Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) (15 page)

Richard pushed hard with his legs and was up in his seat in an instant. Crushed bodywork and the door pillar were close against the stone wall but with the door detached there was room. Richard squeezed through the opening. Two men immediately came into view. They ran towards him with weapons held high. Without looking back, Richard ran for his life down the street. Several times he slipped, but he made forty metres or more before the first sublet sang past his ear. He turned and darted into a doorway only to see the two men scrambling over the wrecked car. The first mistimed his jump, skidded off the boot lid, took a tumble, and ended up as a crumpled heap on the ground. The other avoided such a fiasco by leaping clear, but he landed awkwardly and rolled over several times to break his fall. Richard saw his chance; he leapt from the doorway and sprinted a further twenty metres or so before disappearing around a corner.

In full flight he made off down the street. The incline began to steepen. He slipped and skidded on the wet surface. There was an alley and he darted to his right but almost fell, saving himself only by grasping some iron railing.
Forget the alley,
he thought, and he looked back. He couldn’t see them, but he heard their footsteps not far behind and their echoing seemed to be upon him; the narrow street contained and amplified it. He passed a few people; they watched aghast as the pursuit heightened and one, a woman in her twenties, screamed hysterically as a brief sighting of Richard brought a hail of gunfire from the assassins. People cleared the street. Richard kept tight to the wall where the cobbles were more even. He didn’t look back again.

After rounding another corner, the pâtisserie came into view. Richard approached it quickly, running pell-mell. He attracted the attention of many well-wishers who had spilled into the street. People were casually chatting and stopped to watch him, until, with panicked expressions, they hid indoors – after first hearing shots and then seeing the pursuers.

Richard at full tilt, coat flailing, felt the glass down his back. His face was wet with sweat and washed by the drizzle. He drew a rasping breath that slowed him down near a shop and saw, against the railings, an opportunity? The bicycle, a ladies model, with Christmas tinsel wrapped around the frame, inexplicably drew his eye – perhaps because it was pointing in the right direction.

People moved aside as Richard ran past. He had no time to return their looks of surprise, disdain and fright. A teenager remonstrated loudly as Richard snatched his bicycle while passing, scooted with it for a few strides and then mounted it. Other cries of protestation followed him down the street, but he would not have understood their meaning had he the time to listen. Then, suddenly, as Richard disappeared uncomfortably down the hill, the verbosity of the objections that initially seemed plain enough adopted a very different nature, for the first of several sublets whizzed past his head. A curve in the street saved him.

There was no need to pedal and even maximum braking had little effect in the wet. But this was perhaps opportune, as Richard’s precarious progress soon had him at the edge of the village and with no sign of his pursuers. As the last buildings approached, Richard skidded to the right and ducked into a narrow opening. It led, after twenty metres or so, into an untidy, deserted farmyard. The main entrance, together with a rusty tractor, was to his left and beyond lay open countryside. A creeping wintry mist was already rising over the darkening scene. There was a small barn with broken doors opposite and Richard discarded the bicycle inside. He gingerly surveyed the area. It was clear and quiet.
I’ve lost them,
he concluded, but he deliberated on how he could possibly get back to Paris.

Richard unzipped the inside pocket to his coat and withdrew his telephone. He pondered for a moment on the security implications but decided to call London in any case – a helicopter pickup was perhaps the only option. Despite his intentions to distance himself from MI9 over the last year or two, Peter Rothschild’s number remained a preset. The signal was weak but just enough.

“Peter, it’s Richard,” he whispered. “Listen, there’s been some trouble . . . Yes, I’m not far from Saint Mary’s . . . They lost contact with the driver . . . ? Really – that’s because he’s dead! Yes . . . but . . . that’s not possible now . . . no . . . forget it. Peter, I need a pickup from here. You’ll have to get the bloody helicopter over here . . . What do you mean diplomatic permits . . . a world heritage site?
Listen
, I’m not in the clear yet, they are still here, somewhere in the village, and they mean business . . . Okay, you have my position . . . good. It’s not a secure satellite signal. I know that, but what else am I to do? Wait, I hear a car! I’ve got to go . . . No, Peter, listen why don’t you? I’m unarmed. I would really appreciate that pickup . . . okay! I hear something, I’ve got to go!”

