The Black Sun (5 page)

nothing.”

37 the black sun

“It proves that the caller knew about the theft. With the press blackout the NSA have imposed, the only people outside of law enforcement agencies who could know about that are the people who did it. So this is a lead, Sheriff, that we’re going to follow up whether you agree with it or not.”

Hennessy slumped back into his chair, muttering under his breath. Bailey smiled, feeling somewhat the better for his capitulation.

“So what’s the plan?” he asked.

“Well, I’m not sitting on my ass till these jokers run out of water and crackers,”

Viggiano declared. “We’re going in. Today.”

There was a murmur of approval from around the table, Hennessy excepted. “But I want to keep this simple,” Viggiano continued. “We’ve got no reason to assume things will get ugly, so we keep the Humvees under cover and the choppers on the ground. Hopefully we won’t need them. Vasquez?”

Vasquez got to his feet and leaned over the table. His face was dark and pockmarked, his lank black hair tucked under an FBI baseball cap, which he wore back to front, his dark eyes glowing with excitement.

“The sheriff ’s men have put roadblocks here and here”— he indicated two roads on the map spread out in front of them—“blocking all routes in and out of the compound. I want SWAT teams here, here, and here, in the trees on the high ground to cover the windows. First sign of any hostile activity once my guys are inside the compound, they put down covering fire while we fall back to the rv point here.”

“You got it,” said Viggiano.

“The two HRT teams will come in from the front and the rear. Based on the blueprints, we estimate we’ll have the main building secured in about three minutes. Then it’s over to you.”

“Good,” said Viggiano as Vasquez sat down. “Now remember, when this thing goes down, I want it done by the numbers. No exceptions. There are families in there—

women, kids.” He pointed at the pile of manila folders containing photos and profiles of all

the

people

the

FBI

had

38 james twining

identified as living in the building. “So we knock on the door nice and easy. We ask to come inside. Any sign that this is more than a plain vanilla secure-and-search operation, we pull back. The last thing I—the bureau can afford right now is another high-profile hostage situation. Besides, if it gets hot, the DC brass will want to handle it themselves. They always do.”

Vasquez nodded his agreement. “You got it.”

“Okay then.” Viggiano slapped the table. “Let’s move out. There’s a shitload to do, and I

want

to

hit

this

place

after

lunch.”

BOROUGH MARKET, SOUTHWARK, LONDON

January 5—12:47 p.m.

Followed? You sure?” Archie asked. “Tracksuit, bomber jacket, and white sneakers. Noticed him glancing over at us five minutes ago. Just saw his reflection in that van’s rear window about thirty yards back.”

“We’re nearly at the motor. We could make a run for it.”

Tom followed Archie’s gaze to his DB9 about thirty yards down the road. It was a recent purchase, and for Ar-chie—who had always said that the cardinal rule of being a criminal was not to attract undue attention by living beyond your means—an uncharacteristic indulgence. When he had handed over the check, twenty years of pent-up spending frustration had been released with one cathartic swish of his pen.

“Oh shit!” Archie swore. A wheel clamp glowed bright yellow against the gunmetal gray bodywork. “They’ve only gone and bloody clamped me.”

He quickened his pace, but Tom laid a restraining hand on his arm. Something felt wrong. Behind them a man who had followed them from the market; ahead, a street sweeper

40 james twining

whose shoes looked a little too new; parked next to Archie’s car, a van with its windows blacked out; and the car itself conveniently immobilized. It was textbook.

“This isn’t right,” he breathed.

“I see them too,” hissed Archie. “What do you want to do?”

“Get out of here. Now!”

As Tom shouted, the rear doors of the van flew open and three men jumped to the ground. At the same time the street sweeper threw his broom away and swung a semiautomatic out from under his coat. Tom heard the heavy thud of fast-approaching feet from behind.

Before the sweeper could get a shot off, Archie peeled away to the left, while Tom darted right, down a small alleyway that emerged onto a narrow lane bordered by a wire fence. Grabbing the galvanized mesh, he hauled himself up its shuddering face, the metal clanging noisily. He was on the point of vaulting over to the other side when he felt a hand close around his left ankle.

The man who had followed them from the market had somehow managed to catch up with him and was now hanging off his leg, to drag him to the ground. Instead of trying to shake him off, Tom lowered himself slightly until his feet were level with the man’s head and then kicked out, freeing his foot from the man’s grasp and striking him across the chin. With a strangled gasp, the man fell to the ground.

Tom swung himself over the fence into a strip of wasteland that had been turned into a temporary parking lot for the market. He heard the clang of metal behind him and saw that two of the men from the van had arrived at the fence and were clambering up it. At least they hadn’t shot him, Tom thought as he sprinted out of the lot, narrowly avoiding a car that was turning in, and headed back toward the market. If they’d wanted him dead, whoever they were, they could have taken him right there, through the fence. Clearly they had other plans.

At that moment a forklift loaded with market produce swung out of a hidden turning ahead

of

him.

Tom

jinked

41 the black sun

around it, the driver slamming on his brakes just in time to avoid hitting him.

“Watch it, moron!” the driver yelled, leaning on the horn to emphasize his point. Tom ignored him, leaping over the spilled vegetable crates and then plunging back into the market. As soon as he was inside, he slowed to a walk, snaking in and out of the lines of shoppers. He knew that he would be safer in a busy place and hoped that Archie had had the good sense to come to the same conclusion. When he judged he was far enough inside, he stopped next to a wine stall and glanced back over his shoulder. His pursuers had reached the market entrance and were scanning the crowd for him. Both had their right hands tucked inside their coats, where each was presumably concealing a gun. Tom turned abruptly and slammed into a man carrying a case of red wine, knocking it out of his hands. The box landed with a crash, the bottles shattering noisily. Tom glanced back toward the entrance and saw that the men, alerted by the noise, were already fighting their way over to him.

