The Killing Game (35 page)

Taz snorted.

He hung up. “Fuck off.”

“They’re tracking her phone but struggling to pin it down.” Taz held up his hand, trying to hear his cell above the growing morning traffic. “Hold it. You’re sure? Get off the M25 next exit,” Taz told Baxter and closed his cell. “Someone in Signals tracked her cell to the middle of the English Channel. The police are scouring local harbors for Jonathon Boyle’s car because it turns out he also owns a boat.”

This kept getting worse.

“Coastguard is on alert. If Boyle is a Russian spy with important military secrets then they’re not going to let him get away.”

His stomach rolled. “We’re gonna need gear and a helo.”

“They’re sending kit down from London.”

It wouldn’t be fast enough. He knew it wouldn’t be fast enough. He looked out the window and spotted a small airfield with signs advertising parachuting lessons.

“Next right, Baxter,” he barked. He met the man’s eyes in the mirror and the amused glint in his eye as he jumped on board his plan.

***

“Volkov was the man who kidnapped me a few days ago, but you already knew that, didn’t you? He called you.” Axelle stared at him as though he’d grown scales.

“I couldn’t risk him exposing me after all these years.” He slumped forward, abandoning his rigid posture in an effort to appear more contrite. It hadn’t been an easy decision, for God’s sake, he hadn’t taken it lightly. “He said he wanted help for his family, but why now? I couldn’t allow him to get in the way of the greater good.”

“Whose greater good? Russia’s? This is crazy. It doesn’t make any sense.” She edged away from him. “Did you send the bombing raid?”

“No. No. But…” He shot her a glance. “It’s complicated.” How to explain? “Before Dmitri Volkov defected to fight with the mujahedeen, he was a member of Vympel—do you know who they are?” He met her intense brown gaze, which was now focused on him in growing horror.

“They’re an elite Russian Spetsnaz sabotage and assassination unit, akin to the SAS and SBS.” The morning sun poured over the white sails and shining hull with blinding brilliance. “In 1979 Captain Dmitri Volkov of the Red Army captured me and a man called Sebastian Allworth, in the Hindu Kush. He’s the man you asked about in the photograph below deck. Do you know who Allworth is?”

She shook her head. The skin around her mouth was white. The shock would eventually wear off and she’d come to admire the things he’d done. Respect his ingenuity. His guile.

“His son just became the British Prime Minister.” He smoothed back his hair with a manicured finger. “The British Government had people on the ground in Afghanistan, stirring up anti-communist sentiment—”

“I thought the Afghan government requested Soviet support?”

“The government did, yes. The people didn’t.” He hid his irritation. He’d warned Moscow to stay out of Afghanistan. He’d tried to sabotage the efforts of the Americans, but they’d instigated enough trouble to draw the Soviets into a conflict that had ultimately brought down the USSR. How sweetly ironic that the Americans were now battling it out in those same lands. The lessons were in the history books but people refused to learn.

“It was the height of the Cold War. Tensions between East and West were so fraught the smallest incident could have set off a nuclear war that would have been catastrophic for millions of people.” He saw himself as more a peacekeeper than spy. Pity the law wouldn’t think of it the same way if they caught him. A bead of sweat formed on his upper lip and he licked away the salty excess. Not far now. He’d activated the flash beacon to say he needed immediate retrieval.

“Volkov caught me in the Wakhan.” He gripped his age-spotted hands on the wheel. Axelle was looking at him as though she didn’t recognize him. As if she might tackle him, or throw him overboard. But she was a bleeding heart, like her mother. He was her grandfather and old to boot. She’d no more hurt him than he’d change sides.

“Volkov was about to execute me. I had to confess the truth about who I really worked for.” Anger warmed him even now, all these years later. “That was the only time I have ever been compromised.”

“What happened to Sebastian Allworth?”

“Volkov shot him.” Jonathon shrugged and looked away.

She laughed as if she thought him crazy. “So…what are you saying? You’re some sort of Russian spy?”

“The fact I fooled my own granddaughter suggests I must be a pretty good Russian spy, don’t you think?” He raised a supercilious brow. “I always thought it was a pity to be the greatest spy in history and not ever be able to brag about it.”

