Chapter 13
Thursday, March 8th 08:00 (4 days later),
Moscow, Russia.
Icy winds passed right through Akira despite the layers of thick clothing he wore. Beneath them, a silver locket was clasped around his neck and at times touched the chest that housed his black heart. The locket, with its delicate markings and polished silver, was a solitary link to a man long gone, to a heart that was no longer capable of anything other than savage destruction. His hands fumbled around his neck and found the locket. Akira studied it carefully. Holding it tight in his right hand, he closed his eyes and felt himself grow in strength. A moment passed, and then he felt Madeline’s presence. He opened the locket and saw them both together in happier times. In the picture, Akira looked unrecognisable, and Madeline looked positively glowing. He missed her so much. Every hour felt lonesome and empty without her. A dark memory came back to him, and he winced in pain at the power of it. He tried desperately to push it away and almost succeeded but still saw glimpses of the hospital bed and the repetitive beep of the life-support machine. Akira opened his eyes, and they burned brightly. Madeline was gone but there was much to do, and Russia was the first step.
Moscow in February was always well below freezing but the weather was just a distraction. His quest for global change was now moving into its final stages of preparation. The failure in Oman had bothered him greatly but compared to the changes he was hell bent on making, it was small in comparison. Low key attacks served their purpose but for real change, he knew all too well that he would need a superpower on his side. A country that when merged with his allies, could not only stand equal with the West but be strong enough to topple it.
Akira had waited in the wings for many years. Finally, just as Madeline had told him, the opportunity had arisen. The Russian elections were around four months away and now was the time to begin making moves for change.
Several Middle Eastern countries were already under his control, which had caused the deaths of hundreds, including many of the West’s protectors, MI6, French, German, Canadian, CIA or even FBI agents. In his mind and his heart, he could hardly contain himself. His plan to have his long-time friend and ally, Mikhail Salenko, elected as the next President of Russia made him realise that he had come so far but there was still much to be done. Russia’s nuclear programme had been dormant for years and it would take time to reactivate and rebuild, but Akira knew that the experience was there. In time, agents would come from the West, in their droves possibly, in an attempt to dissolve the threat and have Salenko terminated. Akira would do everything he could to stop them, even if it meant giving his own life to the cause. There was simply no one that could challenge him. All of it was for Madeline, to ensure once and for all that the corrupted West would cease its constant policies and be dissolved. Madeline can’t have died for nothing.
Akira saw heavy snow fall from the sky and noted the impressive sight of Trinity Gate Tower ahead of him, a huge structure that was the entrance to the Moscow Kremlin. It stood tall, with its blood-like colour and impressive features standing out so clearly in the dismal weather. He wondered when the day would come when he would have the nuclear power of Russia at his fingertips. The political influence infected him as did the stronghold of power that emanated from the impressive sight the Kremlin gave.
Underneath the Trinity Gate Tower, floods of tourists and locals passed him by. None of them gave him a second look as he was dressed in a heavy black jacket, black boots and a thick hat to keep out the cold. At the far corner of the structure, he spotted his trusted ally. The two men gave each other a warm hug, each recognising the importance of their first meeting for months. Akira had been co-ordinating Mikhail Salenko’s election campaign from the East but knew it was time he should be in Moscow in person. He spoke with a faint smile and felt supremely confident that the man in front of him would help change the destiny of the world forever. ‘Greetings, Mikhail. This is the start of our journey together.’
Sam Olsen, S.U.C.O. team leader, cleared some files from his chair and sat down at the nearest terminal in Operations Command. He scanned the key areas of an operation report sheet and found that MI6’s agent in the United Arab Emirates had found no trace of the Kiprich brothers. The Royal party had returned home, and terrorism had dominated all the newspaper and TV reports on a daily basis. He put the report down and thought about contacting Deane, who was still in Oman. Olsen hadn’t spoken to him since he had left Oman and felt unhappy about how they had parted. With the operation now behind him, he was slowly starting to deal with all the emotion and hoped that in the days to come he would be able to look forward.
Despite his relationship with Deane being in an unstable position, he knew it would improve. A new voice had joined his thoughts, one that constantly reminded him that what had happened in Oman all those years ago had been a tragedy and that he had been very lucky to have had Deane guiding him ever since. Olsen was starting to accept the truth.
A copy of The Times hit his shoulder and landed on the desk. Olsen looked up to see one of his S.U.C.O. agents, Dan Carter, take off his dark blue jacket nearby.
‘No sleeping on the job, Sam.’ Carter slapped a large hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘I’m glad you’re all right. I heard what happened in Oman, you doing OK?’
