66 Metres Read online

  On the plane they served champagne and flakes of smoked salmon with tired lettuce and a single cherry tomato. Business Class wasn’t what it used to be. He’d hire a car at Heathrow, make the four-hour drive to Penzance and take the helicopter across in the morning. Gazing out at the blanket of puffy clouds, he wondered whether he might find a present for Arnie in Cornwall, and fell asleep.

  ***

  Danton returned from the gym. Not one of those pansy tekky shitholes filled with whores in leotards and poufs with pacemakers. No, a real fucking gym where men sweated and grunted and lifted weights, spotting each other on the bench press. He’d lifted two-ten today, pretty good for a guy his height and age, just like he used to when he was eighteen, when he’d had a shot at the championships, before he’d had his collarbone broken and a rib snapped in a fight. Most people didn’t know when their lives went wrong. Danton fucking knew.

  As soon as he got through his apartment front door and threw his coat onto the sofa, he sensed something was different. He spun around, flick-knife drawn, then a grin trawled across his battered face.

  ‘Lazarus, you prick, I could’a killed you!’

  He closed the switchblade and went over to the swarthy Russian, a head taller and three times Danton’s weight, thick black shoulder-length hair shrouding his mottled face and deadpan eyes. Lazarus smiled confidently, brandishing two golden lower teeth, and gave Danton a bear hug. Danton fetched a dozen bottles of Romer Pilsener while Lazarus lit two Havanas.

  They smoked, laughed, talked shit and caught up on their exploits since a dozen years earlier when they’d done a few jobs for the same Russian family. After an hour Danton, always sober even when drunk, fixed Lazarus’ eye. Danton smiled broadly, completely at ease. An almost perfect day.

  ‘So, what’s the deal?’

  Lazarus had been leaning back in the armchair like a beached whale. With a grunt he eased forward, trying to crease his barrel-shaped torso. He stubbed the expired cigar into the overfull ash tray. ‘This is the part I hate,’ he said.

  Danton’s smile crumbled. He began recalling where his weapons were stashed around his apartment. The closest was the Glock: cabinet drawer behind the sofa he was sitting on. The Kalashnikov was in the kitchen. The sofa wasn’t in line of sight of either the neighbouring apartments or those across the boulevard, but the cabinet was. If Lazarus had a sniper as back-up. Of course he did. Danton’s front door, the only entrance, was reinforced iron, dead-bolted. But that hadn’t stopped Lazarus.

  ‘My old friend.’ Lazarus paused, a pained smile masking deathly seriousness.

  Danton wondered if he’d survive a night-time leap from his second-floor apartment window. He reckoned he would. If he could get past Lazarus. Which wasn’t likely.

  ‘Information.’ Lazarus sat up, his eyes suddenly ablaze, in complete contrast to his weary-of-life voice. ‘That’s all I need. Then I’ll make it quick.’

  Danton knew when his life had turned for the worst, when he’d gone from a potential Olympic contender, to a complete fucking nobody. But he’d clawed his way back up, and had a life now, such as it was. Friends at the gym, guys down the bar, a couple of whores he hung out with, and serious money from suits like Adamson every few months for a few hours’ work. It didn’t amount to a heap of crap, but he wasn’t ready to call it quits. He stalled.

  ‘You never told me why they call you Lazarus.’

  The Russian’s eyes glowed, then dulled, as he looked away. He leaned forward again then heaved himself up, a man mountain, still in his buttoned coat despite the humid summer city air. He walked a few paces to the left of Danton, and stood with his back to the window, obliterating the streetlights outside. ‘I was nineteen.’ He smiled, a real one, like Danton hadn’t seen from Lazarus in a long time. ‘Her name was Sasha. We were driving in Moscow down by the frozen Moskva, you know, where the road winds along its banks.’

  Lazarus left the window and drifted behind Danton, between the sofa and the pine cabinet. Danton heard a drawer slide open, something lifted. He mentally ran through options – the window, the Kalashnikov in the kitchen… He wouldn’t make it. Lazarus was big and heavy, but he’d seen him wrestle years earlier. The man could move fast when he needed to. And then there was the sniper; for sure Lazarus had another one covering the kitchen.

