Buch lesen: «A Jack Tate SAS Thriller»

Chapter 1
Two days earlier

Camden, Maine, United States

The assassin was Russian, one of their best. He had to be to make the shot. His hide was in an elevated position on a hill, half a click away from the target. It was the closest he was prepared to go, given the timescale and his schedule. Three targets to hit in three consecutive days. A reckless order in the Russian Army and certainly an unheard-of contract on the private circuit. But he was the best, and he had accepted. And he was now on target number two.

The ever-changing eddies and the elevation made the shot challenging. It was a job for a two-man team, a shooter and a spotter, but the assassin had always preferred to work alone. The assassin was not acquainted with failure; this was something that simply did not enter his thought process. Preparing to fail started with a failure to prepare, and Ruslan Akulov never failed to prepare.

His target was on time. He tracked him in his crosshairs. The man exited the rear of the house through a pair of double-height patio doors, sipping his Pinot Gris, blissfully unaware of the Russian’s presence. Retired senator Clifford Piper lived in a sprawling mansion overlooking the town of Camden, Maine. The deck, where he stood now and would soon fall upon, commanded panoramic views of the harbour, West Penobscot Bay, and the evergreen islands.

Akulov had seen mansions before, castle-like homes constructed for the rich and corrupt, which dotted the outskirts of Moscow like mushrooms, while the rest of the population lived in shacks or high-rise concrete boxes. Never before, however, had he encountered one in a setting as spectacular as this. He agreed the panorama was impressive, but the man was not. He knew all about Piper. He hated him. As a senator Piper had preached his own brand of American imperialism, damning all those who dared speak out against Uncle Sam. He was a hawk, voraciously attacking Venezuela, North Korea, Russia, and China. He threw his words like missiles from the safety of Washington, a coward who would not dare repeat his slurs in the face of the enemy.

But, had he been punished for the innumerable deaths his rhetoric had caused or the hatred his words had incited? No. The senator had been allowed to retire to his mansion, and his three-million-dollar view. Not bad for a dacha, or as the Americans called them “vacation properties”. The Russian let a sneer form on his face. The property would be vacated soon enough. He had watched his target, and knew his routine well. Piper took a glass of wine at eleven o’clock each morning on his deck in order to appreciate his view. Akulov had also enjoyed the vista. The ocean – like him – was a contradiction. By turns calm and violent. Not that he was naturally a violent soul, but he employed violence in the defence of his country.

The target was a widower, his wife having perished along with twenty-eight other Americans a year before, in a terrorist attack in Jakarta. But for the Jakarta team this had been a failure. Bitter fate had intervened in his employer’s plans, made the senator succumb to food poisoning and unable to leave his hotel suite to join the bus tour. The bus his wife was on, the bus that had been boarded by gunmen who slaughtered every passenger. Grief-stricken, the senator had resigned and retired. The Jakarta team’s failure ensured that Piper was added to the hit list given to Akulov, and Akulov did not fail.

The maid appeared. She stood by her master’s side. She held his hand. Through open curtains, the Russian had observed the old man consoling himself by screwing her. It had not been at all arousing but Akulov had made himself watch, much like a wildlife photographer cataloguing the mating rituals of primates. Piper had grunted; the maid had not.

Mercifully at that precise moment the pair were only talking. At this distance, in the open, he could not hear the sounds escaping their lips, but he imagined they were the sickening words lovers pass to one and other. It wasn’t his business. He didn’t care what was or was not being said, what was or was not being promised. But what about the late wife? Would she have wanted her husband to become a monk or would she have approved of his new bedfellow? Piper looked contented, and had done so each day the assassin had observed him. Even now he continued to sip his wine, oblivious to the fact that a single .338 Lapua Magnum round from the Russian’s suppressed rifle was seconds away from entering his chest and ripping out his heart.

Akulov adjusted the scope of his German sniper rifle. In ordinary times, Piper’s death would be seen as a clear message to his country’s leader, but these were about to become extraordinary times. The senator’s death today would be ignored by tomorrow, and perhaps not be investigated until months after his death – if at all.

Akulov had not entertained the idea of killing the woman, even though strategically it made sense. She was the only other person in the house and leaving her alive would mean the alarm was raised that much faster, but he had no desire kill her. She was an innocent, a civilian and that went against his code. Besides, he mused, her relationship with Piper was sufferance enough. The maid stepped away and walked back into the house. Moments later her rotund shadow crossed a kitchen window.

Now Akulov steadied his breathing, watched the sway of the large trees dotting the property and the direction of the gulls as the grey-haired, potbellied Piper raised his wine glass to his mouth for the last time. Akulov made his final adjustments and calculations then gently squeezed the trigger. The .338 round rocketed towards the unwary enemy of Mother Russia, tore through his torso, punched out a fist-sized hole and kept going before it drilled itself into the timber-clad wall of the mansion.

