Ultimatum, page 7
‘Good,’ said Batstone, briskly, buttoning up his jacket and moving towards the door. ‘Then I look forward to seeing it when it comes in.’
Chapter 17
Geghard Monastery, Armenia
THEY’D HAD A name for the tunnels, back in the Corps. Marines called them ‘the Smartie Tubes’, a distant dark memory that still haunted Luke sixteen years on. Yard after yard of twisting, painful, subterranean darkness, the gravel and pebbles digging into his joints as he crawled blindly forward on his elbows and knees beneath the gorse and heath of Devon’s Woodbury Common. It was just one small part of the Royal Marines Commando endurance course that he had had to do as a recruit, all those years ago. Going first or last wasn’t so bad – at least that way you didn’t end up trapped between the man in front and the one behind. But the corporals had put Luke in the middle, sandwiched between two barrel-chested men who were at risk of getting wedged. Halfway, there had been an unexplained blockage and the line of men was stuck. Their breath came in short gasps as the panic spread among them, like a contagion, each man fighting to contain the terror that this was where his life would end, suffocating quietly in the dark. Eventually they had emerged, breathless and panting, but for Luke, the realization that all his exits had been cut off, all his options removed, well, that was a situation he vowed never to get himself into again. Ever.
And yet here he was now, cornered at the wrong end of an Armenian gorge, his options crumbling away from him.
Escaping to Yerevan down the road he had come by was no longer possible because the police were there. Go back into the monastery? Out of the question. He was committed now: he had to go forward. He could see three police vehicles racing up to the gates, lights flashing, sirens blaring. The cops would start questioning the choir at any second now, firing questions, taking swabs and photographs, gathering forensic samples from Black Run’s supine body. Luke was certain that when they found no obvious suspects on the premises the search would begin in earnest. They would fan out across the gorge and start checking the caves and crags. There would be dogs, helicopters with searchlights, and lines of young men eager to be the one who caught the murderer. He didn’t have a lot of time.
The snow flurries had stopped but already, in the mid-afternoon, it seemed to be growing darker, the mountains closing in on him, the wind tugging at his clothes. From his vantage-point behind a boulder halfway up the slope, Luke glanced back over his shoulder to check no one was behind him, then set off uphill again. With the contours as natural cover, he needed to stay out of sight of both the monastery below and the cave ahead, where his quarry lay hidden. It took him nearly twenty minutes to reach it, approaching on the balls of his feet for the final few yards. Just before the entrance he stopped and removed the Swiss Army penknife from his jacket, eased open the largest blade and locked it in place. Two inches of forged steel: it wasn’t much but it was the only weapon he had. Not quite, he remembered. From his other pocket Luke took out a thin metal ballpoint pen, a leftover from some tedious London conference he had sat through months ago. He closed the fingers of his left hand around it to keep it concealed inside his fist and held the locked blade in his right. ‘By Strength and Guile’: that was the motto of his old unit, the SBS. He’d need both for what was coming next.
He was short, much shorter than Luke, but heavily built. The man was turned away from Luke, his powerful shoulders hunched forward as he peered out from the cave’s entrance, looking down the hill, his head swivelling left and right, like that of the eagle that had swooped past only minutes earlier. Was he empty-handed? Luke couldn’t tell. No time to hesitate, no time to think, he knew he would get only one shot at this. He exploded out of cover and barrelled with full force into the figure in the cave, slamming him against the bare rock face and kicking his legs out from under him. The man let out a roar of pain and surprise as he went down, arms flailing as he tried to grab Luke and pull him down with him. He’s a wrestler. He knows the moves – got to stay out of that crushing embrace. Luke twisted free and stepped back quickly, away from his grasp, but his adversary was recovering fast, rising up first on one knee and then the other. Was that a smile on his face? Luke made a snap judgement of the distance, then caught him full on the chin with a front thrust kick straight to the head. No groans this time, just the sick, hollow crunch of Luke’s boot as it connected, fracturing the jaw in two places. He watched the man slump, heavily, on the uneven floor of the cave, his skull making a crack as it landed on a protruding rock. Then he was motionless. Luke was on him in an instant, about to press the blade of the penknife against his windpipe before he went through his pockets, when suddenly his world changed. He couldn’t breathe.
