The fragile coast, p.15
The Fragile Coast, page 15
The pistol was tiny, a PSM semi-automatic. He checked the cartridge. Seven rounds left. Made sense.
Next problem: Yurichenko.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
BATES’ BACK WAS pressed against the Nissan hut’s corrugated surface. She peered around the corner drainpipe just as Yurichenko snapped off a few shots in the direction of a running figure, lit up as though by a Flanders flare, propelling Gordiovski’s trolley towards the C-212.
She held her breath.
And breathed again as Kyle reached the aircraft in one piece. Yurichenko was reloading. He looked up, saw her, clipped a new cartridge in place, snapped it shut with a decisive click.
She pulled her head back from the corner as the first round smacked against the drainpipe, the mosquito-like ziippp of the ricochet passing close enough to galvanise her legs into action.
Collateral damage? Isn’t that what they call it, Miss Bates?
Not if she could help it. Bates took off, legs pumping, raced past the farmhouse, over a ditch, across a lane into an open field.
No good. No cover.
Stick to the lane, find cover behind the hedgerow, the trees.
Anywhere.
She stopped by a young oak, leaned on the trunk, panting. Had he spotted her?
Crack!
Bark flew; a splinter gashing her forehead.
She took off again, lungs heaving, the beginnings of a stitch tightening a band around her midriff.
She stopped, bent double.
Another shot, wide this time. Had he lost her?
There was a gap in the hedgerow, a kind of tunnel in among the foliage. Protecting her eyes with one hand she squeezed inside, stumbled on with branches and leaves flicking her face.
She had to stop, just for thirty seconds.
She squatted, breathing hard, struggling to suppress the noise she was making, her desperate gasps for air.
‘Miss Bates.’
Too close. She froze.
‘Miss Bates. I need you by that telephone.’
Liar.
‘When they have complied with my request, I will hand myself in.’
Bates gulped air.
The voice went on, reasonable, persuasive. ‘You have been most helpful.’
She weighed her options. To her left the green tunnel narrowed, becoming too dense to negotiate, certainly without giving her position away. Turning right, however, would take her straight to Yurichenko.
‘I have changed my mind. Please accept my apologies for causing alarm.’
No options.
How many rounds had he used? Three? She couldn’t rely on Yurichenko running out of ammunition, then. A bad bet.
So. The direct approach.
She’d dropped the poker somewhere between the Nissan and here, but the earth at her feet was studded with flint. She bent, selected a fist-sized chunk. One end was razor sharp, the other blunt enough to grip.
So be it.
‘I have put the gun away, Miss Bates. May we return to the house? It would be unfortunate to miss the call from your colleagues. Your co-operation would be much appreciated.’
She hefted the flint.
‘I mean you no harm.’
Where was he? She inched forward. There. Between a thin birch, silver in the moonlight, and an oak, just at the edge of the field, Yurichenko was a deeper smudge of darkness in the oak’s shadow.
Another two paces, leaves crunching softly beneath her feet.
‘I hear you. Come out, please.’
She slipped through a gap in the hedgerow, this time on the tunnel’s opposite side, skirting round so she could circle in from behind. Leaves gave way to ploughed earth. She was in the field. She ghosted over puddles, roots, a sliver of half-buried barbed wire…
Now she was close, two or three yards, maybe. Yurichenko was motionless, waiting, watching.
He’d lost track of her.
She moved towards him, made a fist around the flint.
At the last second he sensed her presence, spun around, his arm coming up.
Bates smashed the automatic aside with a sweeping blow. Yurichenko cursed and clutched his injured hand as the gun tumbled to the ground. Bates followed her first strike with a second but this time the Russian was prepared. He shimmied to one side and the rock caught him on the shoulder, not on his head as she had intended.
Yurichenko jabbed his fist at her face. She ducked, drove forward with all her weight and knocked him to the ground. The flint segment was still in her hand; she raised it high to finish the job, but realised that Yurichenko’s eyes were shut and he wasn’t moving.
