the water, trying to act as natural as possible.
“The Irishmen are friends of yours then are they?” said Cohen.
“I wouldn’t say friends,” said Harper. “We had a mutual interest.”
“Shush,” said Russell. “What’s that?” They all stopped walking and looked around.
“What’s what?” said Harper.
“It sounds like a big fan.”
They listened closer, shuffling out into the middle of the empty road. A flash of light lit up the gloom as the helicopter’s spotlight bathed them in a yellow glow. Police cars screeched round the corners from both directions and skidded to a stop beside them.
“Put your hands up,” said Harper.
- Chapter 39 -
Home
The urban sprawl of West London appeared as the plane broke through the clouds and descended on Heathrow. Harper twisted his wrists to relieve the chafe from the handcuffs while the Hong Kong detectives sitting either side of him maintained their watch. His mind raced, making it hard to concentrate on any one thing. Cohen and Russell were on the opposite side of the closed-off business class section, flanked by more police. The plane bounced a little as the wheels touched down on the runway, jerking everyone forwards.
“Welcome to London Heathrow. Local time is….”
They sat while the economy passengers exchanged pleasantries with the air stewardesses and filed out. Harper sucked in a deep lungful of chilly London air as they walked out onto the top of the steps. It was good to be home, even with the prospect of a jail cell hanging over him. The other passengers had been herded onto a bus and were heading to the terminal.
“So?” said Harper to the detectives as they stood on the tarmac. They ignored him and looked over towards the main building. Two police cars and an unmarked Ford were making their way towards them. The vehicles parked up next to the plane and Harper recognized the familiar figure of Deputy Commissioner Bailey step out of the first marked car. She spoke briefly with the senior Hong Kong detective and Cohen and Russell were put in the back seats, still in handcuffs. Bailey pointed at Harper and then to the Ford.
“What, no hello?” he shouted towards Bailey. The Deputy Commissioner paused briefly, shook her head and climbed back inside the car. Harper felt a shove in his back. One of the Hong Kong detectives pushed his head down and bundled him into the back seat of the Ford, closing the door behind him. There were three men in the car and two of them were pointing guns at him.
“You move and we shoot,” said the man next to him. “You say anything out of turn and we shoot. You breathe a bit too fucking heavily and we shoot. Got it?”
Harper nodded his head. They raced away from the terminal, past a disused runway and onto a service road. A black plane loomed large up ahead, orange lights flashing from its dark underbelly. They pulled Harper out of the car and pushed him up the steps. A blue light soaked the military interior. They took him to the back of the plane, strapped him down to one of the seats and put a black hood over his head. He thrashed his head from side to side as he felt his breath blocked by the material. His hands and feet started to throb as the straps slowed the blood supply. The noise from the engines increased and the plane rumbled backwards for a few minutes before coming to a halt. The vibrations shook his body as they shot forwards and lifted off the concrete. His pulse raced and his thoughts darkened as a hint of claustrophobia took hold of him. The urge to get off the plane hit him and his breaths started to come out in short bursts. The plane rose higher into the sky and leveled off. When the bag was snatched off his head, the blue light had been dimmed to practically nothing. His eyes searched around for something to focus on, but there was only nothingness. A voice came out of the darkness, quiet at first. Harper listened closer, trying to make out some of the words. “…you’re mine now.” The man moved his face into the remnants of the blue light, showing himself for a few seconds.
“Varndon…”
- Chapter 40 -
Square One
The National Liberal Club sat camouflaged in the London grandeur. Alpha walked up the steps and greeted Connelly on reception. He handed him his coat and umbrella and made his way up the winding staircase. The smell reminded him of the Service in the old days, clubs and lunches, fewer women around and no need for the illusion of transparency that has infected modern government.
“The Foreign Secretary is outside sir,” said the waiter as he walked into the bar. Alpha ordered a coffee and made his way onto the empty balcony. The sunlight shone on the Thames, but failed to make a dent in the murk. Worthing sat at the far end. His hair was slightly damp and a black gym bag sat next to his chair. His red socks shone out from beneath the table.
“Foreign Secretary.”
“John, good to see you. Do sit down.” The waiter set Alpha’s coffee down on the table and placed a menu alongside.
“Do you fancy a bite?” said Worthing.