Richard crouched nervously and replaced his handset. He buttoned his coat and turned up his collar. Several tiny pieces of glass fell onto the trampled hay underfoot. He heard a car door shut and slunk back into the darkening interior of the wooden building. “Shit!” he scolded, under his breath. “I’ve brought them down on me . . . idiot!”

There was a rickety ladder leading up to a hay loft. Richard eyed it and decided on a course of action. Tentatively he climbed it. Outside he heard footsteps. He paused. There was a mumble and an acknowledgement. Richard climbed the last few rungs and flopped onto the hay. A moment later the barn door squeaked. Richard peered over the edge and held his breath. He saw a shadow move. Then he saw a man with a gun held in two hands stepping inside. Jerkily but strategically the figure pointed his weapon in various directions. Richard dropped his head and strained to see. The darkness in the barn was an asset. The man moved silently. Something cracked, like a piece of wood.
The noise had come from outside, from behind the barn.
He was surrounded.

The gunman stepped beneath the loft; he was no more than four metres below Richard. With one hand he grasped the ladder and Richard heard it shake. Richard dropped his face onto the course hay: blood surged in his ears; his heart raced. The ladder began to move!
God no,
thought Richard,
he’s coming up!

The ladder’s frame groaned under the weight of the man and where it rubbed against the loft joist it squeaked eerily. After a few haunting seconds and quite unable to contain himself, Richard rose up onto on his elbows only to see the man’s head appear. It was silhouetted against the opening and Richard saw him raise his gun; it was a short barrelled revolver. In one desperate move Richard swung his feet around and kicked out at the ladder – it toppled backwards, with the man hanging precariously from the top rung. A muffled shot rang out. Richard scrambled to his feet. He sighted the man landing on his back and, without any thought for the consequences, jumped. He landed with most of his weight on the man’s leg and instantly heard it crack beneath him. The man cried out. Then Richard came down backside-first onto the man’s chest; it served to wind him and an awkward karate chop to his throat gave Richard the upper hand. In near darkness Richard sprang up.

The big man, now severely handicapped, raised his gun and fired indiscriminately. Richard dived for cover and rolled away across the floor until he felt something under his back. He pulled at it; was it anything he could use? The object felt like a broken shovel and a moment later he set upon the man wielding the blade like a crazed Dervish. Unable to stand, turn or defend himself, Richard caught the man with his first blow across the side of his head. And one blow was enough, as the would-be assassin flopped backwards onto the floor. His arms fell limp and he groaned before falling silent. Barely able to see, Richard stepped briskly over to the crumpled heap and scrabbled for a gun hand; he located the weapon close by in the mud.

Richard retreated quickly. Bathed in darkness and with his back to the barn wall he waited. Soon, he heard the crunching of dry straw underfoot over to his left. One step, and then another, and then another, as someone came to the entrance. Fleetingly he saw a shadow move and raised his newly acquired revolver, but the target disappeared. There was silence – a thick, menacing silence. Then a scrabbling sound in the straw further along the wall attracted Richard’s attention momentarily –
must just be a rat
, he thought. Well inside the barn and on the other side Richard heard movement again. Then a noise as someone kicked a piece of wood or a random piece of machinery. There was a muted groan. Was this second assailant injured? Perhaps he had stopped some friendly fire.

Richard adopted a prone position; he held his breath and listened intently. A horn beeped in the distance and he could hear the sound of revellers, subdued – but nothing else. He squirmed uneasily and thought a change of location was necessary and began to move to his right, keeping tight against the wall. He felt out each step before putting his weight down, lest he give his position away.

Richard could just see, by the paleness of ambient light outside, some thin cracks between the boards by his right side. At that moment a single shot rang out and the loud crack made him jump. Instantaneously the wood in front of his face splintered, sending a shard against his cheek. He yelped at his miscalculation and dropped to the floor as another dull thud sounded, and then another, each accompanying hole chasing downwards.