*

Jack Tate didn’t see the blue flashing lights in his rear-view mirror immediately; he was lost in the lyrics of Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run”. As the song drew to a close, he heard the sirens and then saw the police vehicle gaining ominously behind him. Tate swore; he couldn’t believe that after all his years of training and active service, he’d made such a rookie mistake. He knew the drill; he pulled the Chevrolet Tahoe over on the shoulder, powered down the window, turned off the engine, and placed his hands in clear sight on the top of the steering wheel. As a police officer stepped out of the liveried Crown Victoria, the next song on Tate’s radio started. He tried not to laugh – it was the Eagles’ classic “Desperado”.

The officer drew level with Tate’s window but stayed several paces back, as procedure dictated. He asked him to switch off his music and then hand over his driver’s licence and insurance documents. He spoke to Tate without checking them. ‘Is this your vehicle, sir?’

‘No.’

‘Who does it belong to?’

‘The rental company.’

‘I see.’

‘So what did I do wrong?’

The officer’s brow furrowed and he took a moment to form his next question: ‘You’re British?’

‘From London,’ Tate replied, as the warm August air overcame the lingering cold of the Tahoe’s climate control.

‘You were ten miles an hour above the limit back there. We’ve had a lot of accidents on this stretch of road over the years. People see the view, get too excited and then … well, it’s not a pretty sight.’

‘I understand.’

The officer nodded. ‘And what is your destination today?’

‘Camden.’

‘Business or pleasure?’

‘Just a holiday.’

‘Holiday?’

‘Vacation.’

‘On your own?’

Now it was Tate’s turn to frown; these questions didn’t seem to be usual for a traffic violation. ‘Yes, on my own.’

The officer gestured with his left hand, the one holding Tate’s documents, whilst his right slid towards his belt and rested on the butt of his firearm. ‘This is a large vehicle for one person.’

‘The rental company was out of stock. They gave me a free upgrade.’

‘Stay in the vehicle, sir. I’ll be back in a moment.’

Still holding Tate’s documents, the officer backed away to his patrol car, where his colleague had been talking on the radio. Via his mirror Tate saw a brief exchange between the two before they approached the SUV, each angling for a different side of the Tahoe, weapons drawn. Tate frowned. Every instinct he had, every part of his training, told him to hightail it out of there, put the car into drive and pull away, wheels spinning, leaving the officers choking in the dust … but he was on holiday, not on deployment, and these were police officers not enemy combatants.

‘Step out of the vehicle with your arms raised and place your hands on the vehicle!’ the second officer barked.

Tate sighed. This wasn’t what he needed, and unlike the cops back home, they were armed. He had no choice but to comply. This was where mistakes happened; this was where he was putting his life in the hands of men in uniform he didn’t know, trusting them and trusting their training. It wasn’t the first time he’d had more than one loaded weapon pointed at him. Tate slowly opened the door and shuffled around the side of the SUV as the roadside dust danced at his feet and the sun warmed his back. He kept his eyes firmly fixed front and centre, and watched the armed men approach via their reflection in his window.

‘I’m going to search you now,’ said the first officer. ‘Are you carrying any drugs, needles, or concealed weapons?’

‘No.’

Tate felt the officer pat him down before he said, ‘Place your hands behind your back.’

Tate thought he knew what was coming next, but neither officer recited the Miranda to him or advised him of his rights. This he also found off. The nearest officer cuffed his wrists tightly, the left cuff pressing snugly against his metal watchstrap, forcing his Rolex further up his arm. Tate asked, ‘Can you tell me what you think I’ve done?’

Neither officer spoke as they frogmarched him to the Crown Victoria. They opened the back, pushed him in, and shut the door. A moment later, the Crown Victoria’s “Interceptor Pack” engine growled, and, with lights flashing, the driver navigated the flow of traffic heading towards Camden.

The officers were silent, tense. One kept his eyes on the road whilst the other repeatedly glanced back at Tate. The rear of the car was stuffy, and Tate tried to get himself comfortable, as the handcuffs dug into his wrists and ended up forcing him to lean sideways. He should have been worried, sitting cuffed in the back of a US police cruiser, but he wasn’t. The emotion that he felt the most at that exact moment was annoyance. The cops had made a mistake. It was clear that this was about much more than speeding; that would have earnt him a ticket, a financial slap on the wrist – not steel cuffs. They’d picked on the wrong man. He’d enjoy telling them so, but there was no point in saying anything now. He’d not say a word until they’d arrived at the station, attempted to process him and realised their error. There would be an embarrassing “no hard feelings” conversation where the local law enforcement officers would try to persuade him that Maine was an exceptionally safe place to spend his vacation.

He allowed himself a bitter smile as he gazed out of the window at the sparkling sea below. This wasn’t how he’d planned to arrive in Camden but at least the views did not disappoint.

