The Silk Road E-Book

Mark Leggatt

• Herausgeber: Fledgling Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Third in the Connor Montrose series by Mark Leggatt, following on from the success of Names of the Dead and The London Cage. Ex-CIA technician Connor Montrose tracks two suspected terrorists to a deserted mountain village in Tuscany, where he witnesses an attack on a US Air Force troop plane, using a ground-breaking portable Surface to Air (SAM) missile. Unaware that the CIA were also monitoring the suspects, Montrose is blamed for the attack and narrowly escapes. The CIA receive orders from Washington to shoot him on sight, and a shadowy organisation begins to track his every move. Then a spate of terror attacks threatens the fabric of NATO and the entire Western alliance. Civilian airlines are the new target, and the overwhelming evidence points to a CIA false flag plan to bring down aircraft and blame it on Moscow-backed terrorists. Montrose's investigations lead him to underground arms sales on The Silk Road, the secret marketplace of the internet, hidden deep in the Dark Web. Montrose must assimilate himself into the society of the European aristocracy and the ultra-rich fascists, assisted by Kirsty Rhys, to pose as a middleman for the purchase of arms on The Silk Road and find the remaining cache of missiles. Montrose uncovers the layers of duplicity between governments and arms dealers, leading first to the CIA in Rome, and eventually to the palaces of the last Russia Tsar and the new oligarchs. Montrose must discover the remaining cache of missiles before the CIA catch up with him, and before carnage is unleashed over the skies of Europe.

Leseprobe

To Kirsty B.

For Stealing her name.

Chapter 1

A faint shadow on the stone showed where the crucifix had been. He turned his back to the bare altar and brought up his hand to his chest, then touched the butt of the pistol in the holster, next to his heart. The door to the church, like all the other doors in the village, lay wide open.

To his right, the stone staircase cut into the mountain that made up the east wall, twisting steeply up to the bell tower. The rough-hewn steps were bowed and smooth after a thousand years of worshippers, though they had long gone.

The bell tower would give the best vantage point. He peered over his shoulder to make sure the exit was clear. If he was trapped in the tower, he was a dead man. Keeping to the wall, he shoved his way past the crumbling remains of the wooden pews, then edged towards the door. He pulled the pistol from the holster and knelt just inside the doorway, then glanced down the street. It was clear, but he knew they were close.

He sat back and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His hands stung where the rocks had cut into his flesh during the climb. He took another look. The church was at the end of the street, the highest part of the village. To his left, the road wound past the open doors of the houses that had survived destruction, then dropped suddenly at the end, down into the valley, hidden by the bushes and stunted trees clinging to the mountainside. He wondered how many centuries it had been since the villagers had left. Scattered between the empty houses lay piles of rubble, shattered roof tiles and exposed, crumbling timbers, in a graveyard of buildings that had succumbed to the earthquakes. He checked the street again, then pinpointed the alley that led to the cliff on the south side where he had entered the village. The treacherous climb up the south face had been the only way to follow the suspects without being seen. One road to the top of the mountain and the same road down. He would have been spotted in minutes. And he’d be dead.

Halfway down the street, he saw faint tire tracks curving around a low, leaf-filled water trough. A gouge in the earth led to the edge of wide wooden doors. Above them, just below the pointed roof, a weathered beam jutted out, the remains of a hoist to a hay loft.

He turned away, and leaned back against the wall, feeling the dust stick to his sweat-soaked t-shirt. The stable doors seemed to be the only ones closed in the entire village. They must be in there. He wiped his wet hands on his jeans then pulled back the slide on the pistol and chambered a round. He stood, his leg muscles tight from the climb, then stepped out into the road.

The stable doors swung open. He ducked back into the doorway of the church and watched the two men each drag a wheeled suitcase down the street. One walked like a soldier, head high, and the other, a fat, squat guy, took quick steps to keep up. They turned and disappeared down an alley towards the village square. The suitcases left a track in the dust behind them. They looked heavy.

He stood for a moment, then edged out of the doorway, his gun raised, keeping his back against the wall of the church. He listened to the rumbling wheels of the suitcases become fainter. Mr. Pilgrim had told him there were two suspects. He had seen two men in the BMW as it climbed towards the village and two men had come from the stables. He glanced left and right, his heart thumping. They weren’t here for a vacation. He ran over to the stable door and ducked inside, then brought up the pistol.

