Kitabı oku: «A Jack Tate SAS Thriller», sayfa 2
Tate vaguely remembered the headlines. ‘I’ve never heard of him, and I wasn’t there. My SUV has a tracker, and you can check that against your intel.’
‘Intel?’
‘Your reports.’
‘Yep, see, I know what “intel” means. I’m just surprised that you’d use that term. I don’t think you are who you say you are, Mr Tate.’
‘So you are going to hold me until what, you decide that I didn’t shoot a senator with a Barrett?’
‘Who said anything about a Barrett, Mr Tate?’
Tate remained silent for a moment; he was tired and snappy. ‘It’s the most reliable 0.50 rifle, in my opinion, and it’s what I’d use if I wanted to make sure of hitting a target with one round. One large round. There’s a pretty good suppressor available for it too, and in a semi-urban environment you want to make as little noise as possible.’
‘Ha,’ Donoghue said with a knowing nod.
Tate was getting bored; he wanted to be on his way. ‘You don’t have the murder weapon – just a large hole and a deformed round. And the fact that you didn’t mention anyone as having heard the shot leads me to believe that the shooter used a suppressor. A 0.50 calibre makes a hell of a bang without one.’
‘What did you do in Afghanistan, Mr Tate?’
‘I soldiered.’
‘What exactly did you do in Afghanistan?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Oh, yes you can. Weren’t you listening to me? The Amended PATRIOT Act gives me—’
Tate stood. ‘Yes, I heard.’
Donoghue got to his feet with surprising speed. ‘Where the hell do you think you are going? Sit down!’
The two men sized each other up, Donoghue incensed, Tate impassive. A loud knock on the office door, followed quickly by an officer entering the room broke the standoff.
‘Chief, this is urgent.’
‘On my way. Officer Kent, please escort Mr Tate back to his holding cell. He won’t be any trouble, will you, Tate?’
‘None at all,’ Tate said flatly.
Chapter 2
Camden, Maine
Oleg Sokol gazed out over the waves and breathed in the fresh sea breeze. Camden was so different to his native Sochi, but the sea air smelled the same. He saw birds soar on thermals and smiled at the sound of their excited calls. Oleg’s surname “Sokol” meant falcon in Russian, and he too wished he could fly carefree and enjoy the beauty of the bay and the August sunshine, but alas, this was neither the time nor the place. Oleg’s time in Maine would abruptly end with the coming attack. Many innocent people, of course, would perhaps perish in the aftermath and although he did feel for them, there was nothing he could do, so it was not his concern. His concern was whether the technology he had helped design in the laboratory would work in the field.
He watched a yacht out in the bay, its crew delightfully unaware that in thirty-eight hours the world as they knew it would vanish. Vanish for how long he did not know. Could the US rebuild, re-plug and reboot in six months, a year? He shook his head, as the vessel tacked to head south along the coast. Perhaps thirty-eight hours was all the crew had left.
‘Good afternoon.’ The voice that interrupted his thoughts was cheery.
‘Good afternoon,’ Oleg said.
‘Is that a Russian accent I detect there?’ the elderly woman asked.
‘Yes, it is.’ Oleg had once been a naturally friendly person. As a student learning English he had longed to meet native English speakers so he could practise, explore new words and improve his understanding. That Oleg would have been overjoyed to be overseas in the US. He would have been chatty and gregarious and engaging, but that was not the Oleg of today. He had a mission to conduct, and talking to anyone could put that at risk. He looked down at the old woman; her hair was ice white and immaculately styled. She wore a vivid pink blouse over equally bright, lime-green slacks, a sturdy pair of hiking boots, and a day sack on her back.
‘And what brings you here?’
Camden was a town of only five thousand permanent residents, and each summer up to ten thousand more took up places in vacation homes and rentals. Yet even at the height of the tourist season it was all but impossible not to draw attention to himself. The locals were, like Oleg, naturally friendly people.
‘I am here just to relax for a while. I work in Washington, so it is nice to get away from the city.’
The old woman smiled. ‘I love it here – in the summer, that is. In winter I go down to Florida or go on cruises.’
Oleg smiled. He liked cruises and had once taken a train from Moscow to Kyiv, then cruised down the river Dnipro to the Black Sea resort town of Odessa where he’d proposed to his wife. He felt a sadness, and then didn’t want to say anything more.
The old lady carried on talking, unaware of the distant grief behind his smile. ‘Hill walking is what I love. Give me a good hill and I am happy. Tomorrow a group of us are walking down to Rockport and back. The weather forecast says that it’ll be clear skies and sunshine. Well, goodbye.’
‘Good luck and goodbye,’ Oleg said as he watched the woman walk away. He noticed a cuddly panda keychain hung off the back of the day sack. He took a further five minutes to enjoy the scenery before trudging back up the path towards his Tahoe. It would be interesting to see how many yachts and other vessels arrived after the attack and how, if at all, they were affected. He pulled his encrypted sat phone out of his trouser pocket and read the message sent from his employer. The plan was unchanged. His team was to monitor the aftermath of the attack before falling back to the regional operating base six hours after the event.
Oleg checked his watch; he had time for one extra supply run. He’d drive past the inn, turn up Conway Road and go to Hannaford Supermarket. He may even buy a few bottles of Wild Turkey to take back home; they’d skyrocket in price once the stock in stores ran out and production ended.