After some scenic driving and negotiating the small roads, the police cruiser came to a halt outside a single-storey red-brick building. Cautiously, the two officers hustled him out of the car, through a column-adorned porch – which to Tate seemed like an architectural afterthought – and into the Camden PD station. An officer stood behind a processing desk at the front of the office. Posters were stuck on the walls: a mixture of tourist information, photographs depicting the local countryside and text-heavy notices. The desk officer glanced down at his desk then back up again and nodded at his colleagues. He looked worried and his voice sounded it too. ‘Belongings?’

‘In his vehicle,’ one of the officers replied.

‘I’ll take his watch.’

The officer on Tate’s left undid the strap and handed the watch to the desk officer. The man’s eyebrows rose as he noted the brand before he placed it into a Ziploc-type plastic bag then put this under the counter. ‘OK. Room one.’

Tate remained a compliant, silent witness to the unfolding events and let himself be pushed further into the station, past the desk and into the open-plan interior. The office door opened and a large figure stepped out, folded his arms and looked on as Tate was led through a door on the right. Inside was a narrow corridor with three steel doors on one side. The nearest was open. The two officers locked him inside and left him alone.

The room was lit with a fluorescent bulb contained in a wire cage, which starkly illuminated a metal table in the centre space. The table was affixed to the concrete floor with steel pins, as were two chairs, one either side of the table – one facing the door and one facing away. ‘Welcome to Camden,’ Tate muttered to himself and shook his head. It was by no means the first time he’d been in a police interview room, but it was the first time he’d been in one as an innocent man.

Still cuffed, Tate sat at the table facing the door. In the British Army, he was used to planning operations and, for this, intelligence gathering was crucial, but here there was no intel to collect. He’d assessed the situation but could come up with no other explanation for his incarceration other than the fact that he’d been picked up in error. A case of mistaken identity. Someone who matched his description had done something, and something serious at that. So why hadn’t he been read his rights? Why hadn’t he been Mirandized? It still made no sense to Tate. He tried to get comfortable on the metal chair, managed to slouch a little and kick his legs out underneath. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander to the first time he’d been in a police cell. Even all these years later it still made him chuckle.

It had been on a family pilgrimage to North Wales to see his mother’s cousin. He and his brother hated going. They’d stay for a week, several times a year. With parents who didn’t approve of Game Boys, the brothers passed the long car journey playing “car cricket”. His brother was always “in bat” first. The boys would stare out of the rear windows of the Volvo looking for pubs. Once they spotted one, they’d read the name or look at the gaudy sign hanging outside. For each “leg” that appeared in the pub name (physical or pictorial) the person in bat scored a “run” up to the maximum of six per pub. If the name did not contain any legs, the player in bat was “out”, and the other player was now “in bat”. Pubs such as “The Coach & Horses” and “The Highwayman” always scored a “six” as there were either horses in the name or on the sign. Some pub names caused arguments, some made them laugh, and some did both – “The Cock” had been one of these. Their father said he preferred “legless pubs”; their mother tutted.

In Wales they played with a local friend – Richie Williams. He lived across the road and according to their mother was a bad influence. The boys would kick a ball about or go exploring with Richie. On several occasions they’d been chased away from the fairway of the Prestatyn Golf Club. But this last trip had been different. His brother had not wanted to go out – he was sixteen and studying for his GCSEs – but fourteen-year-old Jack did. He’d sneaked out to meet Richie and that was where, according to his parents, his problems started.

Richie boasted that he knew where the Golf Club kept the fireworks ready for their Summer Ball. He dared Jack to break in and take a rocket. And Jack did. But Jack, who never backed down from a dare, didn’t stop at just one rocket. Jack took four rockets and two display-size Catherine wheels. That night he shimmied onto the roof of the local Tesco’s superstore and set up his own display. The CCTV cameras had alerted the local police to their activity but not before Richie and Jack had set off the fireworks.

As Jack sprinted across the car park he was illuminated, not by blossoming fireworks but by the full beams of a North Wales Police Range Rover. That night was the first time he had been put in a police cell and it was the last time he had seen Richie Williams. It was also the last time they ever went to Prestatyn. That event had been the beginning of the end of his relationship with his parents. They weren’t his real parents; he’d been in long-term foster care with them. He didn’t miss them, as much as missed their son, his brother. And that was the reason he was on a road trip in the US.

Tate’s eyes snapped open as the door creaked. The desk officer entered. ‘I’ve got to take your prints – Chief Donoghue’s orders. Will there be an issue?’

‘No issue at all.’

‘British?’

‘English.’