Out of the glare of the Tuscan sun, the sweat cooled on his skin. In the center of the stable stood the BMW, thick with dust and grime from the drive through the endless mountain tracks. He could hear the engine ticking as it cooled. He made to reach for the door handle, then noticed the cloth rags on the floor and the lines through the dust caked onto the windows and doors. They had wiped their fingerprints. He stepped back, lowering the pistol. If the men were leaving the car behind, how were they going to get out of the village with two heavy suitcases and one road down to the valley? Mr. Pilgrim had said the CIA were interested in the two men, but he had no idea why. Yeah, he thought, you and me both, buddy.

He ran into the sunlight and sprinted towards the church. There had to be another way down the mountain.

Dust from the church floor flew up as he ran to the foot of the bell tower. Plaster flaked off the wall when he stuck out a hand to steady himself up the steep, winding steps, and stopped at the top, just before he placed a foot on the rotting floorboards.

The bell had long gone, and shafts of sunlight shone through the wooden slats of the louvered windows. The wood was grey and twisted, swollen with winter rains, then baked dry in the summer.

I’m missing something, he thought. Why an Italian ghost town? He shuffled around the edge of the tower, the paper-dry wood creaking under his feet. The village commanded a view across the low, wide valley to the north, and the forested plain he had come through from the south. He peered through the slats towards the north, down to an expanse of green fields, and a river cutting through the valley hemmed in by steep hills. He watched the white flecks of the water tumbling across the rocks. The thick, hot air in the tower caught in his throat and he dried the wet butt of the pistol on his t-shirt.

Something doesn’t add up, he thought. They had cleaned the car of prints. They weren’t going to drive out of here. Why would they dump the car?

He gazed over the jumble of low rooftops. The two men were nowhere to be seen. Nor their suitcases. He turned towards the village square overlooking the valley, hidden from the road behind the houses, and bordered with a low wall at the edge of the drop down the north side of the mountain. In the center, below a broken wooden roof, lay a wide stone trough, filled with dry leaves, where the villagers had once washed their clothes. For a moment, he wondered how they had managed to get water up so high, then realized it must have been the hard way. He looked down the valley to the river. The only things up here are goats or tomatoes, he thought. No wonder they emigrated. Like so many before them, away from the feudal landowners and crushing poverty. Along the steep hills bordering the valley he saw more abandoned homes, some no more than a scatter of rocks down the hillside. One famine, one earthquake too many, and they had left in their thousands, down to the sea, and across the Atlantic to the promised land.

Shards of sunlight flashed on the river coursing through the valley. If villagers had carried water up the mountain, he knew there had to be a path down to the river. The east side of the village square was bordered by sheer rock. He peered down to the bottom of the bell tower, hard against the rocks on the west side, but the trees blocked his view. If there was a path, it had to be there, somewhere in the trees, and down through the thick forest to the valley.

The sound of a door creaking open made him twist his head towards the village square. He pulled out his phone and brought up the map, then traced the blue line of the river, before it ended abruptly. That’s not right, he thought. Rivers don’t suddenly stop. He expanded the screen and saw a shaded area to the west. He looked up, but the area on the map was hidden behind the forest on the west side of the hill. He switched to satellite view, and the whole area was blurred out on the screen. That’s got to be military, he thought. Is that why they’re here? To set up a spy station? On the map, he saw several arrow-straight tracks at each end disappear into the blurred area. He grinned when he realized it was an airport. He tried to look west, but it was hidden behind the forest.

Now it’s making sense, he thought. That’s why the CIA and Mr. Pilgrim are following these two goons. If they were spying on a CIA airport in the middle of no place, then they were gonna get their asses kicked all the way back to Rome. No wonder they needed an escape route. The CIA wouldn’t be happy about their black ops flights being monitored. Italy made for a perfect stopping point to the Middle East. He expanded the map, trying to gauge the size. He realized it was a long runway. Too long for private jets full of terrorists with a bag on their heads being invited back for coffee and a chat. But long enough for a bomber. He peered down to the village square. If it was a secret site for stealth bombers, then Iran would be very interested. And the Russians.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the two men enter the village square, dragging their suitcases behind them. He looked at his phone. Mr. Pilgrim would be very interested. Then Langley could send some goons to clean up. They probably had a unit at the airport. He almost laughed out loud at the thought of phoning the CIA and telling them himself. That’s one call he couldn’t make. Somewhere in Langley, a team of technicians would be crouched around computer screens, dedicated to only one thing. Finding him. And if that ever happened, a world of shit would descend, and the only thing left would be his lifeless body. Treason and murder tended to shorten your life span, especially where the CIA were concerned. When you blow the whistle on a CIA black op to buy Afghan oil using the lives of US servicemen, then watch it unravel live on CNN while you stick a bullet in the Afghan Ambassador’s head, they tend to get a bit pissy. They tend to dedicate a whole team to making sure your next breath is your last. Though if the desk-bound bastards in Langley knew where he was, they might not bother sending anyone. They’d probably napalm the whole goddam mountain just to make sure he was dead. Then they’d carpet-bomb Tuscany just to be absolutely sure. He could imagine them whooping with delight when they found the charred corpse of Connor Montrose. “Yeah,” he muttered, “but not today, bitches.”