Quickly, commando-style, he crawled forwards a few metres and then scrambled to his feet and, in a kind of crouched run, managed a further five metres forwards. The shots that followed him now were hit or miss, blind attempts to bring him down in the darkness. He felt a large bale of straw blocking his path and he half-tripped and half-dived behind it. Silence reigned again. Richard contained his breathing.
Damned fool,
he thought. Blood trickled down his face from the splinter and a dribble ran to the corner of his lips. The taste lingered; he thought it indicative of his frailty.
He would have to flush this assassin out!

With an idea, Richard felt for the overall length of the straw bale. It was less than two metres long, but enough to give him cover. At that moment his foot inadvertently struck a bucket – or some similar farmyard implement. Simultaneously a sublet pinged over his head, only to ricochet off a metal object on the opposite wall. The metal sang with a single tone like that from an amplified tuning fork, and with it, like good harmonics, Richard had an idea. He reached for the implement – it
was
a bucket.

Richard lay spread-eagled on the ground, sheltered behind the straw bale. He adopted such a position so as to be able to move quickly – in a spinning motion – from one end of the bale to the other. Silently he drew a deep breath and then he poked the revolver around the left-hand edge of the bale and fired a volley of three shots across the barn. Then he lifted the metal bucket, albeit a little awkwardly, with his other hand and tossed it as far as he could in the direction from where he had come. The bucket flew through the air for a few metres, crashed to the ground and then clattered across the floor until it collided with the wall and finally came to rest. A hail of gunfire followed in its wake.

Simultaneously Richard spun around on his stomach and pulled himself into a firing position at the other end of the bale. The opaque blackness on the far side of the barn was momentarily illuminated by the assailant gunning down the bucket. In the ensuing disturbance, Richard would have one attempt before giving his own position away. His shot had to count, and Richard took quick but careful aim at the opposing flash and squeezed the trigger. The revolver had heavy recoil but he was aware of it this time and supported the butt with his right hand. There was a ruffling noise on the other side and then silence. Richard darted back behind the straw bale and lay motionless on his back for a few seconds, but his stomach was tensed and he made ready to fire again.

After a minute or so Richard rolled over and climbed cautiously to his knees. He pivoted the weapon with both hands on the prickly grass of the bale and scanned as best he could the area opposite. After a while he became convinced of a kill and so, keeping low, he moved quickly to the side. Eyes wide he strained to see, but the final soft glow from the sunset did little more than faintly illuminate the barn’s doorway. He held his breath and listened again. There was nothing – not a sound in the vicinity – only some far-off Christmas revelry. Avoiding making a silhouette, Richard slipped silently outside.

Richard made it to the tractor and paused. He eased around it, senses keen – then over to the gate where he crouched behind a sturdy post. Still nothing; silence; anticipation. He dared to hope that the accomplice had fallen during the mayhem of arbitrary shooting. He loitered for a few moments and, still not hearing anything, took off at speed down the road away from the village. He ran another kilometre until he was exhausted. And there in the undergrowth he crouched and rested.

Richard replaced his telephonic pager with the revolver he had acquired and zipped close his coat pocket. On the small, back-lit screen he typed and sent an abrive to Peter Rothschild:

All clear.
Triangulate this signal.
I am waiting for a pickup.
ASAP – S'il vous plait.

Richard watched and waited until almost simultaneous with the distant, but irrefutable sound of a single rotor helicopter, he received an abrive from Rothschild. It was in a secure, scrambled format and he typed in his personal code to decipher it:

The helicopter will take you to Saint Dizier, a French Air Force base east of Paris. You have a fighter and escort to Egypt. We have cooperation. Destination is an Egyptian military base close to Alexandria. Transport in hand. Go to Mubarakar while we still have him. Learn what you can. Commercial being organised for return home. Cyber-attack increasing, something is afoot.
Above all, exercise extreme caution.
PR

“Seasonal greetings to you, too,” Richard muttered to himself, singularly unimpressed. He looked eastwards towards the dull glow of the Paris conurbation and saw the strobe lights of the helicopter flashing in the night sky as the machine homed in on him. “So, it starts here . . . the final showdown,” he whispered ominously.