She knelt over him, legs astride his prone body, grabbed his lapels and lifted his head. It flopped back as she released him. There was blood in his hair. The ground beneath them was strewn with rocks, projecting through the earth like broken teeth; one of them had knocked him cold.
Bates stood up, panting, looking for the gun. She found it nestled between two exposed roots. Yurichenko was groaning now, semi-conscious. She bent, checked his pockets. A bar of chocolate. And something else…
She withdrew a small device similar to a transistor radio, held it up for inspection. Two external buttons, an indicator light. Bates’ forehead creased as she examined it.
No idea…
She pocketed the device and thought about what to do with Yurichenko. He wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry, that was for sure.
Find Kyle. Call Stanhope. And between them get Yurichenko back to the farmhouse.
It seemed a reasonable plan.
Bates set off the way she had come, grateful for the pale light of the waxing moon.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
KYLE CHECKED THE living room. A discarded chocolate bar, an empty can of lemonade.
No Bates.
He returned to the hall and jumped as the phone rang. He picked up the receiver.
A familiar voice. ‘Hello? Bates?’
‘Guess again.’
‘Ah, Mr Kyle. Good to hear from you.’ Stanhope sounded buoyant. ‘You have Yurichenko with you?’
‘Not exactly.’
Stanhope ignored that. ‘Been in touch with Moscow. Fair to say they’re not over the moon about his proposition.’
‘Half of England will be over the moon if they don’t change their minds.’
‘Point taken, but look, Yurichenko’s no fool. He knows that setting a nuclear device off would be tantamount to starting World War Three. He won’t go that far.’
‘You don’t think?’
‘Where is he? Put him on.’
‘I’d love to, but he’s busy trying to kill Bates, so if it’s all the same to you I’ll sign off for a bit. And for God’s sake don’t send in the cavalry. That’ll only inflame the situation, no pun intended.’
A pause. ‘All right. You’d better handle this, Kyle. What about Gordiovski? Safe and secure?’
Kyle glanced up as Gordiovski shambled into the hallway. The Russian’s eyes had looked murderous enough onboard the C-212 but right now, from where Kyle was standing, they were incandescent with rage.
The two men looked at each other for a long moment. Kyle dropped the receiver as Gordiovski hurled himself at him, fists flailing like twin pistons.
The first swing missed but the follow through struck Kyle on the shoulder, fair and square. It was like being hit by a bulldozer. A seismic shock ran through his upper body, spine and ribcage.
He went down, and struggled to rise. He was on all fours, his head ringing, nauseous. His shoulder felt dislocated.
Maybe Gordiovski wouldn’t come at him again. The Russian had put him down with a single punch. That was enough, wasn’t it?
But Gordiovski was just getting warmed up. His boot connected hard with Kyle’s thigh and then twice more in succession, torso and shoulder. Kyle curled himself into a ball. Each blow was a hammer of agony. A mantra began to play in Kyle’s head like a needle stuck in a groove.
Get up. He’s going to kill you…
In his mind, Kyle imagined a rugby field, a loose scrummage. Players piling on top of him. His one focus, the ball.
Get the ball. Don’t stay here. You can’t stay here.
Supporters were cheering from the touchline, but he was hurt too badly. How could he continue?
In his mind he saw a face in the crowd. Indistinct at first, the features gradually swam into focus.
Rebecca.
His ex-fiancée.
Her lips were moving; she was speaking quietly, but he could hear each word with crystal clarity.
Come on, Kyle. You’re out there to win, remember?
Gordiovski’s leg came swinging in again, but this time Kyle rolled and it passed harmlessly by. The cost was more pain, but that wasn’t going to get better any time soon. Gordiovski was off balance and Kyle launched himself off the floor, hit the Russian in the midriff, gave gravity a chance to help out.
Gordiovski staggered against the wall with a reverberating crash, dislodging a mirror above the telephone table which shattered as it dropped to the floor. Another haymaker was coming; Kyle ducked under it, scooped up a shard of glass, brandished it.
The Russian hesitated. His face bisected into a wide grin.
Kyle jabbed, and Gordiovski moved back, an agile move for a recently tranquillised man.