What the fuck? Gasping, his hands went to his neck, desperate to tear away whatever was wrapped around his windpipe. His feet struggled to find purchase as he was dragged across the cave floor. Why hadn’t he seen this coming? Of course there would be two of them – why wouldn’t there be? It was standard protocol for a covert IRGC hit team, one to do the dirty, the other to watch his back and clean up any mess afterwards.
Luke knew all about strangulation. More than once he’d watched in silence as the life-force drained out of a man’s eyes while his own fingertips pressed down relentlessly on the carotid artery. Nothing personal, just getting the job done. Now it was his turn and the stats were screaming in his head. Ten seconds to blackout, five minutes to brain death. This is it, Luke Carlton. You’ve got to get out of it.
As the training kicked in, Luke’s body went through the drills. He jerked his chin downwards and hunched his shoulders, trying to relieve the pressure on his windpipe. It bought him two seconds at most. His adversary knew his business and immediately tightened his grip. Luke could feel his sight blurring and he was starting to see double. The pain around his neck was excruciating. And still he hadn’t glimpsed the man who was inflicting it. The penknife! He had almost forgotten it. Got to stay conscious. Luke swung his right arm round behind him and drove his fist sideways into the leg of his unseen opponent, expecting resistance as the short blade pierced the flesh.
Nothing. His hand was empty. The knife had fallen from his grasp the moment he was jumped from behind. Through all the pain, the fear and the mounting dizziness, Luke knew these could be his last few seconds alive. And now there was a sudden clarity to everything, as if all his senses had been sharpened. He caught a glimpse of his opponent, his face swimming briefly into focus: narrow, hawklike features, dark eyebrows meeting in the middle, jet-black stubble, hair thinning on top. This was the man who was working to end Luke’s life. Well, fuck you, you’re not having me. The fingers of Luke’s left hand curled tightly around the slim metal ballpoint pen. This was his last throw of the dice. With everything he had left, he jabbed it hard at the man’s face, aiming for the eyes. He missed, the nib of the pen hit just below the right cheekbone, but the shock made his assailant loosen his grip for a vital second.
Luke squirmed free, twisting his body 180 degrees. Then he was up and launching himself at the would-be strangler. Luke’s right arm shot out, driving the heel of his hand into the cartilage of the man’s nose, catching him off-balance. Then he drove home his advantage. With his opponent momentarily confused, Luke pistoned out his left arm with the ballpoint extended in front. In just a fraction of a second it pierced straight through the ear drum into the cochlea and beyond. Luke opened his hand wide so that it was flat, then slammed it down hard on the protruding metal pen, forcing it into the man’s brain. In his moment of death, as he slid to the floor, he wore an expression of surprise, even curiosity, as if losing a fight were a novel experience for him.
Luke felt nothing. No pride, no satisfaction, not even relief, though that might come later. He had won this round, but others would come after him, he was certain of it. And now a new sound was reaching his ear. A sound that told him he was still in deep, deep trouble.
Chapter 18
Above Geghard Monastery, Armenia
DOGS. A PACK of them. Luke could hear them baying somewhere down the mountain from the direction of the monastery. Dobermanns? Belgian shepherds? What the hell difference did it make? Once they got to him, they would tear his throat out in seconds. He had to get away from this cave, fast. Put as much distance as possible between him and them. Find some running water, then cross it. Throw them off the scent. Vanish.
His pulse still racing from the fight, he put his hand up to his throat and touched it warily. Where the strangle cord had nearly throttled him, his neck was on fire and he realized he couldn’t swallow. That was the least of his problems. Luke knelt down, placed one hand on the dead Iranian’s ear and with his other he quickly pulled out the silver biro from where it had pierced his brain. It made a hideous sucking noise as it came out. No time to wipe it clean, no time to hide the bodies, not even time to update Vauxhall. He flung the pen out through the entrance and down the slope, hearing it clatter against the rocks. Sure, they would find it eventually, but by then he would be long gone. He hoped. Luke checked the coast was clear, then bolted from the cave.