“I’m sorry,” Tom said, pushing past.

“Hey!” the man shouted after him. “Get back here!”

But Tom didn’t stop. Dropping to his knees, he crawled under a stall, then ducked under two more until he was a couple of aisles away from the site of the collision. From the cover of a pyramid of olive oil drums, he checked the progress of the two men. They were standing by the box of shattered wine bottles, gesturing frantically. They’d lost him. He cautiously made his way toward the north exit, attaching himself to a group of tourists who were chattering excitedly about the whole deer they’d seen strung up on one of the stalls. As they left the market, he broke away, heading for the main road and the river.

With a screech of brakes, a large black Range Rover pulled up alongside him. Tom turned on his heel but slipped, the road surface rendered treacherous by the wet cardboard boxes, lettuce leaves, and plastic bags generated by the morning’s trading. Before he could

scramble

back

to

his

42 james twining

feet, the rear passenger door flew open and he caught a

glimpse of who was sitting in the backseat.

Archie.

The front passenger window retracted a few inches, and a pale hand appeared in the crack clutching a government identity badge.

“Enough

fun

and

games,

Kirk.

Get

in.”

January 5—12:56 p.m.

The driver’s square, close-shaved head emerged from a thick gray woolen turtleneck. He flicked his eyes up to the mirror and then back to the road, a smile playing around the corner of his mouth as the car accelerated away.

The man in the passenger seat peered back over his shoulder and nodded at them both.

“I’m William Turnbull.”

He extended his hand back over his shoulder toward them as he spoke, but they both ignored it, staring at him in stony silence. From what he could see of Turnbull, Tom estimated that he must weigh about two hundred fifty pounds, little of it muscle. He appeared to be quite young, though, about thirty-five, give or take a few years, and was dressed in an urban camouflage of jeans and an open-necked shirt that barely contained the roll of fat around the base of his neck.

“Sorry about . . . that.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the market. “I guessed that you probably wouldn’t come if I just asked, so I brought some help. I didn’t quite expect you to make us—”

“Let me guess,” Tom interrupted angrily. “Somebody’s got knocked off and you think we might know something about it? Am I right? How many times have I got to tell you 44 james twining

people, we don’t know anything and, even if we did, we wouldn’t say.”

“This has nothing to do with any job,” was Turnbull’s unsmiling response. “And I’m not the police.”

“Special Branch, Interpol, Flying Squad, PC bloody Plod . . .” Archie shrugged.

“Whatever you want to call yourselves, the answer’s still the same. And this is harassment. We’re clean and you know it.”

“I work for the Foreign Office.” Turnbull flashed his identity card at them again.

“The Foreign Office?” Archie said incredulously. “Well, that’s a new one.”

“Not really,” said Tom quietly. “He’s a spook.”

Turnbull smiled. “We prefer ‘intelligence services.’ In my case, Six.”

Six
, Tom knew, was how insiders referred to MI6, the agency that dealt with overseas threats to national security. It wasn’t the sort of organization Tom wanted to get caught up in. Not again. He’d done five years in the CIA, seen how they worked, and had only just lived to regret it.

“So what do you want?”

“Your help,” came the toneless reply as the car slowed to a halt at a set of lights. Archie gave a short, dismissive laugh.

“What sort of help?” Tom asked quietly. Until he knew exactly what he was up against, he was forcing himself to play along.

“As much as you want to give.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Tom said. “None.” Archie nodded his agreement. “Not unless you know something I don’t . . .” People like Turnbull never made a move unless they had an edge, some sort of leverage. The key was to flush it out.

“No reason.” Turnbull smiled. “No threats. No phony deals. No ‘I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine.’ If you help us it will be because, by the time I’ve finished telling you what I’ve got, you’re going to want to.”

“Come on, Tom, we don’t have to listen to this shit. They’ve got nothing on us. Let’s get out of here,” Archie pleaded. But Tom hesitated. Something in Turnbull’s voice 45 the black sun

had piqued his curiosity, even though he knew Archie was

probably right.

“I want to hear him out.”

The lights changed to green and the car drew away again.

“Good.” Turnbull released his seat belt and turned to face them. He had a flat, featureless face, his cheeks rounded and fleshy, his chin almost disappearing into his neck. His brown eyes were small and set close together, while his long hair was parted in two wild cowlicks in the middle of his head and fell like curtains that he had draped behind his ears.

In many ways, Tom thought, he was a most unlikely-look-ing spy. The best ones always were. Certainly he had an easygoing confidence that Tom had observed in other field agents in the past, and good agents at that.

“Have you ever heard of a group called Kristall Blade?” Turnbull asked.

“No,” said Tom.

“No reason you should have, I suppose. They’re a small band of extremists with loose ties to the Nationaldemokratische Partei Deutschlands, or the NPD, the most active neoNazi political group in Germany. They’re supposedly run by a former German Army captain called Dmitri Müller, although no one’s ever seen him to confirm it. To be honest, we don’t know a huge amount about them.”

Tom shrugged. “And?”

“And from the little we do know, these aren’t your regular skinheads cruising around the suburbs looking for immigrants to beat up. They’re a sophisticated paramilitary organization who are still fighting a war that the rest of us think ended in 1945.”

“Hence the name?” It was more a statement than a question. Tom knew his history well enough to guess that Kristall Blade must have drawn their inspiration from Kristallnacht—the fateful night in late 1938 when Nazi-inspired attacks on Jewish businesses had left the streets of Germany’s cities littered with broken glass.

“Exactly,” Turnbull said eagerly. “They used to fund their activities by hiring themselves

out

as

freelance

hit

men

46 james twining