Defender (20 page)

"Ad, we can't become embroiled in any more of this," Morgan yelled. "Once the Army troops are in place, then we leave it to them. This young fella can coordinate with his CO on the radio to get the rest of their Battalion up here. Agreed?"

"You don't have to tell me twice," replied Garrett emphatically. "I'd had enough about a month ago."

The Army was getting ready to take back control. Their officers were in a tight huddle together between the intersections, and Morgan knew that they could call forward reinforcements. It was time for the Chiltonford team to finally extract and rejoin Martinez and the evacuees at the RV.

"OK, stand by. When I give the word, Ad, you move and I'll cover you.

We'll get to Mike at the Rover and split ..."

Morgan was suddenly cut off by Garrett, waving his hand to signal silence.

As Morgan outlined their withdrawal, Garrett had pulled out his old Zeiss binoculars to make a final scan of their surrounds and his eyes fell upon a sight he never expected to see and could not reasonably comprehend.

"What is it?" Morgan asked, concerned.

"I don't believe it." Garrett handed the binos to Morgan. "Out there, down the western approach to the intersection, hidden away in that shitty yellow building down the far end of the street. You can just make out the Jeep, looks like an old World War Two Willy's, and if I'm not mistaken ..."

"Is that Victor Lundt?" Morgan's question was an incredulous snarl. "The very same," said Garrett. "You know him?"

"From his file photo back at Chiltonford," Morgan lied. "What the hell is he up to? I thought he was dead."

"I've never trusted that guy, but this is too much." Garrett was clearly stunned. "That's a rebel officer he's with. No doubt about it. And the two of them seem pretty cosy."

Alex Morgan's eyes were glued to the binoculars, fixated on the little yellow building tucked away at the end of the street, far from the fighting. Morgan squinted. Was this the confirmation he'd been waiting for? Then he saw a black satchel changing hands and Lundt in close conversation with the rebel officer. Morgan's eyes grew hot with anger. He could scarcely believe what he was witnessing. But it was also the ultimate breakthrough in the final moments of his mission. Morgan was conscious that his responsibilities to INTREPID had, by necessity, been put on hold. But he couldn't let himself be distracted any more.

"Adam, no matter what happens, I need you and Mike to get in that Rover, find Martinez and the others, and get them back to the beach.
If
they get cut off, they'll be dead for sure." Morgan was adamant.

"What do you mean by me and Mike?" Garrett demanded. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

'I'm going after Lundt. I can't explain right now. But you have my word that I will later," said Morgan.

"Bullshit," replied Garrett. "You're not going alone.
If
you're going, I'm coming with you. That bastard's been selling us all out."

"No!" said Morgan emphatically. "You and Mike have to go with the others.
If
they get caught, they'll be slaughtered. Without you and Mike, they won't have a chance."

"But..." Garrett couldn't argue. He knew Morgan was right.

"Ad, get going.
If
I'm not back at the RV within 30 minutes of you, then don't hang around. Get on whichever CH-53 you can and get the hell out. I'll take care of myself. Good luck!"

Before he could protest, Garrett watched as Morgan sprinted out from behind the cover of the burning truck, straight for Lundt.

"I'd like to say it's been a pleasure doing business with you, Captain," Victor Lundt announced with blatant disregard. "But time is against me. If I don't get myself out of this shithole of a country of yours, I'll be screwed for good."

"Colonel Baptiste would like you
to
stay on," replied the rebel officer, oblivious to the insult as he handed Lundt a fist-sized sack full of uncut diamonds, a piano key smile splitting his face in two.

'I'm sure you're wrong about that, sonny. Anyway, I haven't seen your fearless leader out here since the shooting started," said Lundt, accepting the bundle, fingering through the brown, colourless, and pink crystals. Then he dropped the sack, a small fortune, carelessly into a black carryall that sat on the bonnet of the old jeep. The Captain remained silent. "You can tell the great Baptiste that I can do a lot more for him from abroad than I can stuck here in Cullentown. I have other matters to attend to. You'll know where to find me. I'll make sure of that."

