Thunder (43 page)

I lean forwards across him, and gently lift back the material of his jackets and shirt. His chest is a mess.

“Hot stuff...,” he mumbles.

“Hmmm... Something like that,” I comment. I need to get him some help, and quickly. “Is there anyone else we can contact?”

He shakes his head. “On our own...,” his voice is barely a whisper.

I don’t doubt that either Ace or Deuce or both have, for some reason, decided that they’d prefer us not to return from this mission. Casting my mind back, I recall how we were spirited through the military bases on our way here. How we hardly made contact with anyone around us. How we were kept at arms length. How we were as good as ignored. Neither of us formally exist within the military machine and suddenly I wonder if we can expect any assistance from that front either?

Somehow I doubt it.

That leaves only one person, besides Jack, on this whole planet who I think I can trust.

I need to find a pay-phone...

~~~~~

London

Shaz Manjeethra hauled herself reluctantly out of her cozy position, curled up against Richard’s warm chest, and scrabbled across the sofa to retrieve her phone. He leaned forward behind her, and muted the endless procession of soap operas he’d been generously tolerating for the last couple of hours.

“We can always watch something else,” she offered.

He smiled and shook his head.

Her handset screen said that the number was unknown.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Shaz? It’s me...”

“Nick! Is that you?” she exclaimed in delight. “Where are you?”

~~~~~

Delaram

Despite the circumstances I feel a rush of warmth run through my veins at the sound of Sharinda’s voice. “I’m sorry,” I hear myself say. “Sorry to call you.”

“Where are you?” Shaz repeats her question.

“Delaram,” I reply.

“Delaram? Is that in Scotland?” she says.

“Afghanistan.” Saying this one word makes me realise how hopeless our situation is. How pointless this call is. “I’m in some trouble. Myself and a friend. I don’t have anyone else I can trust. Anyone I know who might, just might, be able to find us help.”

She’s gone very quiet.

I shouldn’t have called her.

It was unfair.

How on Earth could she help us?

“Tell me more,” says Shaz. “What do you need?”

~~~~~

London

Major Charles leaned over, as he buttoned his heavy raincoat, and kissed her on the forehead. “You handled that really well, Shaz,” he said kindly. He had sprung alongside her at the mention of Nick’s name and listened quietly to the conversation. Using a pad of notepaper he had scrawled her an instruction to ask Nick to call back in one hour. “When they call again, tell them to make their way to Kandahar Airbase.”

“What Nick was saying about being stuck there, without support, is that
normal
?” she asked him incredulously.

He smiled and shook his head. “No,” he said simply. “But this is not normal business. Tell them to get to Kandahar.”

“Are you going to get them out of there?”

‘I’m certainly going to make sure they’re not at risk of capture and interrogation,’ he thought to himself.

“Let me see what I can do,” he said carefully.

Skala Kallonis

I’m still not sure how
Shaz was able to help us, but nonetheless here we are. Back in Lesvos. Back home...

It’s strange how being in Jack’s little cube of a villa should feel that way to me.

Perhaps it shouldn’t?

But it does.

Jack is heavily bandaged, especially his chest and legs. He shouldn’t really be moving around, but he’s not one for keeping still and I’ve given up trying to tell him what to do. At the moment I can hear him clattering around in the wooden outbuildings – swearing occasionally – presumably when he drops one or other of his crutches. He calls it ‘pottering’ but I suspect he’s doing routine maintenance on the arsenal of weaponry he’s got stashed in the back of the barn where he keeps his bike. From the outside you wouldn’t know there was a treasure trove of killing implements secreted inside. The meticulously constructed breeze-block strongroom fills the entire rear quarter of the structure. He’s very proud of it. He should be. It’s a work of art, especially compared to his efforts at dry-stone walling.

We’ve been back for a while. Whisked into, through, and back out of KAF in a flurry of hushed tones and paramedics. Looking back, I’m still not certain whether it was out of reverence or distaste for us but, in the end, I suspect it was ‘orders from above’. I would imagine these orders were probably something along the lines of ‘get them out of there, but you don’t want to know where they’ve been, or what they’ve been doing’ and, for a little while, I didn’t want to think about it either.

I’d expected that maybe I might feel some great relief, or victory, or feeling of accomplishment. Somehow, against the odds, I had hunted down and snuffed out a tiny fragment of evil, rotten, twisted, humanity. A warped splinter, responsible for bringing pain and suffering to our own kind. For bringing unimaginable pain and suffering to me.

But I didn’t feel relief, or victory, or accomplishment.

I don’t feel any different at all.

The only change I’ve noticed is that my dreams are no longer haunted by you or Lizzie or anyone else. It would seem that there are no ghosts left to exorcise, except my own, and it remains here, stubbornly attached to this existence, awaiting severance from this human shell.

We were flown back to Cyprus. Things were less rushed there, and Jack was treated at the on-base military hospital for a few days until he was more fit to travel. No one asked any questions. I either waited at his bedside, or on my own in a small room in the barracks, until it was time to leave. We had been handed an envelope. It contained a small sheet of plain paper and a single typewritten word: ‘Vanish’. So we made our own way out of the gates, took a taxi to the airport, and caught the next scheduled civilian flight to Athens.

“That’s the last time,” Jack had said, as he’d hobbled out of British Forces Cyprus’ many gated entrance. “I’m not setting foot on another military base. I’m finished with all of this.”

I half-believe he means it.