The two men placed their suitcases against the stone water trough and stood before the low wall, looking down to the valley.

Montrose shook his head and laid his pistol on the window ledge. If they were going to set up a spy station, they should have used one of the houses, not the village square. Anything they set up there would stick out like a bulldog’s balls.

A low rumble came from the West. He looked up then realized it was coming from the valley. The rumble echoed around the hills, then grew to the roar of aircraft engines.

In the village square, the fat guy pulled out a phone and jammed it to his ear.

Low in the valley, a USAF C-130 transport plane emerged, climbing slowly into the air, its engines roaring under full load.

The fat guy dropped his phone and pointed to the valley.

A cold shock stabbed through Montrose’s spine when it dawned on him. They didn’t care if they were seen. They didn’t give a shit.

The fat guy laid his suitcase down and popped the locks, then lifted out two green cylinders from the foam packing. He laid them carefully on the ground and slotted them together before twisting off the end to reveal a red cap. The other man had his suitcase open; he lifted a black mechanism onto his shoulder and faced the valley. The fat guy stood behind him and fitted the cylinder onto the top of the mechanism.

“Holy shit,” said Montrose. “That’s a fucking missile.”

“We have company.”

The Director leaned over the operator’s shoulder towards the video screen. The village street was empty. “Where?”

“One man. With a gun. He ran into the church.”

The Director stood up and cleared his throat, ignoring the other board members gathered around the wide table. It was unfortunate to have an incident so soon into the plan. “Only one?”

“We’re checking all the footage. There’s no trace of anyone else.”

“And our friends from the CIA?”

“We have another drone monitoring the approach road to the valley, and the village. They are still in convoy. About five minutes from arrival. They don’t seem in a hurry.”

The Director smiled. “No hurry? That will change.” He heard the low voices of the other directors behind him. He knew he couldn’t show any concern. “Lift the first drone higher. I want a view of the village square. But before you do, show the view from the valley drone.”

The operator swapped the screens to show a line of SUVs negotiating the twisting roads through the wooded valley and the climb up to the village.

“Inform our two operatives about the man in the church. I’m sure it will focus their minds on the task in hand. That is all.” He ignored the voices at the table, then placed his hands behind his back and strolled to the window, gazing out over the industrial estate, and across the forest canopy to the spires of Dresden. The British bombers must have seen the same sight, he thought, but at night, when the fires would consume the city. “Gentlemen, the operation will continue as planned.”

Chapter 2

Montrose tried to shove the muzzle of the pistol between the narrow wooden slats covering the window in the bell tower but couldn’t twist his hand to get a straight shot. Floorboards cracked as he ran towards the steps and threw himself down, thumping his shoulder into the wall to keep upright. He vaulted the broken pews and ran into the street. Between the houses and deserted alleys he could see the blue sky of the valley to the north and hear the C-130 as it rose into the sky. He scrambled over a pile of rubble and saw the edge of the village square. A house to the right was still standing and he ran through the twisted doorway, across the earth floor and jammed his gun out of the broken window frame.

The tall man stood still, the missile launcher on his shoulders. The C-130 climbed higher.

Montrose rested his hand on the wooden frame, blew out a breath then squeezed the trigger.

The tall man fell to his knees. The fat guy spun around holding a machine pistol and fired towards the house.

Bullets tore through the thin mud and plaster wall and Montrose threw himself to the floor. Above him, sunlight speared through ragged bullet holes and the swirling dust. Another burst blew over his head and he forced his face onto the floor. He scrambled through the door on his knees and crouched behind a low wall. The fat guy would be covering either side of the house, waiting for him to raise his head. Only an idiot would try to fire from the same position. The cloud of dust obscured him as he crawled back into the house. He peered out the window and saw the tall man lying motionless on the ground, a pool of blood spreading around him.

The fat guy was facing the valley. He widened his stance, then lifted the missile onto his shoulder.

Montrose snatched at the trigger, firing off four rounds and caught him in the leg and arm.