What was it Angela had said back at Vauxhall Cross? It’s just a simple debrief, Luke, don’t sweat it. Go over to Armenia, take Elise with you for cover, get the intel and get out. That had turned out well, hadn’t it? Here he was, marooned in a mountain gorge in the south Caucasus, bodies piling up around him and a pack of slavering dogs about to be let off the leash to find him. He had no means of defence, no diplomatic immunity, no excuses and no alibis. And that was if the cops got to him before the dogs did.
Keeping his silhouette low and staying out of sight of the monastery, Luke moved quickly away from the cave and began to traverse the mountainside, his boots searching purchase on rocks that slipped and skidded under his weight. His eyesight had already adjusted to the dying light of the winter afternoon, and in the gathering gloom he could just make out where the gorge ended in a steep, wooded ravine. If there was running water anywhere in this godforsaken place it had to be there. He stopped and listened, shivering briefly as the temperature fell, his bare hands clenching and unclenching to keep the blood flowing in the cold air.
Yes! There it was! Somewhere in the semi-darkness he could hear the gurgle of running water. A mountain stream. It had to be. He stumbled down the slope and through the trees towards it, bare branches whipping at his face, rocks tripping him. The sound of rushing water was growing louder, and suddenly he was at its edge, looking at a full-blown river that surged past him in its headlong dash down the ravine. He cocked his head to one side, listening intently for the baying of the dogs. When he couldn’t hear them he pictured them racing towards him, panting with anticipation, saliva streaming from their jaws as they closed the distance. He had no time left.
Luke took a deep breath then launched himself into the river. The icy cold hit him hard, leaving him gasping, his legs burning as the snow-fed waters swirled and pulled at them. He waded deeper, aiming for the dim shape of a rock halfway across, holding his phone above his head to keep it dry. It was nothing he hadn’t done before as a young Royal Marine, when he could feel the Arctic wind of northern Norway slicing through him, yet this was worse, far worse. It wasn’t a test, it was real. There was a manhunt on and he was the prey. He could picture it now, his sorry face plastered on the front page of Armenia Today, beneath the words: ‘Foreign Serial Killer Caught Escaping!’ Even the thought of it made him angry because it hadn’t been him who had slit Black Run’s throat up in the monastery: it had been the hitman sent from Iran. Yes, okay, Luke, but face it, you did kill that one and his back-up, didn’t you?
He looked down as he waded deeper into the river. The frigid waters were above his waist now and he could feel his legs numbing with the cold. But he was nearly at the halfway rock, just two more strides and he’d be there. In the rush to reach it, he didn’t bother to test his footing on the riverbed. Bad mistake. With no warning, the gravel and shale beneath him fell away. Luke lost his balance, falling head first into the rushing torrent as the submerged current swept his legs from beneath him and he felt himself being pulled under. He fought for air, fought to keep his head above the churning foam as it propelled him at breakneck speed down the mountainside. With no helmet to protect him he knew it would take only one collision with the rocks to knock him unconscious and then it would be over. Slam! The current smashed his body hard up against a protruding rock but his shoulder took the brunt, not his head, and there, lit by the phosphorescence of the water, was a low-hanging branch. His feet found solid ground on the riverbed and he stretched out his hand to grasp it. Deafened by the roar and crash of water all around him, he lunged at the branch, his ice-cold fingers made contact and he hauled himself out of the water. He was across.
Now what? Luke’s phone was waterlogged and useless to him. He couldn’t even be sure if the Tracker chip embedded inside would still be working. For all he knew, he had gone completely off the Vauxhall Cross grid. He could picture it now, Angela standing over a monitor back in the operations room, frowning as the data analysts tried in vain to retrieve his vanished signal on the screen. No one would be riding to his rescue out here.
