Rebel Elite: Sam Driver #1, page 26
McNeil didn’t regret for one second calling the number. He’d received tens of thousands of dollars of cutting-edge treatment. It had cured his PTSD and given him a new lease of life. More than that, the ideas he’d learned from his Vesuvius mentor, Paul, had transformed his view of himself and the world. What could be achieved. What could be changed. What needed to be done.
And these were not just the words of dissidents or dreamers. There were long-term plans in motion, backed by four-star generals, no less. But they needed boots on the ground and skilled operatives in the field. His mentor had offered him a pivotal role in the organisation – the ultimate mission that would take years to execute. It meant a double life, a promotion to commander of SEAL Team Six and cast-iron loyalty.
Falling for Sam hadn’t been part of the plan. But a soldier had to turn his heart cold when the situation demanded. McNeil had committed fully to the programme. And he wasn’t about to back out now.
McNeil gave the command. ‘Green light.’
He took one last look at the city and walked around to the rear of the white van. Opening the flight case Locatelli had secured the device in, he tested the remote for the third time – turning it on, setting the timer, then disarming and deactivating the device again.
It was excellent work. And it even looked beautiful, the usual mess of wires and components hidden from sight behind a brushed steel panel. Locatelli was a true master of his craft. Like many Italians, he valued beauty as much as function. It was a shame he had to die.
McNeil closed the lid on the device and locked the case. He slammed the doors shut and walked around the left of the van, adorned with the regal crest of the Città Metropolitana di Roma Capitale.
Starting the engine, McNeil pulled away from the warehouse and cruised through the industrial estate, rolling downhill towards the city.
42
Li Dong Chiang, China’s Minister of Culture and Tourism, arrived right on schedule. His jet touched down and taxied to a secluded area of Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci–Fiumicino Airport. A trio of black Mercedes awaited, ready to escort the minister to his destination.
The Italian secret service were otherwise deployed, protecting several members of the Italian cabinet. Information had come to them the night before that the country’s leadership was under threat. The source seemed genuine. And the priority of the secret service was to protect its own.
Minister Chiang had been informed of the change of plan in mid-air. Yet he’d been assured that the contractors assigned to protect him were the best the private security world had to offer. A tight-knit team composed of ex-special forces veterans, they were even an upgrade on their government-employed counterparts.
That’s what Chen Mo Chou, China’s Italian cultural attaché, had told Lim, seconds before she sedated her. Lim had left her unconscious on the sofa of her modest, yet modern Rome apartment. She’d also taken a shower in Chen’s bathroom, applied make-up at her dresser and taken one of the woman’s demure grey trouser suits, along with a pair of polished black heels. Lim had also stolen the young attaché’s sunglasses and gained the access code to her iPhone before the sedative could take full effect.
The flunitrazepam had been easy to acquire. The side door of a pharmacy kicked open. The alarm and CCTV disabled, before searching the stockroom for the sedative, along with a syringe.
Finding Chen was no more complicated. A call placed to China using the pharmacy’s telephone, and the duping of an official with access to personnel records. Once the medication had taken effect, Lim had answered Chen’s phone. The call came as expected – a car waiting for her outside. Three, to be exact, each with a bodyguard dressed as if bound for a funeral.
Lim had taken her place in the middle car. She’d felt confident they wouldn’t know what Chen looked like. After all, the woman was a lower-ranking government employee who would be used to taking the bus to work, rather than an armed escort. And so it had proved. The convoy had swept along a secret road and across the airport tarmac as Chiang was touching down.
Whatever the day brought, everything would be over by the time Chen was lucid enough to call the police. All Lim had to do was play along until the right moment. Hope Chen and Chiang had never met. And that Chiang didn’t recognise her.
The big, bug-shaped sunglasses helped. She wore her hair pinned up like Chen, and had practised mimicking the attaché’s lighter, chirpier tone and mannerisms in a mirror.
Soon after the jet came to a stop, the door opened and Chiang emerged. A short man in a navy suit and red tie, his love for junk food and pineapple cake showed in his physique.