Kyle slashed, aiming for the trunk-like fold of Gordiovski’s neck. Gordiovski’s fist smashed Kyle arm aside, and he let go of the glass dagger. Blood dripped freely from his cut fingers. Lacking any other options, Kyle put his head down and charged like a bull. He hit Gordiovski’s muscle wall with everything he had. It was like slamming against an oak tree. The Russian didn’t move.
Kyle felt hands like mechanical diggers encircle his biceps. He was lifted bodily from the floor, legs flailing.
One hand moved to his throat and Kyle was lifted high, suspended in mid air.
Gordiovski held him there, as though examining a lab specimen.
‘Leave him!’
Bates’s voice came to Kyle from a far-off place. His vision was fogging.
‘Last warning!’
Kyle hardly heard the gunshot. He found himself on the floor, lying amid broken glass.
‘Back off!’
Bates…
Another shot, louder this time.
Gordiovski roared.
Kyle raised his head in time to see the Russian wrestle Bates to the ground. Blood was pooling on the floorboards from Gordiovski’s wounded legs.
And then Bates was down, and Gordiovski was back on his feet.
Kyle managed to sit up, prop himself against the wall. His strength was gone.
He could only watch as Gordiovski tore strips from his shirt to tourniquet his bleeding legs. He seemed otherwise unaffected by Bates’ bullets.
Bates…
She wasn’t moving.
Gordiovski completed his improvised first aid and turned his attention to Bates’ prone body. He fished in her pockets and let out a grunt of triumph, lifted his head to the night sky. He stood quite still for almost a minute, as though gathering his courage to make a difficult decision.
Kyle found his voice. ‘Now what, Gordiovski?’ He was surprised to hear himself sounding close to normal. His throat felt like it had been sawn in two.
Gordiovski turned and looked directly at him. In his meaty hands he held what looked like a small transmitter.
‘Now?’ Gordiovski grinned. ‘Now I turn your South England into a nuclear wasteland.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
‘POINTLESS.’ KYLE SHOOK his head wearily. ‘What will you achieve? Notoriety?’
Gordiovski shrugged. ‘This is an American bomb, salvaged and detonated by a minor terrorist group. Officially, it has nothing to do with me, nothing to do with Russia.’
‘You’re aware that your Kremlin buddies have thrown you to the wolves?’ Kyle flexed the muscles in his legs; maybe they would support him, maybe not. Only one way to find out; grimacing with the effort, he used the table edge to pull himself upright.
Gordiovski looked unconcerned, so Kyle kept talking. ‘They knew you’d be up for this. They played to your ego. The only place you’re heading for is an MI6 debrief – without your cronies to protect you. Then everything you spill gets passed back to your KGB boss man. End of your private kingdom. They’ll take you all down.’
Gordiovski held the transmitter’s metallic case lightly in one hand, Bates’ automatic in the other. He shot Kyle a humourless grin.
‘I do not intend to keep the rendezvous with your MI6, Mr Kyle. And when I return home it will be to a heroes welcome. As your expression goes, my stock will have risen considerably. My superiors will have no choice but to to acknowledge my achievement. Not publicly, of course; no, publicly we will condemn this terrorist group along with the rest of the world. But once the investigation is complete and the origins of the bomb come to light, we will very much enjoy observing the deterioration of your country’s relationship with America.’
‘You have more faith in the Kremlin than I do.’
Gordiovski shrugged. ‘No. I do not. What I do have is power. Connections. They cannot touch me, Mr Kyle, not in my home country. Your correspondents in Moscow will be able to observe and report my rise to ultimate power at first hand.’
Kyle shook his head. ‘You’re deluded. No wonder they want to get shot of you.’
Behind Gordiovski, Bates stirred. Her leg moved a fraction, then was still. Kyle willed her to stay put.
‘Think what you will,’ Gordiovski said, dipping into his coat pocket and pulling out two pairs of handcuffs. His trousers were stained with blood, but the wounds didn’t seem to be troubling him; in and out through the fleshy part of the leg, in all probability. Lucky for him, unlucky for them.