Olsen led his friend to the nearest side kitchen. ‘I’ll survive, Dan, though there were moments where I thought my time was up, in more ways than one.’
Carter looked around and asked quietly, ‘I’m impressed you went through with it, must have been emotional hell.’
‘It was. At the same time though, to hear the truth from Tom about what happened to my dad has taken a massive edge off it all. Sounds crazy, but after all this time it feels like the healing process has finally started. Knowing what actually happened was so painful but I had to know. That whole operation has given me a greater understanding that what happened was a tragedy, but I’ve been so lucky to have Tom with me over the years. I feel bad about how we parted, but it feels too early to talk to him again.’
Carter rummaged around for a spoon. ‘After everything you both went through last week, a little distance might help. Your relationship will probably be stronger in the future.’
Olsen thought about it and hoped that would prove to be the case. ‘I really hope so, Dan. We may not be working together anymore but I’ll always be there for him.’
‘I heard a rumour that the powers that be are going to assign him a new partner. That would help, right?’
‘Absolutely. If Tom gives the guy a chance, it could really give him a new challenge. I’ll have to get in touch with him soon.’
‘Sounds like you both had a good talk, as crazy as it sounds after all these years.’ A warm smile came to him. ‘Come to think of it, whenever I worked with you two it was never exactly chatty.’
‘We really did talk. Maybe it was the country or just the links to Operation ESPY. Just being in Oman was hard though, the sights, the smells, everything that Dad described was there. I even went to the street where…well, you know.’
Carter listened closely. ‘That can’t have been easy.’
‘I could almost feel him there, you know? Then Tom arrived. We spoke more about what happened more than ever before. It’s not easy to talk about it but I’m slowly getting my head around what happened, even if it was years ago. Just being in Oman has made me face aspects of it that I never wanted to before. I know he cares for me, and me for him, that’s all that really matters I guess.’
‘Tom will always be there for you, I’m sure.’ Carter gripped his friend’s shoulder and looked to change the subject. ‘So, Rach is OK then?’
A warm smile spread across Olsen’s face at the mention of Rachel. In his heart he knew instantly he wouldn’t have gotten through the Oman operation if he she hadn’t been waiting for him at the very end. ‘Yeah, we’re looking at having our wedding day around July or August time.’ He couldn’t repress a smile as he handed a coffee to his friend. ‘Still got to think about the best man, mind you…’
Carter took the mug and sipped it slowly. He frowned and looked at it. ‘No milk. Ugh.’
‘There wasn’t any milk…’
Before Carter could answer, the broad shoulders of Alex Jordan pushed through. ‘Coming through! What does a guy have to do to get a drink around this place huh?’ Jordan, the S.U.C.O. deputy team leader, grinned confidently and put his mug on the table. It read ‘World’s Greatest Secret Agent.’ He caught the others look at the wording. ‘Like it, huh? What can I say, it suits me right?’ The forty-two-year-old gave Olsen a nudge with his elbow. ‘I hear you almost got the Prince killed in Oman, Sam? I know you’re not a fan of the monarchy but that’s taking it a little far don’t you think?’
Olsen smiled but ignored the comment about the operation. He had never really ‘got’ Jordan’s sense of humour. ‘Anything happen whilst I was away, Alex?’
‘Nothing of interest. You worry too much. Still, I hear we may be getting some action today, mind you. I for one wouldn’t mind, my trigger finger been getting twitchy of late.’
Olsen raised his eyebrows in mock interest and moved away. He had known Jordan for three years, and would describe him as a trusted colleague, one that was dedicated to the cause. It was just the level of dedication that had always bothered him. At times, it had appeared that Jordan enjoyed his work a little too much. Despite his concerns, Olsen respected Jordan’s impressive MI6 record that spanned two decades. There was no doubting his skill and experience. ‘Have you heard something I haven’t?’
Jordan sat down in Olsen’s seat and put his feet on a stack of files. ‘Nothing official. I just heard that we’re looking to locate the people you ran into. No doubt they’ll be asking us to sort it.’ A smug grin came over his features. ‘You kids don’t need to concern yourselves, you can stand aside, I could handle those two with one hand tied behind my back.’
Olsen exchanged a quick look with Carter as he found another seat. A slight commotion caught his attention ahead, and Richard Elliott, Chief of MI6 and back from Europe, appeared. All three agents stood up and greeted the Chief. ‘Good morning, sir.’
