Authors: JT Brannan
STOP AT NOTHING: 'Mark Cole is Bond's US cousin mixed with the balls out action and killing edge of Jason Bourne' Parmenion Books (2 page)
Although there was a cordon on the waterways immediately surrounding Helgeands-Holmen and Gamla stan, at a radius of six kilometres beyond the Riksdagshuset there was no visible security presence.
The area was, however, being monitored by satellite. An ultra-sensitive real-time system, it was part of a global US defence system that was unrivalled by any other nation. The DamarSat KH-90 was indeed an awesome technological weapon, with the capability to penetrate dense cloud and, even at night, read the time on a lady’s wristwatch.
The forty-foot Onassis yacht floated steadily on the waters of the Lilla Värtan, seven kilometres from the Riksdagshuset and thirty kilometres below the DamarSat’s near-earth orbit as it passed over the area as scheduled. But the yacht was just one of a large number of vessels which routinely travelled from island to island. The very nature of the Swedish capital, with its numerous small islands, means that the boat is as common there as is the car in most other cities. From fishing trawlers to pleasure boats, and from passenger ferries to the huge luxury yachts of Stockholm’s rich and famous, the city’s busy waterways were its lifeblood.
And so the satellite’s operators, watching real-time footage from their operations room at the headquarters of the National Reconnaissance Office in Chantilly, near Washington Dulles International Airport, saw no need to examine the Onassis yacht more closely. Had they decided to utilize its incredible zoom capability to take a closer look at the apparently innocent vessel, however, their suspicions would have been instantly aroused. Onboard the yacht, there was a flurry of activity as the Oriental crew heaved two large containers out from below decks, whilst lookouts scanned the surrounding canals and islands with high-power military binoculars.
And had the satellite zoomed in further, its technicians might have then alerted the NRO’s onsite specialist intelligence analysts, who would in turn have identified the men onboard as being of Han Chinese origin; the major ethnic group on mainland China, these moved with a certain focus that indicated some degree of military training.
And alarm bells would certainly have started sounding had the satellite stayed over the area long enough to pick up images of just what exactly these Chinese peasant-soldiers had started unloading out of the crates.
‘I’m not paranoid,’ Alexei Severin said defensively, and not for the first time.
In the rear of the car, the President of the Russian Federation, Vasilev Danko, and his experienced Foreign Minister Pyotr Vorstetin, just laughed.
‘Of course you are, Alexei,’ Danko teased. ‘But that is of course exactly why you do this job, neh?’
Severin just grunted in response, as he scanned the road ahead with a scrutiny that certainly
could
be regarded as paranoia. As he constantly told people, however, it
wasn’t
paranoia; it was his job. And his close attention to detail was a professional necessity, utilizing a natural survival instinct which had been further honed and refined on the battlefields of Dagestan, Chechnya and Abkhazia, as well as on his home streets of Moscow.
A former member of the elite Russian Spetsnaz Alpha team, he had been recruited by the FSB for ‘special’ assignments before becoming Danko’s personal bodyguard. It was a job he was proud to have, but along with the pride he also took on the huge weight of responsibility that came with it.
Looking in the rear-view mirror, Severin saw Danko return to chatting animatedly to Vorstetin. They were both excited about the upcoming treaty signing, apparently nonchalant towards the dangers they could face on their way to the Parliament House.
But, Severin reflected, it was easy to be complacent; President Abrams had already arrived at their destination, the highway on which they were travelling was guarded and secure, and they had well-armed Lynx scout helicopters shadowing their every move.
But the Mutual Defence Treaty was not universally welcomed. Severin was aware of strong opposition to the defensive pact from a wide range of nations. The European Union, although congratulatory on the surface, was in actual fact more than a little fearful of the implications of a more powerful Russian neighbour. Countries throughout the Middle East were more than a little concerned about two such major players coming together, fearing it would lead to increased pressures on their own nations. But it was China that disturbed Severin the most.
Whereas President Sebastian Vermeer, Belgian head of state and current holder of the EU’s rotating presidency, had at least pretended to be happy about ‘increased global security’, the President of the Chinese People’s Republic, Tsang Feng, made no such effort. Just as China was beginning to come into her own as an economic giant, the spectre of a Russian-American alliance made Feng genuinely fear for China’s future. As he saw the world’s previous bastion of socialism embrace the capitalist entreaties of the West finally and irrevocably, the Chinese President was scathing in his denouncements, and had severed all of the country’s ties to the Russian Federation.