The Russian bent, dragged Bates into the hallway, clipped her wrist to Kyle’s. ‘Get her up. Walk.’
Kyle supported Bates as best he could as they exited the farmhouse, Gordiovski’s lumbering steps close behind. Their heads close, Bates whispered in his ear.
‘Yurichenko. He’s injured.’
‘One less to worry about,’ Kyle said. ‘What about you?’
‘Head hurts, but I’m OK.’
‘I can relate.’
The outbuilding was still burning; the roof was gone and dirty smoke was still rising into the darkness. Gordiovski jabbed the automatic into the small of Kyle’s back. ‘The plane. Move.’
‘Really? We’re low on fuel. You can’t—’
‘How far?’
‘How far what?’
‘Range. How far can we fly?’
Kyle thought about it. Not far; maybe a hundred miles, a hundred and fifty max. He told Gordiovski.
‘It is enough.’
The body of the other gunman was still lying where Kyle had left it. Gordiovski ignored the corpse and prompted them inside.
Kyle flexed his wrists. ‘I can’t fly cuffed.’
Gordiovski unlocked him. ‘Fly. To London. And you, sit.’
Bates sat next to Kyle and Gordiovski cuffed her to the seat base.
‘What about Yurichenko?’ Kyle busied himself with pre flight checks.
‘What do I care?’ Gordiovski said. ‘MI6 can do what they wish with him.’
Bates was pushing something towards his feet. A medical bag.
Kyle leaned forward, flicked a switch, dipped his hand in the bag. His fingers closed around a slim, plastic barrel. He withdrew the hypodermic, slipped it under his knee. He only managed a quick glance but it had looked half-loaded, at least. Enough to put Gordiovski out.
If he got the chance.
Deep in the C-212’s underbelly, a rumbling noise began to vibrate through the aeroplane followed almost immediately by the pungent smell of aero fuel.
Gordiovski started forward, grabbed Kyle by the shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’
Kyle sat back, slapped his thighs. ‘Damn. Sorry. Dumped the fuel. My mistake – poor design, though; all these switches look the same.’
The blow arrived earlier than Kyle had expected. Even so, he managed to move his head fractionally to the left so that Gordiovski’s fist connected with the base of his neck and not his skull. Then the Russian’s meaty hands were around his neck and he was being shaken like a puppet. His vision blurred.
‘Stop! You’ll kill him!’
Bates’ protests fell on deaf ears. Kyle felt himself blacking out, but then the pressure was abruptly released. He sucked in air and his hands went to his bruised windpipe.
‘You come with me. Insurance. Get up.’
Dazed, Kyle did as he was told. Gordiovski took out a set of keys, opened the pilot exit, deployed the steps and shoved Kyle out of the aeroplane.
‘You can’t leave her here.’ Kyle turned to look into the aircraft. Bates shook her head. ‘Just do what he says, Kyle.’
Gordiovski shoved him in the back. ‘Walk.’
They went past the smoking remains of the hanger, through the farmhouse yard and into the lane. Gordiovski produced a set of keys and led them to Yurichenko’s late assistant’s car, Kyle supposed. ‘Get in.’
Gordiovski was limping. Kyle looked him up and down. ‘You need medical attention – those wounds might look superficial, but you’ve lost a lot of blood.’
‘My problem. Get in.’
Kyle shrugged. ‘I’m not driving?’
Gordiovski silently held the passenger door open.
Kyle got in, and Gordiovski cuffed his left hand to the seat.
Leaving his right hand free. A mistake.
Gordiovski crammed himself into the driver’s seat, gunned the engine and threw the car into gear.
‘You’re going to trigger the bomb remotely?’ Kyle clucked his tongue. ‘In a Wiltshire field? Hardly the impact you were looking for.’
‘It will be sufficient.’ Gordiovski squinted through the windscreen as rain began to patter on the glass.
‘Really? You think your Moscow pals will be impressed? “Hey, I blew up a field in the UK.”’
‘The blast radius will be ten miles.’ Gordiovski ignored Kyle’s jibe. ‘The incident will be reported world wide. This whole area will be a no man’s land for years to come. That is an impact.’
