Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

Laith withdrew his handgun and flicked off the safety catch. If the man drove fast out of the street, they’d have to let him go. He might not be Rubner, in which case if they forced the car to stop by shooting its engine block and tires, the wrecked car would be an almighty warning sign to the Israeli if he did subsequently turn up. Equally, if the driver was Rubner, he could bolt just to see who was flushed out by the action. They had to make him feel safe to approach the house on foot. But when that happened, there’d be no hesitation: Laith and Mark would explode into action, grab him, haul him back into his car, and drive fast away from the city.

Holding his gun in one hand and his binoculars with his other, he stared at the driver. The man was motionless, looking straight down the street in the direction of Rubner’s home. He stayed like this for ten minutes, just waiting.

Laith pressed the tips of his boots into the hard ground, readying himself to get to his feet and sprint.

“Driver opens his door. .” Mark’s voice was now tense. “But he still ain’t moving.”

Laith muttered, “Come on,” between gritted teeth. He inhaled deeply, then held his breath as he saw the driver put one foot onto the pavement, then the other. The man got out of the sedan, quietly shut the door, glanced around, and began walking down the deserted street.

“Athletic build, roll-neck jumper, windcheater trousers, canvas boots. Looks like he can do a runner.”

“Yeah.” Laith moved his binoculars to keep the driver in his sights. The man was walking slowly and had one hand positioned over his stomach. “He might be carrying a weapon close to belt buckle.”

“Okay.” Mark was breathing fast. “I’m moving nearer to you. You’ve got point.”

The driver stopped, withdrew a cell phone, and held it to his ear. Two seconds later he replaced the cell into his pocket. In all probability, he’d just tried to call his daughter or wife. He continued walking, was now thirty yards from Rubner’s house.

Mark whispered. “I’m in position, fifteen yards to your east.”

Laith secreted his binoculars. The driver was easily visible to the naked eye and was walking on the other side of the road, across his line of sight. He reached the bottom of the driveway leading to Rubner’s property and looked around.

Laith and Mark would break cover when he was halfway up the drive.

The driver turned so that he had his back to the intelligence officers.

Laith raised his upper body onto his elbows and brought his knees under his chest.

The man took two steps along the drive.

And another.

Laith gripped his pistol tight.

The driver took a fourth step.

Any moment now.

Engine noise.

Loud.

The driver stopped, half turned.

Laith froze.

A rush of movement from the west side of the street.

Men. Four of them. All carrying handguns.

A car raced past them and screeched to a halt near the driveway.

The target ducked low, spun, pulled out a gun.

One man shouted, “Rubner,” a fraction of a second before he and the others opened fire.

The force of the volley caused Rubner to flip backward, release his gun, and fall awkwardly onto the driveway with bullets in his head and chest.

Two of the men rushed to the body and quickly examined it. One of them nodded, and called out in Hebrew, “It’s done. Go, go!”

The men piled into the car, and it sped away.

Laith shook his head with disbelief. A Mossad hit team had finally caught up with Simon Rubner and expertly punished him for betraying their agents. But in doing so, they had unwittingly killed the last lead to Kurt Schreiber and Kronos.

Kronos lit tobacco in his old briar pipe, opened a metal container, and delicately removed one of the cigarette-lighter-sized devices supplied to him by the Dutch merchant captain in Rotterdam. He examined all sides of the device, unscrewed the bottom cap, and eased out a section containing a circuit board and timer. After making adjustments to the timer, he quickly slotted it back into the device and jogged across the large, empty warehouse. In the center of the building were drums crammed with scrap metal. He placed the device into the center of a drum and ran back to the other side of the warehouse. Checking his watch, he waited.

Ten seconds later, there was an explosion.

The device had torn apart the barrel.

He examined the debris, deciding that the explosion had caused too much damage. Retrieving another spare device, he unscrewed the top cap and removed the PE4 plastic explosive. Tearing it in half, he placed one piece of the explosive back into the device, sealed it, set the timer, and placed it into another barrel.

This time the explosion didn’t penetrate the barrel.

Kronos looked inside. The bomb had done exactly the right level of damage; he would adjust the quantity of PE4 in the two devices he’d shortly be using so that they would do the same amount of destruction.

It was time to go. He had one last task.

The hood was removed, and Will blinked fast and for a moment felt disoriented. He’d been blindfolded for at least four hours, maybe much longer. Beside him, Mikhail rubbed fingers against his eyes, cursed, and looked around. They were in a brightly illuminated room that was furnished with a functional metal table and chairs and nothing else. Kapitein Derksen was sitting on a chair, one leg resting over the other, smoking a cigarette while keeping his gaze fixed on the intelligence officers. Two of his men were standing close by, their expressions hostile and suspicious.

In English, Derksen said, “Long journey.” He took a drag on his cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. “Bet you feel like shit.”

“I’ve done worse.” Will’s eyes ached as they gradually adjusted to the light. “We’re here?”

“We’re here.” The black-haired Special Forces commander stood and stubbed out his cigarette. He was of average height but had a physique that some might conclude derived from bodybuilding, though Will suspected it came from the rope-climbing and other skills required of hostage rescuers-skills that produced strength and stamina well beyond those of an Olympian gymnast. “You want water, tea, coffee? We can’t offer you anything better than that because we don’t keep liquor on the base.”

Mikhail answered, “Black coffee.”

Will smiled and put on his most gentlemanly voice. “I’d like a cup of tea, please, but could you make sure it’s made with leaves, that the pot is prewarmed before the boiling water’s added, the tea is infused for three minutes, and it’s served without milk or sugar?”

Derksen looked at him with a stern expression, though he had a twinkle in his eye. “This isn’t fucking Claridge’s Hotel. A tea bag, warm water, and that’ll be it. Good enough?”

Will pretended to look disappointed. “Never mind.” His expression changed. “Forget the tea, let’s get to work. I’ll need to have a complete tour of the base, its perimeter, and any land beyond it that overlooks the base, need to study maps of the area, look at the airstrip where the aircraft will take off with the witness, a complete breakdown of the flight plan, and will also need every detail you have about the secure facility in The Hague. Oh, and of course I’ll need to speak to the witness.”

The twinkle in Derksen’s eyes vanished. “The boss-she’s a clever lady and keeps us on our toes. Her office has a safe containing ten thousand euros. Every week, we play a game of guards versus intruders. We take turns so that we know what it’s like to be on both sides. The guards never know when or how the intruders will strike. In one of our barracks there’s a life-size dummy of a man. If an intruder can reach him, or knock his head off from a distance, or blow up the building he’s in, then that man gets Superintendent Engert’s jackpot. Trust me-we could all do with that cash. But so far, no one’s succeeded.” Derksen sat on the edge of the desk. “The base covers one square mile. It was designed from scratch to protect men who entire countries wish dead. At any one time, we have a minimum of three hundred specialists on duty here, and twice as many can be on duty within one minute of an alert. If your assassin had managed to grow wings and had superpowers that made him invisible, he might be able to penetrate the perimeter of the base. But he’d never be able to reach his target.” The Special Forces officer slapped his hand on the table. “Regardless, I’ll give you want you want, with the exceptions that the maps won’t show this base’s location in Holland and you’re not going to meet the witness.”