The fat guy toppled backwards and a searing jet of orange flame burst across the square as the missile launched into the air, streaking away from the valley and back over the roofs of the village.

Holding his pistol level, Montrose watched the C-130 as it rose into the sky. “You missed, asshole!”

The fat guy clutched his leg and rolled sideways behind the stone water trough. Montrose reckoned he wasn’t going anywhere and ran back through the door and into the street, listening for an explosion far behind him. Dust stuck to the sweat on his face and he looked up into the sky and watched the missile continue south, then lift gracefully into the air and curve north in a wide arc, back towards the village. His mouth dropped open. “No!”

A thin stream of smoke traced its path high over his head, and down to the valley. He ran between the houses to the village square and saw the C-130 rising between the hills, before the nose lifted sharply and the engines screamed. A shower of flares erupted from the belly of the plane, their blinding lights piercing his vision, and clouds of silver chaff blew out from the wings, sunlight glinting on a million tiny strips of aluminum in a shimmering cloud as the plane weaved left and right.

The missile speared through the cloud of chaff and flares and exploded just below the starboard wing. The C-130 flipped left and seemed to hang in the air before a fireball erupted from its ruptured fuel tanks. It rolled over and began to fall from the sky, tumbling backwards towards the valley floor, then slammed into the ground. A mushroom cloud of black smoke spewed out across the valley then slowly lifted, drifting over the hilltops and revealing the burning wreckage strewn across the green fields.

The Director stood up, nodding slowly as he watched the screen. The whole valley floor seemed to be ablaze. “Turn back to the village.”

The operator rotated a joystick and the view on the screen spun around and showed the village square. One man lay spread-eagled in a pool of blood. Another crouched below the water trough, ripping cloth from his shirt and bandaging his leg.

“Where is our visitor?”

The screen moved to show a man standing between the ruined houses, staring up into the sky.

“Can he see us?”

“It is unlikely, sir,” replied the operator.

A hand slammed on the boardroom table behind them. “Kill him!”

The Director didn’t turn around, but squeezed his lips tight, then relaxed and spoke slowly. “All in good time. Patience is what is required here.”

“He nearly ruined the entire operation! If he captures our operative, then…”

The Director turned and walked towards them. “Then what? Do you think I have not planned for this eventuality? Every situation provides an opportunity. It is wisdom to know when to seize that opportunity, and when to let it slip.” He faced the operator. “Is the drone armed?”

“Yes, Director.”

“Good.” He pointed to a man on the screen. “Don’t let him out of your sight.”

“Tracking enabled.”

From the cover of a ruined house, Montrose saw the fat guy scramble from behind the water trough, weaving unsteadily on his injured leg, heading for the rocks and trees below the church. The smell of burning aircraft fuel drifted up towards the village. “You bastard!” He fired two rounds then took off after him. “Stop!” He fired off another round at the man’s feet.

The fat guy stumbled and fell to the ground, clutching his leg.

“Don’t move!” Montrose advanced with the gun pointing at the fat guy’s head.

He held on tight to his wound and pushed himself slowly to his feet.

“On your knees!”

He smiled. “No.”

Montrose stood before the man and thrust the gun against his head. “Get on your knees. Do it now.”

The fat guy closed his eyes for a moment, then turned slowly to look down at the valley. “Go to hell.”

“Listen to me, you want to go and meet your maker, that’s fine by me.”

The fat guy gave a sideways glance at Montrose’s gun. “I’m impressed you got here so quickly.”

Montrose saw blood spill out through the man’s fingers and pool into the dust. He shifted his stance and pointed the gun at the man’s chest. “What the hell you talking about?”

The fat guy thrust his chin towards the village. “Your friends from the CIA. I hope they give you a medal for shooting my partner.” Then he flicked his eyes at the valley. “Or maybe not, eh?” He began to laugh, and using his free hand to shield his eyes, he looked up at the sky.

“Don’t move.” Montrose could hear car engines and the squeal of tires from the mountain road to the village. “The CIA?” If they find me here, he thought, I’m a dead man.

The fat guy shifted his weight and stepped nearer the trees. “Tell them I said hello. If you’re still alive, which I seriously doubt.”

“You stay right there or I’ll empty this gun into your head.”

“Only one of us is going to leave this mountain alive.” He stopped, resting his wounded leg, and looked up to the sky. “You want to make a guess who that’s going to be?”

“Get closer, I want to see his face.” The Director leaned forward on the desk and dipped his head towards the screen.