“My father would have known—”

“Why do you think your mother married a cold fish like Franklin Dehn in the first place?” His shoulders were stiff against the force of the wind. Against the unjust condemnation in this chit’s eyes.

“Are you saying Mama was a spy too?”

“No, no. But I maneuvered the two of them together often enough with access to alcohol and privacy, and”—he looked her up and down—“results were as expected.”

Her
.

Understanding sucked the blood from her cheeks.

Franklin Dehn had been a rising star in diplomatic circles back then. Given the position he’d risen to he’d been an excellent choice. But Iris had died, and the antipathy her father and grandfather had felt toward one another had blossomed into open hostility.

“The bomb that killed her…”

He shrugged. “I don’t know who set it. Maybe Volkov, maybe some other nutter. They didn’t compromise my identity so I walked away a hero, especially when…” Grief grabbed him around the throat. He tried not to think about his daughter’s death. She’d been his princess even though she’d been strong-willed and defiant. He’d never told her the truth about who he truly was, and that had created a barrier between them. That barrier wouldn’t exist between him and Axelle. Not anymore. Once she was used to the idea they’d be closer than ever. She could write his biography and get rich on the proceeds.

“I loved your mother. The two of you meant everything to me.” He reached out and patted her hand. He could tell she didn’t know what to believe.

“Gramps, I’m going to make some more coffee—I need a real caffeine injection after everything you’ve told me.” Land was on the distant horizon now and giant ships inched inexorably by, too far in the distance to be of any real danger to his plans.

He pulled a shiny-looking pistol from beneath the cushion at his side. The metallic click made her chin jerk upwards.

“I’m afraid I don’t completely trust you, Axelle. Not yet. Once we’re in Russia, maybe, but until then you can’t be allowed to ruin my coup d’état. There is too much at stake.” Honor and glory. Recognition after a lifetime spent in the shadows. He jerked his head toward the steps.

“You wouldn’t shoot me.” It sounded more like a question than a statement. He smiled sadly. She stood shakily, almost in a trance as she went down to the cabin. It was only when he got duct tape out of a drawer that she made a run for it, only to be brought short when he grabbed her hair.

She shoved him but he put the gun under her chin. “I will kill you, child, if I have to.”

Fear shone in her eyes.

“Hold out your hands,” he ordered.

She refused and he sighed.

“Don’t make me hurt you. I love you but I don’t have time for games.”

She suddenly seemed to realize he was deadly serious. She shoved him with all her might and he fell, bruising his hip. Furious, he caught her ankle and she went down hard, her chin slamming into the hardwood. As she lay dazed, he pulled her hands in front of her and circled her wrists with tape. He repeated the duct tape on her ankles. Satisfied she wasn’t going anywhere, he swept the hair out of her face and put another strip over her mouth.

“You always were a spirited child.” He kissed her on the forehead and went back up the stairs, heading toward fame and glory.

***

They were all locked, loaded, and ready to go. His cell phone rang. He checked the number, hoping it was Axelle, but it was HQ. He ignored it.

Taz’s phone rang and he answered.

“Haven’t seen him, sir. Yes, sir.” He snapped it shut. “We’ve been officially ordered back to base.”

Things were going pear-shaped. He would not risk his friends’ careers. Getting into the SAS took more effort and determination than anything else he knew. They didn’t need this. “You two drop me off and head back to Hereford.”

Taz and Baxter looked at one another.

“I’m not even on duty,” Baxter said, glancing at his watch.

“And I need to get some jumps in.” Taz nodded to the parachute school. “Might as well start now.”

“You could be RTU’d if this blows up in our faces. I’m not worth that sort of sacrifice.” But Axelle was. She was worth it to him anyway. Dempsey felt his throat close.

Taz stared at him coolly. “You underestimate yourself, Sergeant.”

Baxter screeched to a halt outside a spare looking hangar. “Come on, let’s get going, ladies.”

Dempsey ran after them. These guys were his family. Not the screwed-up bunch he’d left behind in Ulster. Two minutes of fast talking persuaded the guy in charge of the jump school to do what they wanted—and then he got into it. He already had a plane on runaway. They packed chutes, jumped in and Dempsey called Cullen during takeoff to give them the latest situation report.