Severin truly believed that Feng might actually be feeling threatened enough to make some sort of move, possibly to the extent of trying to disrupt the treaty signing that afternoon. There were even rumours circulating in the intelligence underworld about increased activity in Section Nine, the foreign action arm of China’s secret intelligence service.
Paranoid?
Severin asked himself as he continued to stare out of the windows, the dim daylight aided by the 1000 watt bulbs of the helicopters above as they illuminated the road ahead. No, he wasn’t paranoid, he decided. He was just good at his job.
Gathered around the front of the Riksdagshuset, and all along Bankkajen, members of the world’s press had gathered to report on the day’s events.
Film crews and photographers were hard at work, trying to record images of the arriving leaders that would perhaps become iconic in later years, or perhaps only memorable; but which would at the very least justify their pay checks.
But with the simple beauty of the hazy sunlight shooting down in magical white shafts, made even more perfect by the glimmer of crystalline snow that still fell lazily over Gamla Stan, combined with the overwhelming importance of today’s treaty signing, the feeling amongst the gathered experts was that there would probably be no better chance for them to make their professional mark.
As news broadcasters read their reports live to audiences around the world, and journalists scribbled down notes in their little books, other groups trained their cameras towards Riksbron, the road connecting Helgeands Holmen to the mainland, awaiting the imminent arrival of President Danko’s limousine. If they were concerned with getting some memorable images, this would be their last chance; once Danko was inside, their colleagues would take over from the main chamber where the actual signing ceremony would take place. And by the time the leaders left, the vagaries of the Swedish winter meant that it would be in darkness.
On the main Bankkajen road, just fifty feet from where Danko’s presidential limousine would stop, a CNN camera team was making last-minute preparations.
‘Come on, Paul, get it focused properly,’ cajoled Jess Ireland, the team leader. Paul Churchill sighed, but nodded anyway. The camera
was
in focus, and had been all day. But Jess was what could be termed ‘highly-strung’, although her team had other words with which they described it, and she was determined to get the best shots possible. After all, they
had
been granted the prime position out of all the news teams present, and with the sun at its zenith, a single shaft illuminating the pavement at the exact point where Danko was to alight, the young and ambitious team leader could see an award or two coming her – or, she sometimes wondered, should it
her team’s
? – way.
‘How’s the light, Stevie?’ she asked her exuberant, highly experienced lighting technician.
‘Oh great, just great, Jess. Perfect, in fact. It’s gonna be –’ But Stevie was swiftly cut off by a wave of Jess’s hand, as her other one went to the small earpiece in her left ear.
A few seconds later, she looked up, anxious and excited. ‘Okay guys, here we go!’ she exclaimed. ‘Danko’s pulled onto Stromgatan, and will be here in three minutes! This is our big chance people, don’t let me down!’
And with that last minute encouragement, ‘her people’ made themselves ready. It
was
their big chance, after all.
On the other side of Bankkajen, the news of Danko’s imminent arrival was simultaneously received by Lao Kang, the apparent team leader of Beijing News, China’s state news service. The original team leader, however, was still in his hotel room, along with all of the other genuine members of the news crew, their throats slit from ear to ear.
The fact that the Beijing News studio was receiving live satellite images of an unknown man instead of their regular reporter did not bother Kang, however. As he nodded gravely to his team, he reflected that the deception would soon be obvious to everyone.
The rest of the world’s press, meanwhile, were gathered in the central auditorium, along with President Abrams and Clyde Rutherford, as well as a host of visiting dignitaries and their innumerable aides.
The gathered assembly were seated in a semi-circle in front of a stage, where the treaty stood on top of a gilded lectern. There would be several speeches made that afternoon; by Abrams and Rutherford, by Danko and Vorstetin, and also by Rasul bin Ghary, the Secretary-General of the United Nations, which would end with the official recognition of the Mutual Defence Treaty.
Waiting patiently next to Abrams, Clyde Rutherford checked his watch and wondered if Hansard would be watching the events unfold on television back home. He was sure he would be; there would be no way in hell the man would miss it.
12.57 pm
. Just one minute left until Danko’s limousine was due to arrive, giving him two minutes to get to the chamber for his scheduled entrance at exactly one o’clock.
