Steve Abbott - Devil's Gambit

The Spymaster looked over the grainy pictures. “Professional job,” he remarked. “Not our style, you understand, but still, a professional job. If you ask me, it looks like the work of a soldier, somebody with training and combat experience.” He held out the photograph to Babitch and pointed to the bodies. “Take a closer look. See how all of the rounds struck them mid-chest? The line of impacts are the same height for all of them, the work of a single shooter.”

“So one man, possibly a soldier, did it? I have an entire team of analysts go over these and you waltz over and hit me with, ‘a soldier did it.’ The world is full of mercenaries right now. How hard would it be to hire one?”

“Quite right; not very hard at all. There are a large number of professionals out of work right now. A little side benefit of this peace dividend that your lot likes to bandy about.”

“This is way beyond anything mercs would pull,” Babitch protested.

Sir Harris raised an eyebrow and took another sip of coffee. “And why would you think that?”

“I’ve seen them in action. I doubt they could pull off a theft of this magnitude.”

“That’s strange. I can think of at least three distinct groups of your own military that could, as you say, pull this off.”

“Like who?”

“Your Green Berets, Delta Force and any one of your SEAL teams, not to mention your own CIA special teams.”

“We don’t have any special teams.”

“Of course you don’t.” Sir Harris put his coffee cup down. “Regardless, they are professional soldiers, men who your country has educated at great expense to be the best, the brightest and the most deadly.”

“And your point is?” Babitch looked at his watch in impatience.

“Any person with that sort of training could do this, any person at all. In light of the special relationship, I would like to offer two of my best men to assist you in tracking down these warheads. They are presently in Syria and I will arrange transport to Batumi within the hour.”

Babitch shook his head. “Thanks, but no. The Russians don’t want this to become public knowledge. Your organization is far from secure when it comes to leaks.”

Sir Harris kept his anger in check; it would not do to explode now. “Mister Babitch, I was playing this game while you were trying to stack blocks in your playpen. Your organization is hardly immune to leaks either. It is the nature of our business to spring leaks every now and then. It keeps us all on our toes. At least when we leak, it’s not for political gain.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between the two men. Sir Harris had little respect for Babitch. This latest slight had shown him, once again, too be much the politician, and too little the Director of Intelligence he was supposed to be.

The new CIA, under his directorship, was too busy guarding themselves against world opinion, and how their organization looked to Congress. It was as if they lost sight of the real purpose of the agency.

“You are assuming we will make this a joint operation after all.”

Sir Harris began to hate the sheer superior smugness of this man. He forced his voice to be calm and level. “Mister Babitch, you will be making this a joint operation. It is in the best interests of the special relationship.”

Babitch did not see the danger signs. “And why is that?”

“Because if you do not, we will do more than leak that warheads have gone missing from a rocket base in the former Soviet Union. We will release a flood, no a tsunami, of information, foremost of which will be how poorly you and the CIA have performed.”

Babitch shot bolt upright, anger coloring his face. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Three warheads go missing in a region populated by extremist Muslim groups. Groups who are more than capable of carrying out a suicide mission with a nuclear weapon? Throw in a South African arms dealer who specializes in the supply of strategic materials to mad bastards like the North Koreans, one of the most militant nations on this Earth.” He looked Babitch in the eye. “Just bloody try me. We’ll start with Fleet Street and the World Press. We’ll see what’s left of you after they get started.”

The blood drained out of Babitch’s face.

Sir Harris had guessed as much. “Give me the mission requirements and I’ll pass them on to my men.”

Babitch was still rattled, he pulled another file from his desk and passed it over to Sir Harris. “We already have a joint NEST team on their way to Georgia. They should be there within fifteen hours.”

Sir Harris nodded. “I’ll have my driver meet me at the front then.” He stood to leave and extended his hand towards Babitch. “Don’t feel bad, Mister Babitch. Nothing personal. It’s for Queen and country, after all.”

Water rose around the command bridge of the gunrunner as it sank to the bottom of the small dock. Stamopolis had opened the sea cocks, flooding her hull in a bid to hide the boat from the air and buy them some escape time. Sykes stood in silence beside him. Stamopolis watched with regret the indecorous end of their boat. As the short radio mast slid beneath the water, he had a gut feeling that they should have turned this job down, no matter what the payment was. If their contractor had arranged to dispose of the men who stole whatever was in the crates, what would there be to stop him from killing the delivery men as well?

Sykes turned and walked towards the waiting loaded trucks, impatient to be moving. Petros lingered behind and looked at the last few air bubbles breaking the surface of where his boat used to be.

“Come on, Petros, I’ll buy you ten others just like her when this is over.”

Petros turned from his now-sunken boat. As he climbed into the cab of the big Daimler-Benz truck Sykes had somehow acquired, he took the AK-74 his partner handed him. Marc was in the enclosed back, hidden just in case there were some unforeseen surprises in store on their journey to the pick-up point.

Sykes was in inner turmoil as well, though he kept it to himself. After being instructed to kill Burghoff, Sykes had little trust for the word of their employer. Smirnoff had also been targeted for elimination, but Sykes refused. It was dangerous enough transporting their mystery cargo. No need to add another clean-up job on the target’s home territory. The crates made him uneasy. He resolved to open one when the opportunity presented itself.

The dirty blue gray Daimler-Benz was an antique. Its fold-down cab was covered by a faded patchwork canvas roof. More than a few rusted bullet holes decorated its body. It had probably been left behind by the last army to retreat from this rugged, forbidding terrain. Sykes had folded down the front windshield and removed the doors on either side. Only the roof shielded them from the sun. No doors allowed fast exit from the vehicle. John had a thing about windshields. He had seen too many people blinded and disfigured by windshield glass in explosions during his various tours.

Sykes pulled out his tactical GPS unit. The airstrip pick-up point and the route they had to take were a green line that ended in a blinking purple carat.

Sykes preferred to ride shotgun, but for all of the skill Petros possessed in the handling of watercraft, he had to be the worst driver Sykes had ever seen. So Sykes was behind the wheel. He pushed the gear lever into low and popped the clutch. The truck shuddered. With a grinding of old gears, the aged hulk began to lumber down the narrow gravel track that passed for a road. He did not like traveling through this terrain. The high sloping hills, many strewn boulders and long shadows provided lots of places for ambush. The scenery moved by with agonizing slowness as the ancient truck, gears protesting every shift, moved higher and closer to the airfield.