Elliott, a living legend not only amongst staff at MI6, MI5 and the Houses of Parliament, had become an iconic figure with the public due to the several decades he had been in the public eye. Dressed in a stylish black suit, wearing a white shirt, black bow tie, and a perfectly formed white handkerchief in his chest pocket, Elliott stood slightly hunched over and looked every inch of his seventy-two-years. Several strands of silver hair were all that were visible on his head, and his bushy silver eyebrows sat above a fiery pair of blue eyes.
As he paused at a nearby terminal, Elliott gave a scowling look around the nerve centre of MI6. He always gave off an air that nothing was good enough, and everything could be better — the legend focussed his attention on the nearby S.U.C.O. agents. ‘There have been many developments.’ He spoke in his usual gruff and curt tone. ‘We have much to discuss.’
Jordan passed Olsen and flashed a smile. ‘See?’
Olsen walked into briefing room one and noted all nine S.U.C.O. agents from teams Alpha and Bravo, including Carter and Jordan, were in attendance. The other teams of the elite force, Charlie, Delta, and Echo had been assigned to the Middle East for months and were now on their way home.
In the far corner, sitting away from the two squads, were Burton and Ramsey, the MI6 deputy-chief. Olsen took his seat next to Dan Carter.
Elliott glanced at every face in the room before he started the briefing. He slowly rose from his chair and looked out at his elite team, all of whom he respected, and secretly cared for like a soft granddad. With his advancing years, he had lost count of just how many briefings he had given, and sadly how many protectors, or rather knights as he called them, had been lost in the line of duty. Though his appearance was becoming frailer with each passing year, his steely blue eyes that had seen so much had lost none of their ferocity.
Elliott had joined MI6 at the age of twenty-two, and had worked his way up, travelling the world and surviving so many operations. With each one completed, his ability as a leader shone through, not to mention his dogged determination and sheer refusal to be beaten. At forty-two, some twenty years later, Elliott became the youngest Chief of MI6 and took control. Experts at the time felt he led not only the agency but the West itself, through the Cold War single-handedly. Work took its toll and in 2003, at the age of sixty-three, Elliott suffered his first heart attack and much to his disgust, was forced out of office from his beloved MI6 and was cared for by his high school sweetheart, and long-suffering wife, Corina. As much as he hated being away from world events, he was looked on as a sad and beaten figure by the public, with sympathy nonetheless, but consigned to the past.
When MI6 became leaderless once more, Elliott, at sixty-five, and in his mind fighting fit despite his doctor’s reservations, took back the mantle he had been born to assume. Some were cautious, others victorious, but Elliott himself was more determined than ever to carry on where he had left off and be useful again.
Elliott scowled at his agents and gave himself a mental pat on the back for getting through another day that according to most in the medical field, should not have been possible.
His voice was its usual gruff self, and he projected it with authority which made everyone take notice and listen hard. ‘As you know, an attack took place in Oman on Saturday. Thank the heavens, the Royal party’s essential personnel survived unscathed.’ He stepped forward and twisted his face in defiance as if it would help in some way to prevent the atrocity from happening again. ‘This is the first time any terrorist faction has directly attacked not only one of our embassies but our monarchy as well. I and senior personnel spent all of yesterday with key government officials.’ Elliott paused and raised his silver eyebrows as he finished. ‘And now…we fight back.’
The Chief of MI6 moved away from the big screen and gave a nod to the technician who sat at the back of the briefing room. The screen flickered to life and displayed two photographs.
Elliott continued. ‘The Kiprich brothers. Gyorgy and Jozef. The latter is the stronger of the two, far more dominant in proceedings. Our intelligence from GCHQ has indicated they have settled in Poland for the time being. After Oman, they moved through the United Arab Emirates and then to Cracow, Poland.’ He handed folders to Jordan and Olsen. Both files had the words ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ written across them in heavy red type. ‘Operation Reprisal. The Kiprich brothers have crossed a line and they must be dealt with. A termination order has been given.’ For the first time that day a warm smile came over him and sense of pride took hold. ‘I should tell you that the CIA wanted to take control of this but it’s with great pride that teams Alpha and Bravo of S.U.C.O. have the honour.’ He caught the attention of the two senior agents, Olsen and Jordan. ‘Begin preparing your teams. Our agent in Poland, POL1, has a fix on their location and will act as your contact point for this operation.’’ He studied every individual carefully and knew in his heart that they would be successful. ‘I know you won’t let me down.’