~~~~~

London

“It’s so nice to see you again, Crispin,” said the Prime Minister, using the special tone of voice that politicians reserve for people they genuinely don’t want to talk to. “You can leave us,” he instructed his aides, who obediently removed themselves from his Westminster office, and politely closed the door.

“And you, Mr. Prime Minister,” said Greere, carefully.

“I understand that certain persons have been dealt with, and no longer constitute a threat to our country, nor to the safety and security of our people.” The PM flicked over the single-sided briefing note, which sat alone on his otherwise empty desk. “It’s such a shame that we don’t have anyone who can be honoured for undertaking such a task. Such a shame that we have no idea how such a thing could have happened.”

Greere frowned.

“How I would love to be able to publicly share this news,” the PM continued. “To be able to bring some scant comfort to those whose lives were shattered by the incident... I would love to be able to recognise the bravery of those involved... I would like to be able to
shake their hands
.” The PM stood up behind his desk. “But it is not possible to do that.” He extended his hand across the wide polished tabletop.

Greere hurriedly pushed himself to his feet, and reached out to grasp the other man’s firm grip. He felt elated. This was it! This was what he’d been working toward. This was the reward for all his efforts, all his hard work.

The PM remained standing, firmly clenching Greere’s flaccid fingers, and ignoring the distaste he felt for the repulsive man’s leering grin. “It would be very unfortunate, for anyone remotely involved in whatever took place, if they were to be discovered,” he said calmly and deliberately. “Relationships have become strained. Covert military operations on foreign soil, even if not directed against sovereign assets, stir up all kinds of difficulties. Afghan, Hungarian and US authorities have not been slow to recognise the remarkable coincidence between recent unexpected homicides and the United Kingdom.” He watched as Greere’s smile slowly vaporised in front of him. “There are also mutterings from France and, incredibly, Germany.” The PM smiled patronisingly. “These are our allies, Crispin. Countries that we need to remain close to. Peoples who share our love for democracy, freedom, safety, and security. This had better not turn out to be something of an embarrassment for us, I would hate to see anyone have to become a
scapegoat
to placate international outrage.”

The PM abruptly let go of Greere’s hand and sat down again.

“You can go now,” he said dismissively. “I know that
you
would have had nothing to do with anything that might be an embarrassment to us, or me, or... most importantly... to yourself.”

~~~~~

Greere stormed furiously back into the office. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. His fucking useless agents, and their apparent fucking incapacity for any form of even subtle subterfuge, were ruining everything. If word of Paris, or Berlin, were to leak out... Let alone fucking Madrid, or Poland, or his rogue Joker, or any of all the rest...!

Ellard looked round, startled as the door tried to jump off its substantial hinges. “How’d it go?” he asked. “Sir?” he braced himself as he glimpsed his boss’s expression.

Greere slammed the door closed again and stared at his white-haired gimp with unbridled contempt. “Any news?” he spat.

Ellard shook his head. “Nothing. No change. They’re either hiding, dead, or captured in Afghanistan.”

“Or
not
! Like they
weren’t
in Hungary.”

“It’s much harder to get out of Afghanistan,” Ellard muttered warily.

“IF YOU DON’T GET FUCKING HELP, YES...!” roared Greere, exploding with pent up anger and frustration.

“
I’ve
not helped them!” Ellard exclaimed. “No-one has! They’re trapped there. The bases are silent. No reports of any unusual visitors. Nothing! My bet is they’re dead. Executed somewhere. Otherwise we might have seen a speculative ransom demand.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Greere angrily. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

~~~~~

“So, Major Charles,” two men sat in the Cabinet Room at Number Ten. The same room they had been in before, many months ago. This time they were alone. Two men separated by acres of polished mahogany. “I understand that one Brigadier Greere works for you?”

Sentinel nodded, “Yes, sir.”

“Hmmm,” mused the Prime Minister. “You are, of course, aware that we’re getting a lot of quite awkward questions from abroad. It’s difficult to work out how we might best respond.”

“I understand, sir,” Sentinel straightened his already impressive stature. “This whole thing is entirely my responsibility. We should not discuss matters further. I will prepare statements in readiness. Just let me know, via discrete channels, as and when you would like me to turn myself over to judicial authorities. I am not ashamed of my actions. I firmly believe that we have done the right thing.”