The operator twisted the joystick. The view from the drone focused on the two men.

“So, who’s our new friend?” said the Director.

The operator checked a laptop to his right. “Face recognition is running. Nearly complete.”

“Is the weapon armed?”

“Yes, sir.” The laptop screen flashed and a name appeared.

“Connor Montrose?” said the Director. “I’ve never heard of him.”

The operator scrolled through the text. “Ex-CIA.”

The Director heard chairs being pushed back from the boardroom table, and a voice behind him. “Ex-CIA? Is he a private contractor?”

The operator shook his head. “According to the files he’s a wanted man.”

The Director cleared his throat to stop his voice from shaking. “Wanted by whom?”

“The CIA, FBI, DGSE, the Germans and quite a few others. Everybody, it seems.”

A voice boomed behind him. “This is unacceptable! This was not part of your plan, Director!”

The Director fixed his gaze on the man but spoke to the operator. “And where are the CIA?”

The operator flicked through the screens. “Nearly at the village. They’re in a hurry now.”

“Of course they are.” He slowly turned, then lifted a hand and placed a finger on the screen. “Kill him.”

Chapter 3

Blood spattered high up the sides of the church and the fat guy dropped to the ground, his chest a gaping, ragged hole. Behind him lay shattered rock where the high caliber round had burst through the man’s body and slammed into the ground.

Montrose felt the spray of blood start to trickle down his face. He began to look up to the sky, then scrambled for the cover of the forest, his feet slipping on blood and dust. In front of him, leading into the trees, he could see a narrow furrow in the ground where generations of footsteps had worn away the rock. He sprinted for cover and ducked under the low branches.

The furrow continued for a few feet, then the ground became covered in lichen and leaf litter and he could barely pick it out. He scrambled his way down the mountainside, grabbing branches to steady his descent as he ran. He saw the path level out in front of him, then turn sharply and drop out of sight. Through the trees, he could see the path continue twenty feet below. Leaping to the side, he pushed branches from his face and slid down the crumbling earth, throwing his hands up just before he slammed into a tree. The breath was knocked out of his chest, and he tumbled forward, branches tearing at his face as he fell onto the path. In his mind, he could still see the fat guy’s body explode in a cloud of blood and he knew the shot had come from above. That’s why he was looking up, thought Montrose. An armed drone.

He knew if the drone was fitted with an infra-red camera, he would light up on the screen like a roman candle. He scrambled to his feet and kept low. The path weaved between the trees but the ground started to flatten and the foliage and bushes became thicker as he approached the valley. Below the path lay a steep slope of grass and low bushes that dropped down to an edge. He jumped down the slope, holding his arms out for balance. His feet shot out from under him and he slipped on his ass, heading straight for a tree. He brought up both legs and took the blow feet first, pushing himself to the side. Wrapping his arms around his head, he tumbled through the bushes until he dropped off a ledge and slammed into the path.

He lay on his back, the sky and tree tops swimming around his vision, then rolled onto his knees. He could hear the river. That was the way out. The air was thick with the stench of burning aircraft fuel. He got to his feet and could see fast-moving water through the trees. On the far side, burning wreckage lay scattered across the fields.

He stopped at the tree line and ripped out a low bush and gathered up some fallen branches, held to them to his chest and ran for the river.

“Stop!”

Montrose slid to a halt.

“Drop the foliage, old boy. You aren’t Robin of Sherwood, you know.”

He let the branches slip from his fingers. He turned to see a man emerge from the trees, holding a gun. Montrose glanced back at the water, then up at the sky.

“Now, just who might you be, my friend. And what’s the hurry?” The man flicked his gun towards the wreckage across the river. “Something to do with a plane crash?”

Montrose held out his hands. The British accent had caught him by surprise. “Hey, fella, that’s got nothing to do with me. I tried to stop them but…”

“An American, eh? I’m intrigued.”

“I was following someone. One of the bastards that did that, I think he went…”

“Of course, you were, old boy,” he smiled, “of course you were. Dressed as bloody Robin Hood.”

“Listen, there’s an armed drone up there, and the CIA are right behind me, so why don’t we…?”

The Brit pointed his gun at Montrose’s head. “I’m sure they are. And you’re running through the forest with your arse on fire.” He dropped the gun towards Montrose’s jeans. “Lose the hardware. Slowly. Don’t make me nervous.”

Montrose pulled the pistol from his pocket with two fingers.

“Drop it.”

He let it fall to the ground.

“Good lad. Kick it over here.”

He pushed it over with the toe of his boot.