Distracted for a moment, Lundt looked over the rebel Captain's shoulder, back out into the street where the fighting had come
to
a standstill. He didn't like it. The unexpected lull sounded like a stalemate, the last thing he needed. Baptiste's rebels had to maintain the momentum if they were to quash the Government's Army - what was left of it. For Lundt personally, he needed the distraction of the fighting to mask his departure. There were suddenly too many new faces in Malfajiri, especially the latest two from London; their arrival was no coincidence. He could feel the spectre of unwelcome scrutiny hanging over him. Self-consciously he scratched an agitated hand through his thick hair, matted with salt and the dust of shattered concrete. He felt the heat, and was sweating profusely. The smoke haze across the city had held the full force of the sun at bay throughout the afternoon, but the humidity was oppressive.

"It looks like your boys might be stuck," he said, pointing out into the street. "There. The Government troops are reinforcing positions behind those vehicle hulks. Behind that sort of cover, they'll be hard to budge with small arms. Your men will get bogged down." Lundt moved over to where the windows had once been and, crouching behind the remnants of a wall, scoured the scene with an experienced eye. "You can't lose momentum at the height of battle," he said, almost to himself. "You lose ground and men lose confidence and the will to fight; especially if you start taking heavy casualties. Then the bastards will be all over you."

"What should I do?" The rebel officer was beside him, looking blankly back and forth between the Government soldiers, his own rebel troops, and Lundt.

But Lundt's thoughts were already elsewhere, beyond the immediate action in the street. As they so often did, memories of the most brutal battle of his life - the advaece to Port Stanley in the Falklands in '82 - resurfaced.

"What can I do?" The rebel was more insistent, shaking the Englishman back to the present.

Lundt was tired.
It
was hot. It had been all day. The back of his shirt and his hair were soaked. He wanted to take his money and diamonds and go. He glanced at the rebel dismissively, barely able to disguise his contempt. The man was way out of his depth. Lundt sighed heavily. He didn't feel
like giving this
pretender a lesson in tactics. He glanced at
his
watch, skulled the last dregs of water from a plastic canteen, then turned to the African with a resigned shrug.

"Listen up, Napoleon.
If
those crack troops of yours can't work it out for themselves, now would be a good time
to
break out those SPG-9s and RPG-7s that I got you," he offered blandly. "Anti-armour weapons are perfect for sorting out the kind of problems you've got out there. They'll take care of the Government troops behind those cars. And you should bring your mortars forward, too. You lot have been advancing so sodding fast today that I bet the bloody mortars have been left behind, well out of range. They'll be landing on us soon if you don't move 'em."

Suddenly a jarring crash and the sound of splintering wood shattered the relative calm of their scheming, causing them both to spin around, hearts pounding.

Alex Morgan stood in the doorway he'd just kicked in, weapon at the ready.
In
that moment, Lundt's blue and brown eyes locked upon Morgan like a Rapier missile unit onto an enemy aircraft. Just as Davenport had said: difficult
to
forget. Lundt's looks didn't fit the mould of a secret agent, far too memorable, thought Morgan.

"Jesus!" Lundt exclaimed - then instantly recovered. Years of covert work had prepared him to regain the initiative whenever the operational landscape changed, however unexpectedly. This had
to
be Morgan. His face matched the image Turner had sent. Lundt had
to
buy time. His only option was to see what Morgan knew. "Who are you?" he blurted, in a manner that was deliberately troubled but composed. "Thank God you're here!"

"Save it," said Morgan, bracing himself against the doorframe. He wasn't about
to
be conned. "You're not going to talk your way out of this, Lundt."

The scene was itself incriminating. The African was clearly not Malfajiri army. He was a rebel, and that meant Lundt was collaborating. Morgan could see it with his own eyes and knew it deep within his gut. The memory of Lundt's face that had emerged so strongly within his dream, had been Morgan's subconscious delivering him an early warning. That was all he needed. Morgan didn't need to satisfy any Judges' Rules on a mission. As long as it fell into what Davenport called 'beyond
your
reasonable doubt'. "You may find this hard to believe but there's no mistaking a mug like yours. I know exactly who you are."

The two men faced each other down, like two pit bulls preparing to attack.

"What ifI am Lundt?" the other man said. He took a sly pace forward.