Lim squeezed a fist tight to control her anger. She stood among a posse of bodyguards, led by a woman who appeared to be in charge. Controlling her breathing, Lim waited until her heart beat out a steady rhythm and stepped forward to greet Chiang. ‘Welcome to Rome, Minister Chiang,’ she said, with a respectful nod.
Chiang acknowledged her in return.
‘How was your flight?’ she asked as they strode to the waiting cars.
‘Long,’ the minister said.
Lim waved a hand to a car door held open by the female bodyguard.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ sighed Chiang.
Lim followed the minister into the car and settled in beside him. ‘Everything is arranged, Minister Chiang,’ she chirped. ‘Rome is a beautiful city. I think you’re going to—’
‘Spare me the guided tour,’ Chiang said, his bulbous eyes bloodshot from an apparent lack of sleep. ‘Sending a minister to Europe at a time like this. Ridiculous.’
‘I can assure you, we have the best security personnel,’ Lim replied. ‘You couldn’t be in safer hands.’
Chiang grunted and stared sleepy-eyed out of the window. He sniffed. Blew his nose. ‘Oh great, now I’m getting a cold. It’s the air on that plane, travelling overnight… I’ll catch my death.’
As the cars sped away, Lim smiled at Chiang. ‘Don’t worry, Minister, I’ll take excellent care of you.’
43
Las Vegas, Nevada
Baptiste brought the rental car to a stop – a Ford Taurus in pearl black. He killed the lights and engine.
‘There it is, fifty-four,’ Pope said in a hushed voice.
‘Why are you whispering?’ Baptiste asked.
‘It’s a stake-out,’ Pope replied.
Baptiste tapped a knuckle on the window. ‘In a soundproof car.’
Pope cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, mate, old habit. Too many night patrols in Kabul.’
‘Just act natural,’ Baptiste said, watching the house across the road.
‘Righto,’ Pope replied, drumming his fingers loud on the sill of his door.
‘Not that natural,’ Baptiste snapped.
Pope huffed and folded his arms. Baptiste checked the street for activity in his mirrors. It was a quiet suburban neighbourhood. Prim, sprinkler-fed lawns. Low-rise homes, and driveways occupied by mid-range cars. The street was part of a giant grid, a short drive out of downtown Vegas. Where the last of the homes stopped, the Nevada desert began.
Number fifty-four had its lights on in the porch and the front room.
‘Looks like they’re still up,’ Baptiste said, taking a pack of cigarettes from inside a navy blazer. He tapped one out and popped it between his lips.
Lighting the end with a silver lighter, Baptiste took a drag and leaned back against the headrest.
‘Er, mate…’ Pope said.
Baptiste took another drag. ‘What?’
Pope gestured to the cigarette. ‘Do you mind?’
‘No,’ Baptiste said, smoking some more.
‘Fucking joke,’ Pope said, winding down his window open.
Baptiste cursed him in French and pulled on the master switch. Pope’s window stopped and whirred back up.
‘What’s your bloody problem?’ the Australian complained.
‘The car’s nice and cool,’ Baptiste said. ‘You’ll let the hot air in.’
‘Yeah and the deadly chemicals out,’ Pope replied. ‘Are you aware of the dangers of passive smoking? I could die, you know.’
‘We can only hope,’ Baptiste murmured.
‘All right, then you could die.’
Baptiste shook his head. ‘I’m French.’
‘Uh, point A, you’re Russian,’ Pope replied, ‘and point B – what does being a Frog have to do with it?’
Baptiste looked across the cabin. ‘We eat more white bread, drink more wine, smoke more cigarettes, and yet voilà, we live longer.’
‘Huh.’ said Pope. ‘Well in that case—'
He went again for the window switch. Baptiste countered his move.
‘Rack off,’ Pope said, pressing the passenger switch.
Again, Baptiste pulled up on the master, the pair locked in battle as the window yo-yoed up and down.