  Lazarus continued as he came back around to the armchair, Glock hanging from his right hand. ‘I had my hand between her legs, her tongue was in my ear. Christ, I was nineteen, you remember being that young, don’t you?’

  Danton did. Most of it was in hospital, catching the German weightlifting finals on TV while he coughed up blood, the rib having punctured his lung, everything made worse by a botched facial reconstruction op. But a year earlier, at eighteen, was a different matter, he’d been on top of the world.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I do.’

  Lazarus remained standing. ‘Well, I took my eyes off the road to take a good look at her, you know,’ he waved the matt black Glock. ‘And drove straight through the barrier where some idiot had plunged into the river the week before. Just temporary plastic, not metal. Went through it at sixty, like it was paper.’ He frowned, then smiled, almost laughed to himself. ‘You know in those Hollywood movies, when cars go sailing through the air?’

  Danton nodded.

  ‘Well, it was just like that. For a moment, both of us were caught by the sheer exhilaration. We were flying, I mean really flying! Instead of screaming like any normal person, you know what she did?’

  Danton looked up into that large mottled face, wondering if Lazarus could really kill him. Of course he could. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘She kissed me. I swear to God she kissed me. I’ll never forget that kiss.’

  Danton for the last time wondered if he could rush Lazarus, but the bear of a man was standing right in front of him, whereas he was sitting in a crummy sofa that he’d never get out of fast enough.

  ‘We hit the ice, front bumper first, rammed it, then the rear wheels smacked down behind. We skidded maybe fifty metres, the car spun twice, and all the time that hissing sound like when you’re skiing on fresh snow. Then we came to a stop. For a moment we held our breath, couldn’t believe our luck. Sasha and I burst out laughing, kissed again, and then… the sound of ice cracking, deep, like you hear when someone snaps a bone in your own body. We froze, looked each other in the eyes the way – well, you of all people know – and slowly opened the car doors. But there was another crack, like a whip. We sank into the river. So cold, the water was so unbe-fucking-lievably cold.’

  Danton almost smiled. Symmetry. He was extracting a confession of sorts from Lazarus, and there would be a death. He nursed the last can of beer in clammy hands, downed it, wiped his lips. ‘She died, right?’

  Lazarus stared down at him a long time before answering. ‘Sasha saved me. She was a swimmer from one of the provinces, used to Siberian lakes. She hauled me onto the ice. I was much lighter then. A police car had seen it all, helped her. I was dead already. But the cold preserved me. They resuscitated me, brought me back. Hence the nickname.’

  ‘And Sasha?’

  Lazarus’ eyes glinted again. ‘Married her of course.’ His face hardened. ‘She died three years later. Leukaemia.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Danton said.

  Lazarus sat down, the Glock pointing at Danton. ‘I’d rather not call in the others. We’ve known each other a long time. They’re young, eager. Like we used to be. But they don’t know shit, and they don’t show respect.’

  Danton had often wondered what his own victims thought about once they knew what was going down. Did their lives flash before their eyes? His didn’t. He watched the Glock.

  ‘The Rose has disappeared. I was due to meet Sammy this morning, but he disappeared too. What did he tell you?’

  Danton wanted to keep this professional – no, respectful – and he knew his job.

  ‘Janssen tried to double-cross Kadinsky – who I guess you’re working for?’

 
; Lazarus didn’t deny it.

  ‘Sammy and the girl, Nadia, killed Janssen and the other two, Toby and Kilroy. She has the Rose, most likely in Land’s End, the Cornish coast. She’ll wait there for extraction.’

  Lazarus fished out a small pad with a pencil attached. ‘The name of the CIA guy you’re working for?’

  ‘Adamson. Bill Adamson.’

  Lazarus wrote the name down and then put the pad away. Like it was Danton’s death certificate. He wouldn’t meet Danton’s eyes.

  Danton knew he had to say something, anything, to make himself still seem relevant, useful.

  ‘I don’t think he’s acting for the CIA on this one.’

  Lazarus looked up. ‘Why?’

  ‘Different phone number, more cash than usual, he was just acting kind of nervous. The whole time. I asked a couple of questions and he cut me off. Besides, this Rose, it’s too big to use me on the case. And Sammy would have cracked using less extreme measures.’

