Adam Tark emerged from the kitchen and handed Suzy a mug. “German chamomile. I bought it this evening after my shift at the hotel. It’s a calmative and digestive aid, perfectly safe once you’re in the second trimester.”
Suzy took the drink from the former SAS soldier. “Do you guys spend all your time in the Grand Hyatt thinking about what I should and shouldn’t be doing while pregnant?”
Adam grinned, though his disfigured face made the expression look more like a grimace. “Most of the time, yeah.” The Scotsman zipped up his fleece jacket. “Anyway, we’ve got vested interests. Me and Roger have bet two hundred dollars each that it’s going to be a girl; Mark, Peter, and Laith have bet that it’s going to be a boy.” He glanced at Will. “Boss, you want in on the bet?”
“Sure, put me down for a girl.” Will pulled on his jacket. “Providing that’s okay with you, Suzy?”
“Why not?” The CIA analyst slapped both hands onto the dining room table and pushed herself up off the chair. “I’ll decide who I want to win the bet, then pop a kid out who’s got the right gender. Maybe the winners can cut me in for fifty percent of the takings.”
Will smiled. “Any progress on Interpol’s request for information on Kurt Schreiber?”
“Alistair and Patrick are still looking into it.”
“Keep me posted.” Will’s cell phone rang. Roger was calling. He listened to the CIA officer speak for three seconds before snapping the phone shut and calling out, “Russians are on the move! Roger and Mark are in a vehicle, pursuing them. Adam, Laith: get the guns. We need to go now!”
Four minutes later, Will, Laith, and Adam were in an SUV. Adam was driving very fast, navigating his way through the city’s midevening traffic. Laith was next to him, holding his military communications mic close to his throat. “We’re mobile. Where we headed?”
In his earpiece, Will heard Mark’s voice. “They’re moving west. Two SUVs. Get your arses onto Unter Den Linden.”
Will slammed a magazine into his SIG Sauer P226 handgun. “What’s their speed?”
“Normal.”
“Do you think they know you’re on them?”
“No. Traffic’s heavy. But if they’re moving out of the city, we’ve got to hope they stay on a major highway.”
Will unzipped a large canvas bag and withdrew three M4A1 assault rifles with grenade launcher attachments. He placed a rifle and an ammunition pouch containing spare magazines and grenades next to each of his colleagues, and kept the third for himself. “These mustn’t be used unless absolutely necessary. And no dead Russians.”
“No dead Russians?” Laith shook his head, patted his rifle, and smiled. “What has the world come to?”
Adam drove the vehicle onto a larger road. “We’re on Unter Den Linden, heading toward Tiergarten district.”
Roger responded, “You’ve got some catching up to do. Targets are moving through Westend, about five miles ahead of you.”
Adam put his foot to the floor, expertly moving the SUV around slower vehicles. Will and Laith scrutinized the road ahead and occasionally looked behind, searching for signs of police cars. The last thing they needed was for a cop to attempt to pull them over for speeding.
“Target’s moving through Pichelsdorf; has slowed to forty MPH.”
Adam said, “Could be intending to turn off north, heading to Spandau. Or south on the Potsdamer Chaussee.”
Silence for ten seconds.
Mark said, “They’re taking the Potsdamer route. Still don’t seem to be in any rush.”
Will frowned. “Roger, what was their demeanor like when they checked out of the hotel?”
“They did it quickly, but didn’t look like they were panicked.”
Will nodded. “I think this road trip was planned in advance, and they’re driving at speeds that will avoid the attention of the cops but still get them to their destination on time.”
“Looks like it.”
They drove onward for ten minutes before Adam said, “Okay, I’ve got a visual of you.” They were exiting the city and entering countryside. “We’re taking over point.”
Mark answered, “Got it.”
Roger and Mark’s vehicle slowed, switched lanes, and moved behind another vehicle.
Adam drove past them and kept his SUV behind two other vehicles. Beyond them were the Russian cars. “Suggest we switch over every ten minutes. Nothing else we can do now except follow them.”
Suzy saw that she’d received a message from Patrick telling her to call Alistair. Retrieving another cell phone, one of ten in her possession, she pressed the keyboard. Alistair answered on the fourth ring.
“You’ve got something for me?”
The senior MI6 officer answered, “Kurt Schreiber’s name has been flagged by Interpol because any information relating to the man needs to be forwarded to the chief prosecutor of the International Criminal Court.”
Located in The Hague, the court’s remit was to investigate and prosecute individuals for genocide, crimes against humanity, and war crimes.
“What did Interpol say?”
“They’ve got no idea why the prosecutor’s interested in Schreiber, though they did say that it’s directly connected to a high-value witness.”
“Who’s the witness?”
“Interpol doesn’t have a name, but does know the witness approached the court six months ago and ever since has been held in protective custody in Holland.”
“He must be intending to give evidence on something Schreiber’s done.”
“That’s my take.”
“Have you spoken to the court?”
“I tried to speak to the chief prosecutor to find out what his interest was in Kurt Schreiber. He told me that I was to only liaise on this matter with Interpol, that if I tried to call him again, he’d complain to the president of the court and the UN Secretary-General that British Intelligence was attempting to pervert the course of justice.”
Suzy huffed. “That was a bit strong.”
“Clearly, he doesn’t want our kind sniffing around him. Have you managed to get anything on Schreiber?”
“Nothing beyond his former status in the Stasi. Since then, the guy’s vanished.”
Two hours later, Will and his team were twenty miles outside of Hanover, driving in darkness on the main E30 highway.
Roger said, “Targets are pulling off the road, into a gas station.”
Urgently, Will asked, “Any chance they’ve got either of our number plates?”
“Impossible in this light. Plus, we’ve always kept behind other vehicles, so their line of sight has been blocked.”
“Okay. Roger, Mark: follow them in. We’ll stop on the hard shoulder.”
Three minutes later, Mark said, “They’ve fueled their vehicles, have moved them to parking bays, and are drinking coffee and eating. Hold.” The line went quiet. “One man gets out of his vehicle; second gets out of the other. They move to the back of their cars. Withdraw large bags. Return to the passenger doors. Enter with the bags.”
Roger spoke. “All are focused on what’s in the bags.”
Will asked, “What’s happening?”
The CIA officer answered, “My guess is they’re tooling up for direct action.”
Twenty-Three
Mikhail Salkov drove his SUV across Lower Saxony’s Luneburg Heath. It was nearly 3:00 A.M., pitch dark, but he’d taken this route enough times to do it without the aid of maps or daylight. As ever, since being in Germany, he was dressed in jeans, boots, and a Windbreaker, clothes that would enable him to fight if need be. Tonight there would be a fight. He’d given instructions that at 5:00 A.M. the fifteen men on the perimeter of Kurt Schreiber’s farmstead would be reinforced with the fifteen men on rest, and the combined force would assault Kurt’s property. It was his last resort: he knew the farmstead was heavily defended, but time was now his enemy, as Kurt wouldn’t tolerate being trapped in the complex for much longer.