Not long now
, thought Rutherford. The beginning of a new world was just around the corner.
From the front seat of the armoured limousine, Severin started to be able to make out the massed groups of news teams gathered outside the vehicle’s final destination. The windscreen wipers struggled valiantly to keep the window clear, the snow not so heavy now but still showing no sign of abating completely.
Severin was even more alert now that the journey was almost over. The car would soon be slowing, thereby becoming more vulnerable to attack. But, he reasoned, the security around the Riksdagshuset was watertight. Wasn’t it?
As his hand reflexively checked the position of his customized Sig Sauer pistol in the spring-loaded holster on his belt, he answered his own question.
Of course not.
Security could never be watertight. His years of fighting terrorists and insurgents in their various guises over the world had at least taught him one hard-won lesson.
Where there was a will, there was a way.
Outside the Riksdagshuset, all attention was on the black Mercedes approaching along Bankkajen, slowing now as it neared the building’s elegant façade, every camera trained intently upon it.
One such camera was being directed by a member of the ersatz Beijing News team, who trained it firmly towards the rear passenger door. In contrast to the seasoned news professionals around him, however, the hands of Tang Lung were unsteady. He wasn’t used to this kind of pressure; or, indeed, to this kind of work. His mind reflected briefly on what was at stake for the team as Kang placed a reassuring hand on the inexperienced young man’s shoulder, and Lung’s grip tightened and steadied on the camera as he was filled with new resolve.
Ignoring the bead of sweat that defied the December chill and ran into his open eye, he flicked up the cover of a control switch on the side of the camera, depressing the button underneath.
And, unseen by the gathered news people and police guards but monitored closely by Lung through his viewfinder, an infrared laser beam pierced the hazy wall of snow and illuminated the door of Danko’s vehicle perfectly.
On board the small vessel anchored off Lilla Värtan, tension was running similarly high. The lookouts scanned the area more carefully, the radio operator scanned his frequencies with greater vigilance, and the two men on the port side widened their stances and shrugged their shoulders, adjusting to the weight of the SA-9 Grail laser-guided missile launchers that they aimed over the guardrail of the ship.
The men waited, tense and unsure.
Where was the signal?
Their thoughts were synchronous, their concerns over a successful completion to their mission overpowering their feelings of fear for their own safety. They didn’t have the time to consider that both of these things were inextricably linked.
Suddenly, a red light flashed at them from the weapons’ viewfinders. It took a full two seconds for the significance of the light to register. The soldier on the left caught it first. ‘Sir!’ he shouted in his native Cantonese tongue. ‘We have a target lock!’ His opposite number confirmed the lock immediately.
Liu Chia Chang, the Operational Commander for the missile launch, smiled in both relief and anticipation. He opened his mouth to give his commands, when his radioman shouted in panic.
‘Sir! I’ve intercepted an emergency message to the Navy patrol boats! They have our location and have been ordered to intercept us!’
Chang was at a momentary loss. ‘What?’ he cried out, incredulous. ‘How?’
‘I don’t know sir, but they’re incoming!’ replied the radio operator, frantically trying alternative frequencies to get more information.
As Chang calculated his options swiftly, he began to hear the unmistakable sounds of a high-powered motorized vessel approaching at speed. What could he do? As it stood, they had committed no crime. If caught, they could only be charged with weapons possession. They hadn’t really done anything – yet.
But he knew how it would look, and he had heard stories about the treatment of terrorist suspects, guilty or not. And failing in his mission would bring about other, even less tolerable penalties.
In the end, there was no real choice. ‘Plan Bravo!’ he shouted, trying to retain control over his voice so as not to betray his nerves to his team. ‘Go! Go! Go!’
Immediately on his command, the lookouts stowed their binoculars and reached under their blankets, pulling out Chinese-made AK-74 assault rifles and training them on the approaching Navy patrol boat.
The radio operator made his own emergency, coded transmission, then sprang to his feet, grabbing a weapon and joining his comrades.
Chang raced to the stern side of the yacht, from where he could now see the Navy vessel clearly, still advancing at frightening speed.
The only men to remain resolutely immobile were those with the missile launchers, waiting for their red lights to turn green, the signal that Danko was leaving his vehicle and that would make them depress their triggers, sending 20.7kg of high explosive hurtling at 1400mph through the cool afternoon sky towards the Riksdagshuset.