Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

Shit!

Looks like we’re in for a firefight.

Body’s feeling a bit better. Hands? Arms? They ain’t shaking. Eyes? Brain? Good enough.

Right, lads.

Who dares wins.

Get it done.

He crawled alongside the front of the house, rose to a crouch beside the front door, held his gun with one hand, used the other to grip the door handle, and eased the door open a few inches.

Silence.

Now.

He stood, kicked the door fully open, and rushed forward with his gun held high.

He froze.

Sarah was slumped on the floor.

Covered in blood.

The military base was a hive of activity, with DSI and other Dutch law enforcement personnel moving quickly on foot and in vehicles to other parts of the establishment, some of them standing guard around the runway and adjacent hangars, and a small cadre of DSI professionals checking weapons and communications equipment in the long, rectangular barracks where Will and his team were. The six Dutchmen were the protection unit who’d be escorting the witness north to The Hague. Kapitein Derksen was one of them. Like his men, he was wearing a blue jacket, jeans, combat belt, canvas boots, balaclava, and bulletproof vest with the word POLITIE on the front and back.

After stripping down his FN P90 submachine gun and his Glock 17 pistol, Derksen walked over to Will and Mikhail. “The witness has been moved to the holding facility; the plane landed an hour ago and has been searched; we’ll be green light in thirty minutes. Do it as I told you-very fast.” Within the small area of balaclava that exposed his eyes, there were no signs of any emotion. “You have everything you need?”

Mikhail patted his overcoat. Underneath it was a holster containing a Glock handgun. “We could have done with clothes like yours and”-he nodded toward the officer’s P90-“more firepower.”

“You have to be distinguishable from my men, so we know who’re the professionals and who’re the amateurs,” Derksen snapped. “Fifteen minutes before takeoff.” He turned and walked back to his men.

The MI6 and SVR officers approached Roger, Laith, Mark, and Adam. Like Will and Mikhail, they were all dressed as if they were about to attend a winter business conference in a five-star hotel.

Will said, “When we get to The Hague, I’m going to try to keep us in play. We’ll have ten more days of sitting on our asses in another secure facility before the hearing.” He glanced at Laith. “Gives the rest of us a chance to win back our cash.”

Laith smiled. “You’ll lose again if you think poker’s a game of chance.”

Okay.” Kapitein Derksen’s voice filled the barracks. “Let’s go!”

The DSI unit and Will’s team jogged out of the building, then sprinted past other barracks and into a large aircraft hangar. In the center was the G-IV-SP aircraft. Its engines were running, and the pilots were visible in the cockpit, clearly making their preparations. Machine-gun-carrying police officers were standing around the craft; others were kneeling by the open hangar doors, pointing their weapons toward the runway.

In Dutch, Derksen barked into his throat mic, “Sierra 1. We’re in position at Zulu.”

Four of his men rushed into the plane as Derksen and another knelt by the plane’s steps and raised their guns. Looking at Will, Derksen snapped, “Get in.”

Will, Roger, Laith, Mark, Adam, and Mikhail entered the plane. It was quite small but luxurious. Two uniformed officers were at the head of the passenger area. One of them had a sniffer dog on a leash; the other, holding a clipboard, approached a DSI officer. The two spoke for a few seconds before the DSI operative took the clipboard, carefully examined the papers on it, and signed at the bottom. The paperwork showed that every space within the plane’s interior had been searched three times on the secure base by three separate police units. The two police officers left the plane, and the dog’s tail wagged quickly as the animal moved past the men.

Sumptuous leather seats lined each side of the plane, facing each other and separated halfway along by a bar and cupboards containing food. No doubt, ordinarily this type of carrier would be used for VIP businessmen and perhaps senior politicians. Will and the rest of the team moved to the front seats, sat, and waited. Five seconds later, Derksen and his colleague entered the craft.

Between them was an old man.

The witness.

The plane started taxiing as the old man was shown to a seat between two large DSI operatives. The remaining four Dutchmen took up positions close to him. One of the officers started talking quickly on his mic, relaying instructions and updates.

The silver-haired witness was wearing a gray suit, a necktie, and a somber overcoat. His etched, serious expression suggested that he had no appreciation for the craft’s luxurious interior.

The plane’s engine noise grew louder.

Will darted a look at Kapitein Derksen as the plane began increasing in speed. “Who is he?”

Derksen remained silent, motionless, gripping his submachine gun, just like the rest of his men.

“Who is he?”

The plane accelerated and took off.

“Kapitein Derksen. .!”

Derksen answered, “Now that we’re airborne, I’m permitted to give you his identity. His name is Nikolai Dmitriev, former colonel with the KGB and SVR.”

Dmitriev. The name Will had seen in the papers he’d discovered in Yevtushenko’s house.

The officer who’d attended the secret meeting in Berlin in 1995.

The man who’d approached The Hague six months ago in order to give evidence about a secret pact.

Will stared at Dmitriev, then glanced out of the window, bracing himself in case the plane was hit by a missile.

Nothing happened.

“Now that you know my identity”-Dmitriev pointed a frail finger toward Will-“it would be appropriate to know who you are.”

Will answered in Russian, “We’re part of the protection detail.”

“Really?” Dmitriev stared at each man before returning his attention to Will and stating in English, “None of you look like Dutch cops.”

Derksen leaned toward the Russian while fastening his seat belt. “They’re along for the ride because they’ve got information which will enable us to further keep you safe. Other than that, nothing’s changed. I’m in charge on the flight; you do exactly as I say.”

“Information?” Dmitriev kept his gaze fixed on Will. “What information ?”

Derksen motioned to Will to stay silent.

But Will answered, “We’re intelligence officers, multi-agency, though all of us have been working together to neutralize a specific threat to you.”

The old man briefly closed his eyes. “A threat that has a code name beginning with the letter K?”

At first, Will didn’t know if he should answer. If a person was going to kill him, he’d often wondered if he’d want to know that person’s identity just before it happened. It made no difference to the outcome, though perhaps it could give it some kind of meaning. “Yes. You know exactly who he is.”

Dmitriev opened his eyes and stared at nothing. “Then everything has gone according to plan.”

Will frowned. “What plan?”

Dmitriev said nothing.

Adam rubbed his disfigured face, wincing slightly.

Mikhail asked, “Does it hurt?”

The Scotsman looked at the spycatcher with an expression of suspicion, then smiled. “Aye. Cabin pressure during takeoffs and landings. Keeps me sharp.”

Mark leaned forward and gently punched Adam’s knee. “Just as well there ain’t any air hostesses on the flight, matey. Your ugly boat race would send ’em packing.”