‘Like the Queen.’ The officer had a legal pad-sized black plastic case in his hand. He retrieved a card. It had a printed table on it, columns to receive the inky print of each digit. ‘Hold up your hands.’ Tate did so and the officer inked the tips of each finger with a spongy implement from his case. ‘Now on the card, roll each fingertip slowly once, from left to right.’

Tate complied. Once satisfied with the prints, the officer abruptly stood and left the room. Tate stared at his dirtied fingers, thought about rubbing the ink off onto his jeans but couldn’t be bothered. Instead he stood up and wiped them on the clean, whitewashed wall directly next to the door. It was like finger-painting, a childish but satisfying act of defiance. Tate sat again. He didn’t know how long he’d be stuck in the room for. How long would it take the local authorities to realise their mistake? One of the army’s many mottos had been “eat when you can and sleep when you can” because you never know when you’ll get another chance. There was no food, so Tate closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Fleetingly the stolen fireworks again bloomed in his memory and then he woke with a start, his neck stiff and his head groggy.

‘Get up and follow me.’ It was the desk officer again.

The officer led Tate out of the cell, back into the open-plan squad room, along the full length of the space and through a door into the big office at the back. The large man he’d seen earlier was sitting at a desk. He nodded Tate into the empty chair opposite him.

‘I’m Chief Donoghue of the Camden Police Department. Care to tell me, Mr Tate, the reason for your presence in Maine?’

Tate examined his inky fingertips. ‘Vacation.’

‘That’s what you told my men. But I’d like to know the real reason.’ Donoghue leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers in his lap. Tate noted that his bulk was muscle rather than fat. He had the look of an old soldier – a short, no-nonsense haircut and a stern brow. ‘You see the thing is, Mr Tate, we think you may be just the person we have been looking for.’

Tate remained silent. In his experience, men in authority liked to hear the sound of their own voice, regardless of how much power they had. And this was Donoghue’s desk, in Donoghue’s town. He took in Donoghue’s office. The same white walls as his holding cell but here the concrete floor was covered with grey carpeting. The wall directly behind displayed several framed certificates as though to confirm his legitimacy to all those sitting in Tate’s seat. The desk itself was bare save for a laptop and a blue Maine PD coffee cup. There was a modern coffee station on a unit, and a coffee table with two comfy chairs.

‘What job do you do back in the UK?’ Donoghue asked.

‘I’m a Human Resources consultant.’

‘And the name of your employer is?’

‘Fir Tree Consulting.’

‘Branches everywhere? That’s cute,’ Donoghue said without humour. ‘Can you verify that?’

‘I’ve probably got a business card in my wallet somewhere. It’s in my car, but I’m sure your men have already checked it.’

‘You’ve got an attitude there, Mr Tate.’

‘That’s right, Chief Donoghue; we are both wasting our time here.’

‘Do you have an issue with authority figures, Mr Tate?’

Tate shrugged. ‘Not when I see one.’

The police chief’s nostrils flared, but his tone remained neutral. ‘You are doing what, exactly, during your vacation here?’

‘Driving around, taking in the sights.’

‘How long do you plan to be in the US for?’

‘Like it says on my car rental agreement, a month.’

‘That’s a long vacation.’

‘There’s a lot to see.’

‘Did you serve, Mr Tate?’

‘You mean like a waiter?’

Donoghue pursed his lips. ‘You know what I mean.’

Tate shrugged again. ‘You’ve got my details and my prints. I imagine that you’ll have a pretty good file on me soon enough.’

‘Is that how you want to play this? Really?’ Donoghue’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you being so unhelpful, Mr Tate?’

Tate sighed. ‘Yes, I served.’

‘Where?’

‘Afghanistan.’

‘Infantry?’

‘Yes.’

‘See much action?’

‘More than I would have liked. What am I being charged with?’

‘Nothing at the moment, apart from driving in excess of the speed limit.’

‘So why haven’t I been read my rights?’

‘You may or you may not be aware that the Amended PATRIOT Act provides me with increased powers to hold and question “persons of interest” without charge. You, Mr Tate, are a person of interest.’

‘I’m honoured you find me so interesting, but I still don’t know what this is all about.’

‘OK.’ Donoghue pursed his lips again. ‘At lunchtime today, a prominent local resident was murdered. It looks like a contract killing. A single shot was fired. I’m still awaiting confirmation on the type of round used, but it was pretty big – we believe some sort of sniper rifle.’

Tate’s eyebrows rose. It was something serious. ‘And you think I have something to do with this?’

‘Something, or maybe nothing, or maybe everything. An SUV, like the one you were driving, was seen leaving the area. A surveillance camera captured a suspect fitting your description.’

‘Who was the murder victim?’

‘A retired senator by the name of Clifford Piper; you ever heard of him?’

Tate shook his head. The only Piper that flashed in his mind was the wrestler – “Rowdy” Roddy Piper.

‘His wife was killed last year in a terrorist attack. He retired afterwards.’