‘You’re going to break it,’ Baptiste said.
‘I’ll break you if you don’t bloody—’
‘Wait!’ the Russian hissed, putting a hand on Pope’s arm. ‘They’re coming out.’
Baptiste wound his own window down an inch and tossed the cigarette. He closed the window and slid low behind the wheel. ‘This is the part where we whisper and hide.’
Pope slid down in the passenger seat. Together they watched as Rose and Riley Turner step out of the house and turn off the lights, including the porch. The couple strolled down the driveway, dressed as if heading out for the night. The man wore jeans and a white and navy check shirt with the sleeves rolled up – the kind of shirt Baptiste would rather die than wear. The woman was more fashionable in tight white trousers, a slinky silver top and tasteful make-up.
Baptiste noticed every little detail without effort. Part of his training at the Institute, it had long since transitioned to an unconscious habit.
The Turners climbed inside their red Ford Mustang, the husband behind the wheel. He backed the car off the driveway and they set off in no kind of a hurry to the end of the street. As the Mustang made a right turn, Baptiste started the ignition on the Taurus.
Pope rose in his seat. ‘Come on, mate, they’re getting away.’
Baptiste held up a calming hand. As soon as the taillights of the Mustang slipped out of sight, he put the Taurus in gear. Accelerating at speed towards the end of the street, Baptiste slammed on the brakes.
‘Steady,’ Pope whined, a hand on the dash, understanding nothing of the art of the tail.
Baptiste turned right and kept the Taurus at a safe cruising distance behind the Mustang. He flashed a silver Honda making a left out of a side road and let it act as a buffer. The Honda was a low-slung coupé. It was easy to see over the car’s roof and follow any move the Turners made, without arousing suspicion.
Baptiste tailed the Mustang onto the Las Vegas Beltway. Traffic was busy and the inside of the Taurus cool from a steady stream of air con. Huge billboards stood tall over the highway, the neon dazzle of the Las Vegas strip in the near distance. The Eiffel Tower of the Paris hotel, the pyramids of the Mirage and Manhattan skyline of New York-New York.
‘Please be going to the strip,’ Pope begged of the Mustang up ahead. He nodded towards the bright lights of the big Las Vegas hotels. ‘You ever been?’
‘I’ve not had the pleasure,’ Baptiste replied.
‘Nah, me neither,’ Pope said, like a kid staring longingly through the window of a toy store.
Baptiste sighed at the sight of it. If he was in charge of the WMDs, the strip would be the first thing he’d nuke.
Pope tutted to himself. ‘Well that kills that dream – they’re getting off.’
Baptiste took the exit and followed the Turners to a clutch of restaurants and fast food outlets. The couple pulled into a space in front of a diner.
Baptiste stopped moments later across the street, outside a burger joint. He kept the engine running and watched the Turners enter the diner. As they walked through the door, a waitress greeted them like old friends and guided them to a booth in the window.
‘We’d better park up and go inside,’ Pope said. ‘Watch ’em up close.’
Baptiste smirked. ‘You mean you’re hungry?’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Take a seat in the window,’ Baptiste said, motioning to the burger bar. ‘I’ll double back to the house and see what I can find.’ He checked the time on the dash. ‘They ought to be here for a while, but call me if they make a move.’
Pope couldn’t wait to get out of the car. Baptiste couldn’t wait to have some precious alone time. After hours in the air next to a snoring, yakking bore, he almost missed the peaceful confines of his Parisian cell.
Baptiste swung the Taurus around and drove as fast as the speed limit allowed to the Turners’ home. He parked a distance down the street and walked the rest of the way. The street was dead, the desert sky huge. The spritz of sprinklers mixing with a light chatter of crickets and the scent of honeysuckle in the air.
For a prefab neighbourhood with no discernible character, it could have been worse. Or perhaps his spell behind the urine-soaked walls of solitary had sullied his taste.