In the front row, Olsen saw the pride in Elliott’s eyes and felt so honoured to be taking S.U.C.O. into battle and lead such a talented and powerful group of agents. At the same time though, it was time to do what he hated the most, tell Rachel he was going away. In the past it had always been difficult, and Olsen had come away time and again, feeling so guilty. Rachel deserved better and each time he did it, the worse he seemed to feel.
As the agents dispersed from the briefing room, Olsen called Rachel, and hoped she would be available for lunch.
A cold wind swirled through the light blond hair of POL1, otherwise known as Agent Martin Bedford. He adjusted the scarf around his neck and pulled down on his dark brown baseball cap as he stepped onto a number 208 bus at Balice airport, seven miles west of the city of Cracow. Bedford paid his fare and gave a sweeping glance to all the passengers on the bus. His eyes locked onto the now bearded face of Jozef Kiprich, but only for an instant, as he took a seat not far away. As the scenery passed by his window, he remembered his briefing from his superior in Warsaw, the nation’s capital. Several words stood out in his mind. Keep a respectable distance and report daily on the movements of the Kiprich brothers. Bedford pulled his newspaper from his jacket pocket and began to scan the headlines.
At the back of the bus, a cold set of blue eyes continued to study Bedford and took note of every movement closely. They belonged to Zoltan Ferec who was a trusted ally of his close friend Jozef. Ferec was suspicious of everyone on the bus, but his instincts had focussed onto that particular individual who was slowly being marked a threat in his mind. Since their arrival in Poland, he was convinced he had seen the man several times before. Ferec was experienced and in astonishing physical shape for his age considering he was now just a few years away from forty. He was six feet tall with dark blond hair. His piercing blue eyes studied the target carefully. Two words continued to circle in his head, government agent. Ferec remembered his friend’s last operation, the attack on the Royal family and UK Embassy in Oman. He wondered whether the agent was from MI6 and recalled his previous contact with that agency. Ferec had encountered MI6 agents several times before, and had yet to be seriously challenged, though he had never encountered a S.U.C.O. agent. The others were well trained, but they had never posed a serious threat to him and had been easy to dispose of in the past.
The bus came to a halt outside the city hall tower, in the main market square, the largest in Europe. Bedford disembarked the bus and kept Jozef in his sights.
The sights of Cracow’s market square surrounded them. It was seething with life. Many café tables filled most of the area, with a host of shops, antique dealers, restaurants, bars, and clubs.
Bedford had been in the square many times before and kept his vision locked on his target. He wandered over to a small shop and picked up a piece of jewellery from a nearby stand. He held the attractive looking bronze piece to the light, whilst his eyes kept watch on Jozef, who began to move away from the departing bus, and merge with the crowds. Bedford replaced the piece of jewellery straight away and set off in pursuit.
Ferec had been watching and began to walk behind a young couple, whilst he kept the government agent in his sights just ahead. There was no doubt in his mind now that the target following his close friend was some form of threat. Ferec continued to make his way through the busy market square and was suddenly presented with a camera thrust in his face. A nearby couple asked in perfect English if he would take a photograph of them. Ferec pushed the camera away and shoved the tourist, who almost fell to the ground. He began to jog slightly as his target disappeared from view, but then relaxed when he found him again. The small church of St Wojciech, which appeared lost compared to all the other more impressive buildings, passed him by and he followed the target into the Church of St. Mary.
The imposing structure of St Mary’s church dominated a large part of the main market square. It had stood for centuries as a symbol of Polish architecture and couldn’t be missed, the beautiful design catching the attention of every passing tourist and local.
The historic church made no impact on the assassin Ferec who walked through the main entrance and passed the large ten-foot-tall wooden doors. His eyes swept around his surroundings and took note of a few people who were all focussed on the impressive stained-glass windows. Ferec took out his pistol from his jacket, concealed it in his pocket, and approached the target who lingered at a nearby staircase. Slinking into the shadows, he slowly passed one pillar at a time and drew nearer to his target who showed no sign of detecting his presence. The instincts of a predator took over his body and mind, and a feeling of complete control swept through him. He moved the pistol behind his back and cocked the weapon slowly, whilst passing another two pillars. Ferec, a ruthless killer, struggled to stop himself from breaking out with a large smile as he stopped only a handful of steps away.