“We’ve finally got eyes on Jonathon Boyle,” Cullen told him. “He’s got a nice little yacht heading east at a speed of about twenty knots. There is a
lot
of traffic in the Channel today, boys and girls.”

Dempsey wrote it on the map they’d borrowed from their pilot and new jumpmaster.

“Any sign of Axelle?” He held his breath. It was possible that Jonathon Boyle had somehow taken Axelle’s phone with him. Maybe even accidentally. Maybe Axelle had planted it on him as a tracking device—except where the hell was she?

“No, but thermal imaging suggests there’s another person below deck.”

Boyle might not know his cover was blown and he might just be out on a jaunt. But he’d have to have heard the report that Volkov’s family had requested political asylum in Paris. Dempsey figured the guy would try to leg it with the new specs on Britain’s defense systems lodged safely in his head, but he and his squad weren’t about to let that happen. Especially if Axelle was in danger.

“We’re in position to intercept. Where are the other teams?” Dempsey asked Cullen.

He heard him talking to someone in the background. “Still en route. Nice wings, Sergeant.”

Dempsey gave a grim smile. He should have known they’d find him. Hell, he had known it—they still had their cell phones. “Are we going to run into another op if we try to gain access to the target’s boat?”

“Negative. They are about thirty minutes behind you. All radio and satellite signals in that area have been blocked, which is creating a frickin’ nightmare in the shipping lanes and means I’m going to lose you in the next five minutes. You’ll be on your own. They’ve scrambled jets from RAF Marham, and they will blow his ass out of the water rather than let him make contact with another vessel. They will commit an act of war to stop him if necessary.”

His heart stopped for a moment. Tornadoes were armed with Storm Shadow cruise missiles. “Axelle…” Christ, he could even speak.

“Your mission—should you choose to accept it—is to capture the target before he gets to international waters. The Tornadoes are on standby and will be only be minutes behind you. Don’t fuck this up.”

Shit
.

Again Axelle’s life was being considered acceptable collateral damage, the way all those innocent shoppers had been when his brothers had planted that final bomb. He ground his teeth together. He might have swapped one set of ruthless killers for another, but there was no way on Hell’s earth he was letting Axelle get caught in the crossfire this time.

He checked his weapon and harness. Jonathon Boyle could start a war between the UK and Russia, and there was no way the Yanks would stand back and watch. Dempsey didn’t fancy being responsible for World War III.

They were approaching the drop zone, but this plan wasn’t going to work. If Boyle had a weapon, and he had to assume the man had a gun, they’d be sitting ducks.

Dempsey scouted the scene below him. Boyle’s boat was a speck in the distance. There was a big-ass cruiser about half a mile away. He tapped Taz on the shoulder. “Change of plan.” He pointed toward the cruiser, which had enough power to catch the small yacht—assuming the owner didn’t mind being hijacked. However, national security trumped most things and, more important, Axelle’s life was in danger. He went over to the pilot. “We’re going to jump here. I want you to put out a banner and do a few circles ahead in the distance. Then go home.” The co-pilot nodded. “I’ll be by to pay you for the ride as soon as I get the chance, mate.”

They stood at the door, and he felt that instantaneous and instinctive “oh, fuck” feeling shoot through him as he stepped clear of the aircraft. The wind hit him, the fierce roar of air as he fell through the sky, then the savage jerk on the harness as the primary chute deployed. He maneuvered, watched the deck of the cruiser get closer and closer. The captain was craning his neck to watch him, amused at first. Dempsey saw the expression change to horror as he swung the canopy toward the polished wood. He landed on the deck with a gentle hop. Dumped the silk so Taz and Baxter could get on board.

He strode to the pale, scrawny skipper who stood there openmouthed. “Where are you from?”

“P-P-P-Plymouth.”

“Sergeant Dempsey, British Army.” Shook his hand. “I need to borrow your boat.”

There was a thud, followed by the swish of fabric. Then another thud and a curse as Baxter caught the railing and almost went airborne again. Taz grabbed him and disengaged the chute with a whack.

The captain looked undecided as to whether he should scream for help or jump up and down with excitement. Dempsey went to the steering wheel and opened her up. Jesus this thing could shift. The skip dragged himself to stand next to him at the wheel. “Are you a pirate? Have I been boarded?”