  Lazarus pursed his lips a moment. ‘You think Adamson’s gone rogue?’

  Danton nodded. He waited a while, then added what he’d been thinking, shifting from useful informant to advisor.

  ‘Come to think of it, this one’s too big for Kadinsky, isn’t it? I even thought the Kremlin might come knocking.’

  Lazarus stared down at the space between them. ‘The man has ambitions.’

  Danton left it there, the seed, hoping it would take root fast.

  But Lazarus heaved himself upright, and Danton knew it hadn’t been enough.

  The big man walked around behind him again, picking up a cushion on the way. Danton knew the Glock made no sound just before it fired, no giveaway click that the end was coming, now.

  ‘What about you?’ Lazarus asked. ‘Anyone special in all your years?’

  Danton’s neck hairs were going haywire. Lazarus was right behind him. Danton could almost sense the short barrel aiming toward the back of his head, behind the cushion that would act as a crude silencer. He’d loaded the gun himself with dum-dums. At this range it would blow his face off. All that money spent on facial reconstruction, all for nothing. Everything had all been for nothing. A joke, just like that Jimi Hendrix song he could never remember the name of.

  He thought about Lazarus’ question. Any loves? Not really. There’d been a hooker, an English girl, Gloria she’d said her name was, though he never knew for sure. There’d been something there between the two of them for a while. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. ‘Gloria,’ he said, closing his eyes, trying to remember her face from that one morning after he’d stayed the night and seen beneath the make-up.

  But the thought of her, of something good in his recent shitty existence, made him try one last time. Danton had never begged for anything, and wouldn’t start now. But…

  ‘Who you going to send, Lazarus, to make sure the girl delivers? A team of young-and-dumb Russian motherfuckers who’ll stick out like sore thumbs and don’t know shit? I’ll blend in, find the girl, get the device, bring it back. And I know Adamson, that CIA prick; he acts like a suit, but there’s more going on, I’m sure of it. I could take him out.’ His mind worked fast, trying to outrace his heartbeats and Lazarus’ trigger-finger. He didn’t turn around. Instead he spoke to the wall in front of him, felt the Glock’s presence behind his head, listening, judging, weighing the options.

  ‘It comes down to trust, Lazarus, old friend, and our code. This goes bad, I’m betting you’ll not be far behind me. Who do you trust to do the job, Lazarus, to do whatever it takes, kill anyone who knows too much, get it done without too much mess and no trail back to you or your boss? You and I, we operate according to a code, not like these newbies. You know I won’t do a runner, and I’ll go down without squealing if it comes to that.’ He cut himself off; to say any more could tip the balance the wrong way. Odd, he felt young again. His heart didn’t slow, but his breathing smoothed out. He was ready either way.

  The cushion appeared on the top of the sofa next to him. Lazarus patted it once, then came around back to his seat, gave Danton a long, appraising stare, then tossed the Glock onto the chair. Pulling out a mobile, never taking his eyes off Danton. He made the call, in Russian, then hung up.

  ‘Leave first thing in the morning. Take this phone; only I will call you on it. Eliminate Adamson, the girl too. If you’ve not got the Rose within seventy-two hours –’

  ‘You’ll send in your team, and we both know what their first job will be. You won’t have to. I’ll get it done.’

  Lazarus nodded. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  As Lazarus’ massive frame silhouetted the doorway, Danton couldn’t resist asking one last question. ‘Sasha … Do you think she’s waiting for you, you know, on the other side?’

  Lazarus paused, turned his head halfway, and nodded. ‘She was a good Russian girl.’ With that, he left, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

  Danton stayed still for a while. That had been close. But the job was no sweat. He’d find this little bitch, Nadia, put a bullet through her skull and take the Rose. Maybe have a little fun with her first, Lazarus wouldn’t care, nor would Kadinsky. But the adrenaline was still pumping through him, and he knew there was only one way he’d get some sleep. He stood up, grabbed his coat, pocketed the Glock, and headed out to the street where Gloria used to work.