Bedford continued to watch Jozef inspect the stained-glass window. As yet, the MI6 agent had yet to decide exactly what the man was doing. Waiting for someone perhaps? he thought to himself. Bedford furrowed his brow and casually turned his head slightly. The reflection of his face in a nearby silver ornament caught his attention and sent a quick shiver down his spine. It was not the twisted and disjointed representation of his face that made him feel so startled but the sign of someone moving towards his position very slowly. Bedford didn’t waste a moment and began to walk up the nearby staircase that led to what appeared to be offices and storage rooms above. His senses became heightened, and he quickly registered other footsteps on the staircase. Bedford reached the top of the stairs and he looked around for an exit. If I can just get to the outside, I could lose them in the crowd…
Ferec gave a nod to Jozef and saw his friend follow him up the stairs. At the top a door closed at the far end of the corridor. The blond-haired Ferec gave a smile to his friend; he knew there was no escape from that room. ‘This will be over in seconds. Wait here.’
Upon entrance into the room, which was a small office, Bedford glanced quickly around every corner but realised with dread that there was no hope of escape. The sound of footsteps came to the door as Bedford pushed open the nearest window and looked outside. A thin ledge ran across the red brickwork. There was a chance he would fall but what choice did he have? Bedford took a deep breath, stepped out back first and gripped onto whatever presented itself. The window snapped shut, but he held on. He edged along as quickly as he could and slowly gripped the window of the next room with his fingernails. It flipped open, and nearly knocked him off balance, but Bedford managed to climb into the storage room and slumped on the floor. He took a few seconds to control his mind and pulled out his Browning 9mm semi-automatic pistol. At the door, he edged it open slowly, enough for him to see Jozef standing outside the office he had just left. Bedford knew there was no time to lose…
Ferec remained in his aggressive stance, with his pistol out in front of him at all times, as he scanned every corner of the room. A nearby wardrobe, big enough for a man to hide, shuddered under several bullets as they exploded out of the chamber of his silenced pistol. Ferec slowly opened the doors, expecting to find a body but instead found several robes filled with holes. Confusion swept over him as he approached the window and began to survey the view of the marketplace. His head suddenly whirled around at the sound of a commotion coming from outside the door. His athletic frame leapt over the nearby desk and opened the door which revealed Jozef lying motionless on the carpeted floor. Ferec’s eyes widened, as he attempted to calculate whether other government agents were now in the church. He slowly moved out of the doorframe but saw no sign of anyone. A door slammed shut behind him. Ferec spun around and immediately sprinted toward the door at the far end of the corridor. His mind scanned the church layout he had memorised and knew the roof was the only destination from that room. He burst into the room and quickly began to climb the first ladder, still confident he could finish any resistance quickly.
Bedford watched for a moment from his position and then stepped out from the large wooden beam in the corner of the room and aimed his Browning pistol at the tall blond terrorist on the ladder. His thunderous voice pierced the silence. ‘Don’t make any sudden moves! Drop your weapon onto the floor.’ Bedford’s senses were ready for any sudden developments as he stood with his knees bent, and both hands on his pistol. ‘Do it now!’
Ferec cursed to himself. For the first time in years, he realised he had underestimated his opponent, as he dropped his pistol to the floor. Despite his predicament, the arrogance of a near impenetrable man still boiled away inside of Ferec.
Bedford watched his target slowly step down the ladder, one step at a time. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them!’ Finally, the man turned around and stared hard at him, with his hands in the air. Bedford noticed almost an insulted look on his face. He ignored it and aligned himself with the doorway. His eyes quickly shifted towards the corridor and back to his target. Jozef was still lying motionless outside the office not far away. ‘Get down on your knees! DOWN! Now, who the hell are you? I want a name!’
Ferec bowed his head and said nothing. He knew an opportunity to turn the tide would soon come. He heard other questions come at him, but he ignored them. As he tried to stay calm, his eyes caught sight of his pistol in the far corner of the room. Ferec began to think of how to reach it.
Bedford knew he had to make his escape and report back to MI6. He looked to his right to check on Jozef again and got a shock at what he saw. Nobody was there. ‘Get up, move yourself!’ He grabbed his hostage and pushed him up against the wall, his Browning pistol now pressed up hard against his head. ‘Where’s your friend, huh?’ Bedford continued to look around in all directions, in an attempt to see where Jozef had disappeared to. He felt hopelessly outnumbered. Then out of nowhere came laughter. His hostage suddenly began to laugh uncontrollably. Bedford pushed the barrel of his pistol firmly into the man’s skull. ‘You son of a bitch. How many of you are there? Now!’
Ferec continued to laugh and fed off his captor’s fear of what was to come. ‘Calm yourself, little one, it will soon be over.’ Another sick laugh took over him.
Bedford started to lose control of his mind. He pushed his hostage out of the doorframe and slowly began to walk down the corridor. An ambush would surely come, it was just a matter of when.