The man kept his gun on Montrose as he bent down and picked up the pistol. “Switch your phone off.”

“Look nobody is going to…”

“It’s not for you, it’s for me. Now, listen very carefully.” He brought out a pair of field glasses from his pocket. “I saw the two men at the edge of the village square with the missile. One with a machine pistol. And I heard the firefight.” The Brit ejected the magazine from Montrose’s gun, cleared the breech then sniffed the barrel. “One man with an automatic weapon and the other with a pistol, by the sound of it. So, I am assuming that you tried to stop the attack.” He pulled back his arm and threw the magazine in a high arc towards the river. “Don’t make me regret that assumption.” He lifted his own gun and pointed it behind him.

Montrose saw the tailgate of a Range Rover sticking out from the trees.

“Get in the trunk.”

He didn’t move.

“If I had wanted to shoot you, I’d have done it by now.” The Brit pointed his gun at Montrose’s feet then flicked back the barrel and shoved it into his pocket. “Move.” The Brit turned away, then looked over his shoulder as he made for the Range Rover. “And one piece of advice: Hold on tight.”

Montrose lifted the corner of the blanket and glimpsed the sun from the top of the tailgate window before it was blacked out by a passing truck. He closed his eyes and pictured the road on a map with the sun above and worked out they were heading south. He felt the speed drop and looked again, but all he could see was sky. He rubbed his head where it had taken a hit on the way out of the valley. The Brit seemed to have taken every mountain track in Tuscany before the road levelled and smoothed out, then picked up speed as it hit the autostrada.

The sound of emergency vehicles and screaming sirens had punctuated the whole journey. The Range Rover slowed again and moved down a fast incline, then came almost to a halt. Traffic fumes drifted into the trunk. Montrose checked his watch. It was too soon to have reached Rome, so they must be in Florence. And Mr. Pilgrim would be waiting, even though this wasn’t the way he had planned to arrive. He felt the phone in his pocket but ignored the temptation to switch it on and check the map.

Car horns blasted around them and the Range Rover took off fast, throwing him sideways. When he lifted the blanket he could only see the rooftops of terraced buildings. The Range Rover came to a sudden halt and Montrose pictured a typical Italian scene; drivers gridlocked at a four-way, squeezing through, blasting their horns. He fumbled around for the interior emergency tailgate release. There was nothing. He lifted the blanket to look and realized it wasn’t fitted on European trucks. He lay back again. The headrests made climbing over onto the rear seats impossible. He was trapped. He searched around for a toolkit to use as a weapon, but the trunk was bare. The Range Rover slowed once more, then turned a sharp left down a steep descent. The traffic noise drifted away and Montrose peeked out. Everything was dark. Here we go, he thought. MI5 reception committee. And I bet they won’t be offering me a cup of tea.

Chapter 4

He heard the driver’s door open and felt the suspension rise as the Brit got out. A moment later, the tailgate rose and Montrose lifted the blanket and looked out to a dimly lit underground garage. In front, several battered Fiats were parked in a line, each with a fading apartment number stenciled on the dusty concrete floor.

The Brit stepped back with Montrose’s gun in his hand. He grinned and spun it around on his finger, then offered the pistol grip to Montrose. “Welcome to Florence, old boy. Sorry there wasn’t much room for you in there, but you know, safety first and all that jazz.”

Montrose took the gun. “Yeah.” He swung his legs around and sat on the tailgate.

“And sorry about the roads too, I had to take a rather unorthodox route out of the mountains.”

Montrose got to his feet and the Brit closed the tailgate.

“Well, Mr. Montrose, that was all rather exciting. Damn shame about that plane. Poor buggers. But right now, I need a drink. This way.” He turned towards the far wall of the garage and gestured at the latticed door of a tiny elevator.

Montrose walked beside him. “How do you know my name?”

“I heard a little chatter on the grapevine. Seems everybody wants to talk to you. And not for a pleasant conversation, I think.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not flavor of the month right now.”

“Indeed. Your suitors seem to consist of the entire CIA, FBI, NSA and other acronyms that even I hadn’t heard of. Just about everyone, it seems.”

I don’t need reminding, thought Montrose.

The Brit stood in front of the elevator door, grabbed the handle and hauled it back hard. The metal lattice squealed and rattled as it folded to the side.

Montrose looked into the cramped space, the deep dent in the floor and the cracked wood lining the sides. One fat guy, he thought, and this would be full.

The Brit stepped in. “This won’t take long. Which is just as well, because I hate the bloody thing.”

