Adrian Magson - Execution

‘Remember,’ he said, as they approached the entrance to the Major Trauma Centre, ‘this is quick and dirty. We get to the security control centre and shut it off, then get what we need and go.’

‘Are you sure Gorelkin won’t have us shot for this?’

‘No, I’m not. But I’m certain he might have us sent to Afghanistan if we don’t do something positive.’

‘And if anyone gets in our way?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Fair enough.’ Serkhov took out his gun. It was a 9mm Bernadelli P-018. He checked the magazine and slid it back into place, then put the gun away, every movement economical and practised.

Votrukhin produced a Spanish Astra 9mm and did the same. Both guns had entered the UK illegally, shipped in hold luggage with other weapons and ammunition, for which an American with dreams of easy riches was now awaiting trial in the US. If either weapon were lost, it would be traced to a gun shop in Concord, North Carolina. Not that either man was planning on that. As with all members of the elite SPC, Serkhov and Votrukhin were quite capable of dealing with problems quietly using their hands, or with whatever else might come within reach. But sight of the guns and the credible threat to use them would effectively ram home the message much faster than any shouting or physical threats.

Through the entrance, they already knew the way. Skirting the security guard by the desk, they followed the signs to the washrooms. But instead of going in, they veered off and followed the corridor, dropping down another set of stairs to a sub-basement level. Through a door marked STAFF ONLY into another, narrower corridor with dimmed overhead lighting and lined with unused furniture and electrical equipment awaiting clearance. Numbered doors were on either side, all closed. The atmosphere here was deadened and silent, other than the clank and hum of heating being pumped through the overhead venting.

Votrukhin was in the lead, fast and purposeful, checking for security cameras. He spotted one at the end of the corridor. Grabbing a broken chair he held it in front of him, obscuring his features. Serkhov did the same, hoisting an old overhead projector in front of his face. The air smelled of hot plastic and dust.

As they approached a door on their left marked ‘Control Centre — No Admittance’, Votrukhin reached for his gun and dropped the chair. He very carefully tried the door handle. Locked, as he’d expected. Standing to one side, he beckoned Serkhov to move up close. They had a couple of seconds at most if the guard monitoring the screens was awake.

‘Open it and stay out here,’ he said quietly. ‘Anybody comes, stall them.’

Serkhov nodded, then swung his shoulders and heaved the projector at the door with almost casual ease.

The door smashed open under the onslaught, catching the single occupant by surprise and making him utter a squeal of fear. A cardboard mug dropped from nerveless fingers and bounced across the control desk, spilling hot liquid across the buttons. Shock and awe, thought Votrukhin happily. Works every time.

‘Touch anything,’ he told the guard in perfect English, ‘hit an alarm or even speak, and you’re a dead man.’ For emphasis, he placed the tip of his gun to the security officer’s forehead and held it there, finger curled around the trigger. And waited.

‘You have backup discs for the cameras,’ Votrukhin told the guard softly after a few seconds. The short silence was enough to allow the fear factor to build just enough to make him compliant. Now to give him something to focus on. ‘Two nights ago, from midnight to four. I want that footage.’

There were a dozen screens in two banks of six, showing various locations around the hospital. Every few seconds, the screens would jump to a new location: stairways, entrance, wards, canteens, delivery bay and so on. But it was the outside footage that interested Votrukhin. As far as he could see, though, all the exterior camera angles were close to the building, showing little or nothing of the surrounding streets.

The guard’s mouth moved momentarily, but no sound came out. He was sweating visibly, and the smell of nervous body odour was heavy in the enclosed room. He needed a shave and a haircut. Votrukhin put his age at about forty. He was overweight and looked out of condition. He probably sat in this ghastly bunker most days, slowly dying of inactivity and eating his way towards going home time.

‘It’s OK — I give you permission to speak. I won’t shoot you. Unless you decide to be a hero.’

The guard swallowed and croaked, ‘I can’t.’

Votrukhin’s finger tightened around the trigger. ‘Can’t? That’s a silly thing to say.’

‘I can’t — believe me! I don’t know how to isolate specific time frames. . or any of that stuff. They haven’t showed me. All I do is monitor the screens. They have an IT guy who deals with backup and storage.’ He sniffed pathetically. ‘I’m just here to watch, that’s all.’

‘Pity.’ Votrukhin gave a sigh. ‘You’re not much use to me, are you?’

‘Wait!’ The other man held up a soft hand. ‘I know where the drives are. They have separate ones in case of problems. They rotate them regularly.’

‘Where?’

The guard pointed to a cabinet against the wall. Trunking fixed to the wall showed where power and feed leads ran into the cabinet. ‘In there.’ He turned to a separate monitor by his elbow, the sudden movement nearly earning a bullet from Votrukhin’s gun. Tapping the keyboard, he scrolled down the screen. ‘The one for the other night would have been. . hang on. . DS013. They change automatically. It’s pre-programmed, so we just check the list.’

‘Show me,’ said Votrukhin. He cast his eye across the screens as the guard moved. No signs of alarm or panic anywhere so far. One of the screens jumped and revealed Serkhov, standing outside the door, looking like a nightclub bouncer. He was grinning at the camera. Idiot. ‘Hurry.’

The guard complied, opening the cabinet door and pointing to an inner box housing four hard drives. They were each numbered from DS010 to DS013. ‘That’s the one.’

‘Take it out.’

‘Huh?’ The guard looked puzzled.

‘Take it out and give it to me.’ Votrukhin emphasised the instruction with a prod of the gun barrel. ‘Take out the drive, disconnect the wires. Or I shoot you.’

The guard did as he was told, grasping the hard drive and pulling it towards him. With shaking fingers, he disconnected the wires at the back and handed over the box.

‘Excellent,’ said Votrukhin. ‘Now sit down.’ He waited for the man to sit, then cast around. A canvas shoulder bag was hanging from a hook on the back of the door. He stepped across and dropped the drive into the bag, then threw the strap over his shoulder. ‘You have been a great help.’

The guard pointed to the bag. ‘Can I have my lunch box? It’s in there.’

Votrukhin ignored him. He was looking around the room. There was nothing he could use to restrain the guard and stop him sounding the alarm, and they had already used up enough time. If the guard was worried about his lunch, it probably signalled a shift change coming up any time now. But they needed a few minutes to get out of the building and away. ‘Where is the nearest outside door?’ he asked.

‘To your left.’ The man’s voice was dull, although whether out of fear or losing his lunch, Votrukhin wasn’t sure. ‘Through the door in front of you and you’ll be in a small lobby. Push the bar down and that opens onto the side of the building.’

‘Is it alarmed?’

The guard hesitated just for a moment. Then he reached across to the control board and hit a switch. ‘No.’