The PM smiled. “As I would expect of anyone holding such a position as you do. But I don’t think that’s necessary, yet. It would seem to me, that you, Major, are not the liability, nor our most expendable asset.”

~~~~~

Skala Kallonis

We’re at the beach, sitting on our tyre, enjoying the summer sunshine. He’s had to endure riding on the pillion seat to get us here, but I’m getting fairly proficient at driving the moped, and I very nearly avoided all of the bushes today.

“You not going for a swim?” he purrs. I think he just wants to watch me stripping off. He can’t go swimming of course, because of the bandages. I suspect he’ll look like a half-tanned, stripy zebra by the time we’re able to unbind him.

I shake my head. “Not today,” I murmur.

“Are you okay?” he asks carefully.

I stare out, past the moored boat, and across the lagoon. “I need to go back.”

“Where?”

“Back to the UK,” I explain. “There’s something I need to do. Something I couldn’t do before....” My head drops, it hurts to think about it, let alone to put it into words.

“It’s okay,” he says supportively. “You need to be extremely careful though. In and out. I guess this is something you need to do on your own?”

I sense he’d like me to say, no. That he’d like me to say, that I want him with me. Need him with me. But I can’t say that. “Yes,” I reply.

He nods, and reaches over to lift my chin with one strong finger. He is smiling, green eyes sparkling. There is no animosity. I sense that he only ever wants the best for me. “I understand,” he says genuinely, then throws his arm around my shoulders, and looks me full in the face. “Look at the two of us. Here. Who would have believed it, eh?”

~~~~~

London

“Any word yet on Tin or Mercury?” asked Sentinel, watching his subordinate closely.

“Nothing, sir,” said Greere, deadpan. There wasn’t the slightest glimmer of concern visible in his lifeless, watery, brown, bug-like eyes. “With luck, they’re both dead.”

“Hmmm,” said Sentinel. “Remind me. You said there were no comms from either of them after you sent the ‘Go Order’?”

“That’s right, sir. Nothing.”

“Strange,” said Sentinel cryptically. “I’d have expected them to have tried to use the EMT to get a flash report out? Or to advise on their exit strategy? Or even to have sent an extraction request, given that they were in some significant trouble?”

Greere shrugged noncommittally. “Amateurs, sir. You were always skeptical about using them. Looks like you were right, as always...”

Sentinel fought back a sudden urge to reach over and grab Greere by the throat. “I guess everything’s been wiped? Everything’s cleaned up.”

“Yes, sir. All gone.”

“Everything?” asked Sentinel, looking suitably doubtful. Greere wasn’t the only one who could put on an act.

“What do you mean, sir?”

Sentinel could see that this wasn’t the kind of thing Greere wanted to hear. This, at least, was enjoyable. He needed to keep squeezing. Keep the gentle pressure on. He knew that Greere was lying to him. The PM had outlined the man’s apparently unhealthy hunger for promotion – though Sentinel could only wonder at what kind of leverage Greere had found to try such an audacious stunt. Well, either way, Greere had more than adequately proved he was untrustworthy. You don’t put untrustworthy men into places where trust is paramount. Where the safety of the nation is in the mix.

For now Sentinel would continue to quietly chip away. Continue to dig. Continue to gather sufficient evidence to justify him taking action – when the time was right. He knew it wouldn’t be difficult. He’d already collected a great deal of material. Spirited away into his own set of secure information servers. Like he did with all of his teams. An echo, collected over many weeks, of everything Greere had worked so carefully to erase.

For now, it was best to leave Greere where he was. To wait and see whether the current, mildly indignant, international shit-storm settled itself naturally. If it didn’t, then they’d give the world what it always wanted.

Someone convenient to blame.

~~~~~

What did Sentinel know, that he didn’t? Greere scowled furiously at his screen as he clicked through every directory on the server for the umpteenth time. Nothing. Not a trace.

The only loose end was...

“We need to make certain that neither of them survived,” he said. “Too many nasty secrets are surfacing,” a little exaggeration was required. “And neither of us would benefit from that. Would we?”

“What do you mean, sir?” Ellard asked cautiously from the other side of the partition.

Greere sat up and looked over at him. “We’ve all got secrets,” he said. “
You included
.”

Ellard looked alarmed, “I’m not sure I understa...”

“That’s a nice collection,” Greere cut him off, “that you’ve been putting together in your little château. When I had a look around, I was quite taken by some of the pieces myself. It’s easy to understand why you would want them for yourself.”

Ellard stared at him. Shocked. Silent.

“Anyway, you never had much time for Tin or Mercury, did you?”

“No, sir,” Ellard muttered angrily.

“No point in risking everything, just because of
them
. We’ve done well. Mission accomplished. And, you don’t have long left to serve now, do you?” Ellard shook his head cautiously. “Well, let’s get this tidied up. Then I can make sure you have a nice cushy little role, right through to your retirement. I might even be able to bring that forward a bit.” Ellard appeared to brighten at that thought, so Greere hurried on, “The last thing we, or the country, needs right now, are a couple of rogue assets on the loose: unreliable, unpredictable, and well past their sell-by date.”