Montrose edged in alongside him.

The Brit squeezed past and grabbed the cage door handle, taking several attempts to slam it shut. “This stupid door will be the death of me.”

“That’s the door?” Montrose looked out through the metal lattice towards the underground car park. The Range Rover stood gleaming beside several tiny, battered Fiats.

“Going up!” The Brit jabbed a button and the elevator lurched to the side, then rattled upwards. “First floor, haberdashery and lingerie.”

Through the lattice, Montrose watched the car park disappear below his feet. Grinding noises came from all sides as the lift housing scraped the elevator shaft.

“I’d take the stairs, but it means walking across the lobby. And I’m not in the mood for a conversation with the concierge. Stand behind me. He’s a nosey bastard and I don’t want him to see me taking strange men to my apartment.”

Montrose shuffled past the Brit and stood back hard against the wall; he could feel it rolling against the elevator shaft. The lift scraped past the ground floor, and he saw a marble-lined lobby with a uniformed concierge at a desk. The Brit moved forward and raised a hand to the man as the elevator rattled upwards, past two more floors showing empty hallways. It slammed to a halt at the third floor.

The Brit grabbed the handle with both hands and hauled the door back. It stuck halfway open, and he gave the lattice metalwork a hefty kick and shoved it into the wall. He jumped out. “Someday that bloody thing is going to cut me in half.”

Montrose stepped out and the Brit tugged the door shut. “Nineteenth century technology. Deadlier than the plague and lasts just as long.” He turned and pointed down the corridor. “This way.”

The walls of the corridor were painted in faded, classical frescos. “Beautiful, aren’t they? Typical Florence. Over-the-top decoration at the slightest opportunity and painted in a heady cocktail of arsenic and lead. I’m surprised anybody makes it out of their teens in this country.” The Brit marched down the hallway towards a door at the end.

Montrose’s rubber-soled boots squeaked on the marble floor.

The Brit stopped and pulled out a blackened key.

The door opened onto a wide, sunlit salon. Montrose stood in the doorway, looking up to the high wooden beams of the roof and tall windows facing out onto a river.

The Brit checked the corridor then closed the door. “I have inquisitive neighbors. They think I’m a visiting art professor. Frankly, I couldn’t tell Canaletto from cannelloni, but there we are.” He weaved around various pieces of period furniture, wood gleaming and cloth and gilt faded and worn. He stood in front of an ancient bureau and opened the door to reveal a bar which seemed to be solely stocked with bottles of gin. The Brit held up a tall glass. “G&T?”

“Why not.”

The Brit grabbed a handful of ice cubes from a refrigerated bucket, then cut through a lime and dropped a slice into each glass. “No lemons, I’m afraid, I haven’t gone completely native.”

“I don’t give a shit as long as it’s strong enough to kill a horse.”

The Brit splashed some tonic into the glass and offered the drink to Montrose.

The cold gin hit home and he felt the rush of alcohol and the sharp tang of juniper in his throat.

The Brit stood before him, holding out a hand. “Linden’s the name. George Linden.”

Montrose took his hand. “MI5?”

Linden smiled. “Good Lord, no. They are purely internal to the sceptered isle and are generally concerned with running around after whatever flavor of religious or political fanatics are trying to blow up our civilians this week.” He sipped his drink. “MI6 deal with anything outside our borders, Mr. Montrose.”

“Understood. My name, how did you know?”

“Like, I said, a little bird told me.” Linden smiled and tapped his nose.

“Listen, I don’t want to get all formal here, but let’s see some ID.”

Linden laughed. “My dear boy, I’m not the mystery man here! But, if it makes you feel more at home, why not.” Linden pulled out an ID card. “And you?”

“Not even a swimming certificate.”

“Quite right too. One can’t be too careful. And so, Mr. Montrose, to business.” Linden pointed to the door. “That door is unlocked. I’m currently the only man in MI6 that knows you are in Florence. In fact, other than your own organization, I’ll bet I’m the only man on the planet who knows you are in Italy, or that you were anywhere near the earlier unfortunate incident.”

“Good. Your point?”

Linden sipped his drink. “The point I am making is that I want to find the bastards behind what happened today. And I’m prepared to take extraordinary steps, and extraordinary risks to make that happen. Which is why I returned your weapon.”

Montrose said nothing.

“I pride myself on being a good judge of character. Let’s hope that is not a conceit.”

“So, what do you want from me?

“Well, I hope that we share the same objective.”

“If you mean kill the assholes that were behind that attack and kick over any rocks to crush the vermin beneath, then we do.”