Baptiste walked up the driveway of number fifty-four and picked the lock on the front door. He was inside in seconds, the alarm not set and the house reeking of cleaning products. Every movement echoed, as if the house were a hollow shell. It may as well have been – the place looked vacant.
Baptiste wandered through the darkness and into the kitchen. He took a penlight from his pocket and ran it over the worktops. He found the black-gloss cupboards bare and the fridge was turned off.
Moving into the living room, Baptiste came across a redundant TV bracket on the wall. No rug, no coffee table, ornaments or framed photographs. No nothing other than a sofa with a note taped to one of the cushions. He shone the penlight on the note – instructions to donate it to charity.
Baptiste crossed the hall into the bathroom, finding the sink, tub and toilet bowl scrubbed to a sheen. He stepped into the master bedroom and found the bed stripped to a nearly new mattress; another item left for charity. Baptiste rolled open a wardrobe door, empty inside, aside from a few coat hangers.
He dropped to the floor and sniffed the carpet. It had a strong lavender scent, recently shampooed.
Baptiste shook his head, confused. He doubled back along the hallway and tried the internal door to the garage. The Turners hadn’t bothered locking it. The garage was bare, except for a pile of moving boxes arranged in the middle of the concrete floor. On one of the boxes was another note: To be destroyed.
Baptiste took out the rental car key and cut a line in the parcel tape sealing one of the boxes. He opened the lid and came across framed photographs of the couple: together on their wedding day and the subsequent honeymoon. Judging by the hairstyles and cut of the bride’s wedding dress, they were recent.
Baptiste dug out a taped-up shoebox and cut through the seal. Finding a stack of photographs, he picked out one of the Turners posing in front of a trainer plane on a desert airstrip. Baptiste put the photograph back and picked up another. He stopped. The sound of a van outside. Doors slamming. Men talking. Footsteps up the driveway.
The garage door rattled open. Baptiste heard another man coming in through the front door, turning a key in the lock.
‘Yeah, we’re here now,’ the man said, as if on a call. ‘We’ll be in and out in ten.’
Baptiste closed the box, but held onto it. He retreated without sound through the internal garage door. With no time to exit through the rear, the Russian sought refuge in the bathroom. He hid around the back of the open door, bolt upright against the wall, clutching the shoebox to his chest.
The man on the phone marched along the hallway, his feet thudding over the carpet. ‘Don’t worry, there’s nothing to miss. They packed it up tight.’
Baptiste heard the other two men enter through the internal door from the garage. The three of them roamed around and met in the hallway, only feet away from his position.
‘Check the bathroom,’ said the man who’d come in through the front. He appeared to be in charge. And whomever he was on a call to, in charge of him.
Baptiste heard boots over tiles. The flick of a switch. The bathroom light bright. He saw his reflection in the mirror, figured he’d have no choice but to engage.
‘Turn off the light, you dummy,’ said the man giving the orders. ‘We’re not supposed to be here, remember?’
The light was off as soon as it was on. Baptiste breathed easier as the men proceeded to move around the house.
‘Big stuff first,’ the leader said. ‘Bed, then sofa.’
Baptiste heard grunting and complaining about the weight of the bed frame. Next up was the sofa.
‘Now the boxes,’ the leader said.
Baptiste edged out of his hiding space and peeped around the side of the internal door. He saw the men picking up the boxes and carrying them down the driveway. They loaded them with haste onto a long wheelbase van, black and almost invisible in the darkness.
‘Hey, this one’s open,’ said one of the men, a stocky forty-something with jeans falling down his behind.
‘Who cares?’ said the leader. ‘It’s all getting destroyed. Just load it in the van.’
The man pulled up his jeans and picked up the box. It was the last one. The leader closed the garage door from the inside.
Baptiste retreated to the bathroom once more. He watched from around the door as the man performed one last sweep of the house. As he made a call on the way out, Baptiste following him to the front of the house in silence.
‘Yeah, we’re done here,’ the man said, stepping outside and locking the door behind him. ‘No one saw a thing. We’re good to go.’
