He walked across the road, wincing as his whole body felt like it was being torn apart. Wish Cochrane was here. Get a grip. He ain’t here, dickhead; you are.
Okay. Small-arms kill range now. Gun out. Two hands. Drop low.
Sixty yards from house. Top windows, east wall-one, two, three, four: all clear. Bottom windows: no sightings. Still leaves four rooms unaccounted for. Front or back entrance? Neither has element of surprise if a professional team’s in there. Reckon front’s best. Gives better angles, plus sight of two more rooms on approach.
Priority: kill bastards, secure target zone.
No bastards?
Hunt bastards down. Kill bastards.
Got to remove emotion. Done it before, remember? Yer pal Geordie’s team in Borneo; knew they were all cut up before you went in to get the bodies and give a bit of payback to their killers. Aden, Northern Ireland, Falklands. More dead mates. Couldn’t think about them while doin’ yer job. Thinking and stuff comes after.
Different now though, ain’t it? You’ve let Cochrane down. Sarah’s dead.
And all you can do now is rescue Betty and James.
Betty. Standing next to her all those years ago. Poky south London church. Him in his cheap but neatly pressed suit and shiny shoes. Confetti in his Brylcreemed hair. Her in the dress her mum and sisters had made for the day. Goodness, his missus looked lovely. Proud day that. Best day. She sorted him right out, she did. Made him grow up and get values. Made him more of a man than all them marches.
Biggest test of yer manhood coming up. Need to be able to step over Sarah’s body, keep your gun high, angles, body shots, room clearance, don’t think, don’t feel. Yet.
He reached the edge of the house.
Movement behind one of the windows.
Then nothing.
Shit!
Looks like we’re in for a firefight.
Body’s feeling a bit better. Hands? Arms? They ain’t shaking. Eyes? Brain? Good enough.
Right, lads.
Who dares wins.
Get it done.
He crawled alongside the front of the house, rose to a crouch beside the front door, held his gun with one hand, used the other to grip the door handle, and eased the door open a few inches.
Silence.
Now.
He stood, kicked the door fully open, and rushed forward with his gun held high.
He froze.
Sarah was slumped on the floor.
Covered in blood.
Fifty-Three
The military base was a hive of activity, with DSI and other Dutch law enforcement personnel moving quickly on foot and in vehicles to other parts of the establishment, some of them standing guard around the runway and adjacent hangars, and a small cadre of DSI professionals checking weapons and communications equipment in the long, rectangular barracks where Will and his team were. The six Dutchmen were the protection unit who’d be escorting the witness north to The Hague. Kapitein Derksen was one of them. Like his men, he was wearing a blue jacket, jeans, combat belt, canvas boots, balaclava, and bulletproof vest with the word POLITIE on the front and back.
After stripping down his FN P90 submachine gun and his Glock 17 pistol, Derksen walked over to Will and Mikhail. “The witness has been moved to the holding facility; the plane landed an hour ago and has been searched; we’ll be green light in thirty minutes. Do it as I told you-very fast.” Within the small area of balaclava that exposed his eyes, there were no signs of any emotion. “You have everything you need?”
Mikhail patted his overcoat. Underneath it was a holster containing a Glock handgun. “We could have done with clothes like yours and”-he nodded toward the officer’s P90-“more firepower.”
“You have to be distinguishable from my men, so we know who’re the professionals and who’re the amateurs,” Derksen snapped. “Fifteen minutes before takeoff.” He turned and walked back to his men.
The MI6 and SVR officers approached Roger, Laith, Mark, and Adam. Like Will and Mikhail, they were all dressed as if they were about to attend a winter business conference in a five-star hotel.
Will said, “When we get to The Hague, I’m going to try to keep us in play. We’ll have ten more days of sitting on our asses in another secure facility before the hearing.” He glanced at Laith. “Gives the rest of us a chance to win back our cash.”
Laith smiled. “You’ll lose again if you think poker’s a game of chance.”
Okay.” Kapitein Derksen’s voice filled the barracks. “Let’s go!”
The DSI unit and Will’s team jogged out of the building, then sprinted past other barracks and into a large aircraft hangar. In the center was the G-IV-SP aircraft. Its engines were running, and the pilots were visible in the cockpit, clearly making their preparations. Machine-gun-carrying police officers were standing around the craft; others were kneeling by the open hangar doors, pointing their weapons toward the runway.
In Dutch, Derksen barked into his throat mic, “Sierra 1. We’re in position at Zulu.”
Four of his men rushed into the plane as Derksen and another knelt by the plane’s steps and raised their guns. Looking at Will, Derksen snapped, “Get in.”
Will, Roger, Laith, Mark, Adam, and Mikhail entered the plane. It was quite small but luxurious. Two uniformed officers were at the head of the passenger area. One of them had a sniffer dog on a leash; the other, holding a clipboard, approached a DSI officer. The two spoke for a few seconds before the DSI operative took the clipboard, carefully examined the papers on it, and signed at the bottom. The paperwork showed that every space within the plane’s interior had been searched three times on the secure base by three separate police units. The two police officers left the plane, and the dog’s tail wagged quickly as the animal moved past the men.
Sumptuous leather seats lined each side of the plane, facing each other and separated halfway along by a bar and cupboards containing food. No doubt, ordinarily this type of carrier would be used for VIP businessmen and perhaps senior politicians. Will and the rest of the team moved to the front seats, sat, and waited. Five seconds later, Derksen and his colleague entered the craft.
Between them was an old man.
The witness.
The plane started taxiing as the old man was shown to a seat between two large DSI operatives. The remaining four Dutchmen took up positions close to him. One of the officers started talking quickly on his mic, relaying instructions and updates.
The silver-haired witness was wearing a gray suit, a necktie, and a somber overcoat. His etched, serious expression suggested that he had no appreciation for the craft’s luxurious interior.
The plane’s engine noise grew louder.
Will darted a look at Kapitein Derksen as the plane began increasing in speed. “Who is he?”
Derksen remained silent, motionless, gripping his submachine gun, just like the rest of his men.
“Who is he?”
The plane accelerated and took off.
“Kapitein Derksen. .!”
Derksen answered, “Now that we’re airborne, I’m permitted to give you his identity. His name is Nikolai Dmitriev, former colonel with the KGB and SVR.”
Dmitriev. The name Will had seen in the papers he’d discovered in Yevtushenko’s house.
The officer who’d attended the secret meeting in Berlin in 1995.
The man who’d approached The Hague six months ago in order to give evidence about a secret pact.
Will stared at Dmitriev, then glanced out of the window, bracing himself in case the plane was hit by a missile.
Nothing happened.
“Now that you know my identity”-Dmitriev pointed a frail finger toward Will-“it would be appropriate to know who you are.”