If she were in charge of her assassination, she would devise a covert approach using stealth to gain the target property. Once entry had been made, she would advise that the subject first be incapacitated and then negated in a manner resembling a natural death. A gas leak. A hanging. Overdose by medication. If a search revealed the target was a gun owner, then that firearm could be used, by manipulation of the target’s hand, to fire into the head. Or a simple robbery gone wrong is also very effective. Home invasion crimes at detached, isolated dwellings are not uncommon.
The motion sensors hidden in the scrub at the edge of her land ping softly from the receiver just inside the main door. She inclines her head and waits. The distance and the contours of the land will prevent them having line of sight yet, but no doubt they use night-vision aids and will eventually see her immobile in the chair.
The only reaction she shows is when the pings continue. Eight. She is impressed, flattered even. They obviously know who she is. They have sent eight operatives against her. She wonders who they are and narrows it down to three possible organisations, all Russian-connected. The Cold War may appear to have been a long time ago in the media, but the after-effects will forever be ongoing.
She sits and waits, with only the faintest increase in heart rate showing her expectation of immediate death. Five minutes, maybe ten at the most. She looks up at the sky. At the stars and the moon. The same stars and moon she has stared at from a hundred or more different cities on a hundred or more different missions. She thinks of the note on her door.
She could still call it in. One call would do it. She could hold them off long enough for the cavalry to arrive. She would be whisked away, and the threat negated and removed from existence by sunrise.
A scrape of a shoe. A tread of a foot. She rises, turns and strides into the hallway with the Glock held in a double-handed grip. A man is coming from the kitchen. Tall with swept-back dark hair. It is not possible for him to have gained entry without her knowledge. Every window is secured with motion sensors. Every door. Alarms would have sounded. Foot-pressure pads in the paths and grounds should have sent signals. A blue light spills from the kitchen behind him. He spots her a second later and flinches away with his hands coming up.
‘Don’t shoot . . . friendly . . . friendly!’
A British accent. She doesn’t know him. She doesn’t recognise him. He looks to be late forties, maybe early fifties. Younger than her generation, but only by a few years. She’s met most of the British agents of her time.
‘Miriam? Are you Miriam?’
‘Who are you?’ Miri asks, calm and controlled.
‘I’m here to save you . . . You’re about to die,’ the man blurts. ‘Right now, there are armed men coming to . . .’
‘I know,’ Miri says bluntly. ‘Who are you?’
‘Roland. My name is Roland.’ He whimpers, staring at the gun in her hands. ‘I don’t know if you are Miriam . . . I mean . . . I couldn’t find any pictures of you online or . . . but Ben said to find someone from military intelligence and . . . I mean, you weren’t on the original list, but I should have realised we needed someone like you . . .’
Roland stops to draw breath and force a calmness into his voice that he doesn’t feel at all. Safa and Harry are both dead. Ben is going to try and rescue them, but he will fail, and that leaves Roland back at square one, and there is no way he is going through it all again. Ben was right. They need professionals. He falters, still too scared to reveal who he is and what he knows, but also aware the risk has to be taken. This woman is going to die anyway. This house will be blown to pieces by an apparent gas explosion. He read the declassified reports detailing one of the attackers who defected to the US and informed the authorities what really happened. He exhales to gain composure and tries to look past the pistol in her hands. Being around Safa and Harry has at least hardened him somewhat.
‘I need to extract you . . .’ he starts to explain, but the words trail off when she lowers the gun, hefts the big black holdall on to her shoulder and stares at him with an air of expectation.
‘I’m ready, Mr Cavendish,’ she says in a flat, hard tone. ‘We have work to do.’
One
The explosion is huge. The charges dropped in the warehouse detonate to scorch the air and send a shockwave that rips bricks from the walls and sends debris flying into the attackers. Bones are broken and lacerated. The petrol Miri poured before setting the charges explodes in flame that heats the air so quickly it fuses the material of the black covert clothing to the flesh inside them.
Many are killed outright. More lie writhing and screaming in agony from burns, breaks, lacerations and horrific injuries.
‘Fall back.’ Alpha’s voice is calm. His manner controlled. This is why he is Alpha. This is why the five are who they are. They heard the pre-emptive click of the charges. It was this alone that made them drop and turn as the warehouse detonated. Only Echo sustains injury. A shard of a tibia from the first attacker embeds in his bicep. He spins from the impact, but grunts to swallow the pain and maintain focus.
The windows at the front of the building explode out. Glass flies far across the road. The fire roars, with flames licking through the new holes in the wall.
Alpha strides backwards with an arm up to protect his balaclava-covered face from the heat. The other four at his side in a line. Calmness in all of them. Not a flicker of panic shows. Bravo turns to see the bodies of Malcolm and Konrad being carried into the truck that seals the junction at the end of the road. Echo looks back at the buildings opposite the warehouse that they used as a base.
Alpha holds for another few seconds, assessing the carnage in front of them. If there is a way through, he will risk it, but the fire is growing bigger and more intense. The tang of petrol hits his nose. An accelerant was used. The ground was prepped in advance.
There is no choice. He pulls the phone from his pocket and thumbs the screen to dial the number.
‘Hello,’ the friendly female voice says when the call connects.
‘Mother, it’s Alfie.’
‘Alfie, darling. Are you okay? How’s Berlin?’ Mother asks from her office, instantly knowing something has gone wrong. Calls from the field are only ever made when the mission is at a critical point. She doesn’t reveal that thought process. Instead, she smiles into the phone to ensure her voice sounds as warm as it should be. She acts the part; she believes the part. She is Mother.
‘That show we were going to see?’ Alpha says, forcing himself, despite the carnage all around him, to hold a steady, friendly tone that matches hers. ‘Been cancelled.’
‘Oh, that is a shame,’ Mother says. ‘Did it start?’
‘Yes, it did, but I think a new actor did something they were not prepared for . . .’
‘Oh dear.’ Mother tuts and sighs. ‘So you never got to see the main act.’
‘Afraid not. We, er . . . We did make two new friends though. They’re with us now. Nice chaps, but very quiet . . .’