The temperature was still dropping, it was dark and he was starting to shiver uncontrollably. Got to keep moving, got to get the circulation going before hypothermia set in. Luke beat his chest a couple of times, wrapped his arms around himself and slapped his sides, then set off downhill, keeping the river on his right. At least the compass in his watch was still functioning and showed him heading west. He tried to recall the map he had studied for those vital few minutes before he had left Elise that morning. He remembered there was some kind of tourist attraction just a few kilometres west of the monastery, an Armenian temple. No one would be there now, not at this time of year and not in the sub-zero darkness. The place should be deserted. But if he could find some shelter there he could hole up for the night and mingle with the next coachload of tourists in the morning. It wasn’t much of a plan.
It took him nearly an hour to reach the temple, working his way along the riverbank, stumbling between boulders, stopping once to crouch low when a convoy of police cars went past on the road above, blue lights flashing. He shuddered. Jesus, it was cold. His clothes were still drenched from the river and he knew hypothermia could be a killer. He needed to focus on finding shelter. Ahead of him he could see the temple, could just make out its columns silhouetted against the faint sodium glow from the distant lights of Yerevan. He approached slowly, measuring each footfall, pausing and listening. It was when he was just five metres away from the outline of a hut that he stopped in his tracks.
Someone was calling his name.
Chapter 19
Tehran
DISGUSTED. YES, THAT was the only way to describe how he felt about his domestic situation. How had he let it come to this? How had he, Karim Zamani, rising star in the Revolutionary Guards, managed to lose control of his family? He sat at the head of the family dinner table in their house on Hafez Street and stared in disbelief at his wife. She glared back, saying nothing, her face a mask of defiance. Their relationship, he knew, was in terminal decline, their differences irreconcilable. In fact, he realized, it had probably passed the point of no return some time ago.
To his right sat Parviz, their dutiful thirteen-year-old son, keeping his head down, like the smart boy he was, spooning rice into his mouth as quietly as he could and just occasionally sneaking a glance at his mobile under the table. His sister, Tannaz, sat at the other end of the table, in the spot where her father liked to place her so he could look directly at her while he was eating. She got up and took her plate into the kitchen. There was no question of where her loyalty lay in this argument – with her mother – but the atmosphere in the room was so toxic she was doing her best to stay out of it.
‘Explain to me again, dearest,’ he said to his wife, speaking slowly, sarcastically, in a tone of mocking affection, ‘why you feel the need to fly to … to Abu Dhabi?’ He spat the last two words. He could feel his anger mounting as a vein began to pulse in his temple but he managed to keep his voice even and controlled. Just. ‘Is it not the case that you could visit any art gallery in the world – anywhere? And you choose Abu Dhabi. I simply cannot see the reasoning. Don’t you watch the news? Read the newspapers? Don’t you know how tense things are in our part of the world? Yet you choose now, of all times, to pay a visit to those uncivilized Bedouin on the wrong side of the Persian Gulf?’
‘You’re always telling me things are sensitive,’ his wife shot back. ‘When are they not? But that’s your world, not mine, not ours. My God, it’s not as if I’m suggesting you come with us!’
‘Us?’ Karim Zamani stood up abruptly, his chair nearly tipping backwards behind him. ‘Who is “us”?’
Forouz Zamani sighed, in the exaggerated, theatrical way that always annoyed him. Was she doing this to provoke him? She knew he didn’t approve of these artistic excursions yet she persisted in making them.
‘Us,’ she replied quietly, ‘your beloved daughter, Tannaz-jaan, and I.’ He looked up sharply, glancing at Tannaz who stood frozen in the kitchen doorway. She was carrying a plate of fresh pomegranates, their ripe red seeds glistening in the light that hung from the ceiling. His face softened as he studied her, remembering her as the child she had been only yesterday, his ray of light, his angel. She had grown up so fast, and now he had to worry constantly about the company she was keeping.
‘I don’t know why you’re getting so upset about this,’ continued his wife. ‘Tannaz will be with me the whole time. I’ll keep an eye on her, I guarantee it. There will be no dishonour to this family.’
