Deadly States (Seaforth Files by Nicholas P Clark Book 2) (38 page)

His mission in Moscow had been an utter failure. No matter how
hard he tried to put some kind of positive spin on it as he lay
on the
bed
of
his
hotel room looking up at the yellowing
ceiling,
he could
find no comfort. That he didn’t know what had really gone on in Moscow somehow made it all seem worse. Jack hoped that greed would be
at the bottom of his misfortune as the last thing he or any
other agent
would have wanted was to be dubbed the man who let a nuclear bomb
fall into the hands of a maniac. The Irish may not have been ruthless
enough to unleash the power
of
an atom bomb in an English city, but
the same could not be said of all terror groups,
or indeed many terror
states,
or those with aspirations to become great through terror. That
was the nightmare scenario that his commanders had been preaching
on ever since the Soviet Union went into meltdown. There was some
very credible evidence coming into London that suggested that it was
not
only the usual suspects such as Iran and Iraq who were making
their intentions to pick up a fully functioning nuke
know,
but there
were some well funded groups working out of moderate Islamic states
who were also trying to gain power through the atom.

Thirst finally got the better of Jackand herebelledagainst the leth

argy that was keeping him pinned to the bed. The only familiar drink
in the mini bar of his room was a can of Coca Cola. Under normal circumstances he would never have touched the stuff, but in that foreign
place he needed something familiar. He
opened the can and downed
two large mouthfuls as he walked across the grey and brown carpet to
the small balcony at the side of his room. The blast
of ice cold wind
cut through the shirt that he was wearing as he opened the doors and
stepped
out
onto the
balcony.
On the street
below two drunken Red
Army soldiers staggered past the hotel. They were laughing loudly at a
shared joke—they were either coming off duty,
or, more likely in those
confused and undisciplined times, they were going on duty.

As Jack gazed
out across the city it looked
old, ancient, wise and
proud. But like everything else in East Berlin that
eternal impression
was false. The Second World War had reduced most
of the ancient
buildings to rubble and the city that was spread out
before him was
a modern day replica
of that
once proud past. The occupying Soviets
were not that
bothered about
German history as they rebuilt
most
of the city in grey
concrete; the style and livery
of
modern
mother
Russia. The restored classic façades, such as they were, served civic
and religious roles. It was almost as if the Soviet re-building was entirely
by
design—never forget who you were,
people
of
Berlin; you
suffer because of your brutal history.
And, never forget who you are
now, forced
comrades in an
empire that
outlived Hitler’s thousand
year Reich by
over half a century. Berlin was very
much a city that
was fenced in by its own history and that sense of oppression touched
residents and visitors alike. Jack was no different and he couldn’t wait
until the order came through for him to return back to headquarters,
even if he did receive a right bollocking when he got there.

As the cold got the better
of him and his
body
began to tremble,
Jack stepped back into the room and he closed the large glass doors. It
was as the doors clicked shut that he noticed her. She was reflected in
the dirty glass of the door closest to him. Jack continued to face the city
as if taken in
completely
by
the view. This
gave
him a few
moments to think. His gun was under one of the pillows. There was nothing close enough to him that he could turn into a weapon. Whoever
she was and why she had come to his room was a mystery, but the fact
that she was in control of the situation was not in doubt. His view of

her may have been restricted but he could clearly see the small, silver
coloured gun in
her right
hand that was
pointing in
his
direction.
His first thought was that she was an assassin. Perhaps he had been
allowed to live back in Moscow so that they could follow him? Why
would they kill one spy when they could let that spy lead them to others? Whatever her reason for dropping in
on him, Jack knew that he
couldn’t simply look out
of the window for the rest
of the night in the
hope that she would get bored and leave him in peace. That a sharp
pain from a hot bullet as it passed through his body from the back had
not happened gave him a little comfort. He searched frantically for a
non-lethal way to end the deadlock. Nothing presented itself to him.
Eventually the situation was taken out of his hands completely.

“Please take a seat on the bed,” said the woman.
Her accent was familiar, yet somehow completely out of place.
“I am here to help you Jack. And in turn, if you believe what I have

Jack turned around slowly to face her. She was wearing a long
black winter coat and tall snow
boots
over blue jeans. Her shocking
red hair was more a stylishly tangled mess than it was curly. Her blue
eyes
penetrated Jack’s soul and effortlessly
cut through
much
of the
pretence that surrounded him. To the entire world she looked like a
Russian
or
German,
if an
exceptional
looking
one,
but
that voice
rubbed awkwardly against that perception.

“Now
please, take a seat
on the bed and give me a chance to explain why I need your help,” she continued.
Jack sighed.
“I honestly
can’t see any
of that happening,” Jack said. “Not while
you have that gun pointed at me. If you really do need my help then
you need to put the gun down.”
She smiled warmly.
“I
can’t blame you for trying Jack, but you know that there is no
chance that I will put the gun away.”
Using the distraction
of the argument as cover Jack gave the impression that he had conceded to her demands by walking towards the
bed. He was moving in the direction of his hidden weapon.
“Stop!” she commanded.