"So, you know who I am. Big deal. Who the hell are you? Army? Chiltonford? You here to get me out?" he scoffed.

"My name's Morgan. I work for Chiltonford. And, yeah, you could say that I'm here to take you out." Morgan's eyes darted between Lundt and the threatening figure of the African hovering in the background. "Everybody thinks you're dead anyway. I doubt anybody's actually going to miss you." The pain was building, Morgan grabbed at his side. Not now! Morgan's mouth was dry. There was gunfire outside, growing in intensity, coming closer. "Who's your friend?"

"A friend," Lundt replied, straining to see what was happening outside, noting that Morgan was injured.

The battle behind Morgan erupted.

An explosion of opposing small arms fire sliced through their confrontation. The battle was closing in on them. This was not what Lundt had planned. He needed to get out. "So, you reckon you're going to take me out. I don't know if you've realised it yet, sonny, but you can barely stand." Lundt took another pace forward, but Morgan didn't notice. "Come on, let's get out of here and forget all this shit. You look like you need a medic. Here, let me help." Lundt stepped forward, closing the gap. "Like you helped Collins?" Morgan accused. He held the AK rock steady and level. The sound of rocket-propelled grenades exploding and heavy automatic fire broke through his pain-induced state. 'I'm not buying it, and this is
not
helping your case," he said pointedly, glancing at the carryall in front of Lundt, and back at the African.

The rebel officer was confused. His eyes dashed between the two men. He had no comprehension of what was being said, but knew this new arrival was a threat.

"You don't know me," Lundt spat. The act was gone now, discarded. The real Lundt surfaced and he didn't have time for the interruption. "This is none of your concern, Morgan. So, turn yourself around and get back out there. I'll join you at the beach and we'll all sail away together, care of the US bloody navy. Now, sod off!"

"How do you know about the beach? About the Navy?" questioned Morgan, his tone accusatory.

At that moment, the rebel officer panicked and launched into clumsy action. He tore a Makarov 9 millimetre automatic from the tatty camouflage holster on his hip and punched it straight out in front of him. He fired wildly at the doorway, straight at Morgan. Rounds went everywhere.

"Damn it," Lundt cried. He reached for the African's gun. "You bloody fool!" He was too late.

Morgan regrouped fast. Leaping to the right, he rolled across the earthen floor and rose up into a firing position behind the Jeep, six feet from where he had dropped out of the line of fire. The startled rebel was still firing at the door when Morgan reappeared with the barrel of his A.KM levelled directly at the man's gut from across the room. Morgan fired one intense burst, three or four rounds, stitching the rebel from groin to neck, puncturing the flesh of his torso. The man staggered and fell backwards against the far wall. Blood sprayed in a great gush from his wounds and splattered over Lundt, who, recoiling from the crossfire, stumbled and fell beside his lifeless accomplice.

"On your feet!" Morgan barked. His mind was awash with the carnage that he was sure had been left in the wake of the man ten feet from him, the man who Vauxhall Cross claimed was a legend. Morgan's mind's eye flashed with images: the charred pieces that had once been, his friend, Sean Collins; the ambushed priest and nuns he'd buried with Fredericks and Arena; Mason's arms held hopelessly across his face as the Puma exploded and fell from the sky; the thousands of bodies now scattered across Malfajiri; and, finally his dream, which had instinctively alerted him to the dangerous threat this man presented.

Morgan could barely contain his anger, and was ready to set upon Lundt with his bare hands when ravenous hordes of pain attacked. He went cold. On the verge of collapse, he tossed the AKM angrily onto the hood of the jeep beside Lundt's carryall, and reached for his tortured ribs. He had to stay focused, or Lundt would disappear for good.

"What the hell happened to you, Lundt?" Morgan demanded. "You've been peddling weapons to these butchers?"

"Don't come at me demanding answers. You should have stayed out of it," retorted Lundt, back on his feet, wiping a thick layer of the dead rebel's blood from his face and neck. His eyes locked onto a growing bloodstain on Morgan's shirt and trousers. "I know you're not SIS. That Chiltonford story is bullshit and you're not MIS. So, who are you really? Army? Scotland Yard? Or, are you something else entirely?"