“Yes, quite. You Americans certainly have a marvelous way with words.”

Montrose took another drink. “Yeah, listen, I’m familiar with British insults, so if you…”

“No offense intended, old boy, I’m just a little less Hollywood in my stating of the obvious. Though I can quote Shakespeare that would keep you awake at night.” He pointed to the door again. “Open, remember? I am not your jailer, Montrose. I want to find out who did this, and I will kill any bastard that gets in my way.” Linden downed the remains of the gin. “And that includes the CIA.”

Montrose fixed his eyes on Linden and took another drink. He let an ice cube drop onto his tongue, rolled it around his mouth then spat it back in the glass. “Just what do you mean by that?”

Linden walked to the window, looking out over the river as he talked. “I know very little of your history, Mr. Montrose, but I know who you are. What I don’t know is why you were in that village today. I am assuming that you were aware of the impending attack, and that you tried to stop it.”

“You got that right. Forget the CIA for a moment. I’ve got a question for you.”

Linden rattled the ice in his glass. “Fire away, old boy.”

“In the village, you saw me shoot the first guy, right?”

“From my vantage point, I saw him shot. Then when you appeared in somewhat of a hurry, I assumed it was you.”

“Then how did you know I wasn’t CIA? Or the second terrorist?”

Linden waved a hand in the air. “Elementary, my dear Montrose. I had a photograph of the two men that the CIA were following. And you are clearly not one of them. And since you were about to jump in the river dressed as Robin, Earl of Locksley, to flee the scene, I assumed you were not CIA either.”

“So, what were you doing there?”

“Well, you may have been following those two men, but I was following the CIA. I was very interested to see why they had allocated a significant amount of resource at short notice to tracking two men. And I’m not stupid enough to drive behind a rather large CIA convoy up a dead-end road to the top of a mountain. I drove around to the north to see what was going on. When I heard the gunfire, I thought the CIA had arrived early to give a touch of the old ‘shock and awe’. But it wasn’t the CIA, was it? It was you. I checked my tracker and the CIA hadn’t arrived yet. And I knew they would be loaded up to the gunwales with automatic weapons. Much like the general population of the United States, to be fair, but I digress. All I saw was one of the two men with a machine pistol and heard someone taking pot-shots with a handgun. Not the full-on gunfight at the OK Corral I was expecting. Then you come rattling down the hill. Which brought me to a question. Why would you be running? Surely the CIA would have been delighted with your brave, if somewhat fruitless efforts?”

Montrose shook his head. “That’s my business.”

“I’m sure, and I don’t expect you to tell me, but if it makes you feel better then get it off your chest. I’m all ears. I’m sure it’ll do you the power of good.”

Montrose grinned. “Not gonna happen.”

“I understand. I have no idea what agency you are with, though if you dropped those two bastards in the village, then you’re alright by me.” He raised his empty glass.

“Sure. So why were you following the CIA?”

“Well, we knew they were up to something and they had cut us out the loop. We don’t like it when that happens. And when it does, we know they’re up to no good. And a question for you, Mr. Montrose. I assume you also followed those two men to the top of the mountain. Did you know what they intended?”

Montrose shook his head. “I had no idea. And neither did the CIA.”

Linden looked out towards the river. “You think so?”

“What?”

Linden let out a bitter laugh. “Perhaps my cynicism is surprising, but given the history of the CIA, it really shouldn’t be.”

Montrose said nothing.

“And in the absence of a convincing rebuttal from your good self, I’m sure you understand exactly what I’m saying.”

“Hey, listen fella…”

“Let me be absolutely clear. I believe we want the same thing. To find out who is responsible for that murderous atrocity in the valley and stop them. Including anyone who is assisting them. And I mean anyone. That includes the CIA.” He placed his glass down on a table. “This is not a safe house, Mr. Montrose. It is not known to MI6 and therefore not known to the CIA. This is my personal bolthole. I’m working off the grid on this. Contact with London is at a minimum. We have too many CIA moles in MI6 and whatever Langley are up to, they are keeping their cards close to their chest. MI6 need to know what is going on and not through secondhand reports from Langley. We have our own informant. They told us an attack was imminent and that the CIA would stop it. That’s all. But the CIA didn’t stop it, did they? My job is to find out…” He waved a hand in the air, “Why didn’t they stop the attack?”

“What the hell are you talking about? We just lost a plane!”

“I’m sure you can work it out for yourself, Mr. Montrose, you’re not stupid.”

“Listen, you are way off the mark on…”