  ***

  Jake did the trip one more time in the police boat, from Lambeth Bridge to Tower Bridge. It must have been quite an underwater swim. Of course she would have had the tide tugging her along. Still, no mean feat of navigation, never mind with those currents down there. He looked over the side again. The water was turgid, swirling. Visibility was shite.

  He climbed up the ladder onto the Mirage, ducked and weaved through a spider web of yellow and black police tape, and flashed his temporary badge borrowed from MI6 as necessary. Once they saw that badge the police didn’t want to know his name or what he was interested in. Lorne was in the pleasure boat’s bar section, studying a report. Another short dress, in her hand a cocktail glass with clear liquid and a cherry. As he entered, she nodded to someone behind him. Suddenly they were alone.

  She carried on reading. ‘Any thoughts yet?’

  He waited till she looked up, then shook his head.

  She closed the report. ‘We have several leads, all flimsy to say the least. One or two here, one in Penzance, and one in the Isles of Scilly.’

  He shifted on his feet.

  ‘Ah yes, you have friends there, don’t you?’

  ‘What’s the lead?’

  She took a sip. ‘Probably nothing. A Russian girl was searched there yesterday. Clean, apparently.’

  ‘So, why –’

  ‘First, she’s a ghost. Below the radar for five years. No media presence anywhere. Not an email, not a single electronic payment of a bill. Very unusual, except for an operative. Second, one of the crew of the Naval Patrol boat thought there was a piece on the boat when they arrived that wasn’t there when they left. He only realised it later. Wasn’t going to report it, but the captain is apparently a stickler for these things. Probably nothing, but someone should go down there just in case.’

  ‘London, Penzance, Scilly Isles,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, we don’t need your intelligence wizardry to join those particular dots. Pretty much a straight line.’ She took another sip.

  She was wearing lip gloss. Crimson. It had been his favourite colour on her. He dismissed the thought. He needed to know the operational parameters of this… investigation. He fed Lorne his observation. ‘The diver was female,’ he said.

  She stared at him a moment, then put the glass down. ‘When were you going to tell me?’

  ‘Now,’ he said.

  She picked up her phone.

  ‘I’ll go,’ he said.

  ‘You’re an intelligence expert, Jake, not a field operative.’

  He thought of the diver saving the pilot. Now he almost wished he hadn’t mentioned it. ‘Even i
f it is her, I doubt she has it. My guess would be that it’s already on the continent. Rotterdam or Frankfurt. Maybe Paris.’

  She still held the phone. ‘I need more.’

  He’d read all the intel. There was no pattern to see. It was too early. But he did have an instinct.

  ‘Frankfurt,’ he said.

  She leant back. Her short dress rose up slightly, revealing more of her thighs. He kept his eyes on hers.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘To me this has Russian mob stamped all over it. Audacious, but more loose ends than if Spetsnaz or other Special Force outfits were involved. I’m guessing the Kolorokov Brothers. They’ve been looking to raise their game for a while, and there was a Russian cyber-attack attempt on the MOD recently, trying to hack into the Rose project. Kremlin wouldn’t come after it directly, but they might get someone else to. The Kolorokovs have an operation in Frankfurt, and certain contractors they use. A staging post before heading back to Russia.’

  In truth it was a leap of faith. But if he had to bet, that’s where his money would go. And he was hedging his bets as well, as the CIA had been known to use some of the very same contractors, and he never put anything past the CIA.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘And if I find her, and she is the diver?’

  She tapped her phone twice, flashed perfect white teeth. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Anne,’ he said. ‘And the boyfriend.’

  She picked up her glass, stole the cherry into her mouth, swallowed it. ‘Already in play. I’m looking after it personally.’ She put down the glass and opened the phone, stared intently at it as if reading, and without looking up, waved one hand, dismissing him.

  He was immune to her power games, and was happy to leave. He wondered if she knew he’d spent a whole year in the Scillies completing his training, from sports diver to advanced instructor, after Sean… Of course she knew. But it would be good to see the gang again. He could do some diving, meet this Russian girl and confirm it was a dead end. By then Anne would be back on track, and the Rose would have been found. Lorne would have ten others like him working on this, no matter what she said. The CIA would also be looking. Stupid not to have involved them from the start.