Camden Police Station, Maine
‘How’s the coffee?’ Donoghue asked.
‘Good. Thanks,’ Tate replied, four hours after the last time he’d faced the chief.
‘I thought you Brits drank tea.’
‘That’s just the women; real men drink coffee.’
The police chief nodded. ‘See this?’ He pointed to a couple of sheets of letter-sized paper on his desk. ‘This is all we got from running your prints through the system. Now the first sheet here is what I was meant to see … mundane details about your entry into the US and movements, et cetera. But the second is what I managed to see after I called an old buddy of mine who owes me a favour, and that’s what took the time.’
‘Am I still a person of interest, Chief?’
‘You are an interesting person, Mr Tate. You were in the SAS.’
Tate frowned. ‘Was I?’
Donoghue nodded. ‘That’s why I couldn’t get much on you. It was classified, but the three lines I did eventually get from my buddy, who is connected, really opened my eyes.’ Donoghue looked down at the paper for effect. ‘You joined the Parachute Regiment straight from school and then three years later passed SAS selection. After seventeen years you left the army and took a job with Hush Hearing. And that is as much as I got. So the question I still have is this, why is a former member of an elite Special Forces unit in my town at the same time as a gunman?’
‘Happenchance.’
‘You see, Tate, I still have an issue here. The tracker on your Tahoe says you were near the scene of the Piper shooting. Care to explain?’
‘This morning I drove from Bangor to Camden.’
‘And did you stop anywhere?’
‘Yes. I needed a piss.’
‘Did anyone see you?’
‘I hope not; I was pissing in the bushes.’
‘You think this is funny, Tate? Some type of joke?’
‘No, I don’t.’ Tate fixed Donoghue with his steel-grey eyes. ‘But I do think that your belief I had anything to do with this is hilarious. I insist that you call the British Embassy in Washington and notify them that I am being held, without charge.’
‘Now you’re giving me orders?’ Donoghue folded his arms in an attempt to curb his irritation. ‘OK, we’ll do as you say and call them, like you were a US citizen with constitutional rights.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Who do you really work for?’
‘Ask for Simon Hunter; he’s the Commercial Attaché. I met him on a trade mission last year. He’ll vouch for me.’
‘I’m sure he will.’ A thin smile appeared on Donoghue’s lips. ‘You see, I looked at your tracker data twice, in fact, after it was brought to my attention that you were near Piper’s place and that you did stop. But then I realised that you couldn’t be the shooter, as you were stationary for less than a minute.’
‘I see.’ Tate was annoyed; Donoghue had been fishing and now knew about Simon Hunter.
‘And then, of course, your tracker had the SUV outside a pizza parlour thirty miles away at the time of the first shooting.’
‘First shooting?’ Tate said, surprised.
Donoghue ignored the interruption. ‘We contacted the restaurant and sent them your mugshot. They confirmed you were there eating the entire time the tracker shows the Tahoe as stationary.’
‘That’s because I was.’ Tate was terse. ‘How many shootings have there been?’
‘Two. One yesterday and one today with the same MO – a single .338-calibre round. You see, whilst you were cooling your jets in my holding cell we got the second round identified. It’s a confirmed match to the first. Not a .50 cal, as you said, but a .338, and still big enough to all but split the victims in two.’ Donoghue shook his head. ‘No one ever gets shot in Maine, but now we’ve got a maniac on the loose with a Magnum calibre rifle.’
Tate nodded. He’d made a mistake. ‘Of course.’
‘Of course what?’
‘Of course it was a .338. I wasn’t thinking earlier.’
The police chief folded his arms across his large chest. ‘OK, I’ll bite. Go on.’
‘Two shootings, in two days with the same rifle, so unless this was some type of “tag team” operation, it’s reasonable to assume both were carried out by the same shooter. Correct?’
The police chief nodded.
‘And the targets were in urban environments?’
‘Well, as urban as small-town Maine gets. The men were at home, in their gardens, nice green places. What’s your point?’
‘The shooter may have been able to conceal himself, and subdue the sound of the kill shot, but how did he hide his rifle?’
‘You mean as he moved to and from where he took the shot?’
‘Yes.’
‘He carried it in a bag?’
‘But how big was the bag? Rifles aren’t known as “longs” in the British Army for nothing. A guy carrying a bag as long as a pool cue would be noticed.’
‘Simple. He disassembled it.’
Tate closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, visualising and then carried on, ‘But, as far as I know, there are only two types of precision rifles that can be broken down in the field quickly and reassembled. One is used by the US Army and another by about a dozen different international police units.’
‘So that narrows down the weapon used and where it came from? But, Tate, there has to be millions of the one used by the US Army floating around.’
‘It wasn’t that one.’
‘Why not?’
‘The Remington MSR has a barrel that can be removed to change the weapon’s calibre, not for concealment. And the accuracy of the Remington isn’t what I’d call that of a precision rifle because the barrel can be changed. Things get misaligned – the scope, the barrel and the action.’
‘I get it. It’s the other one and this helps me because it’s what, rarer?’
‘Especially in .338 calibre. Very rare. You’re looking for a shooter using a German sniper rifle, a Blaser R93 LRS2. It’s the LRS2 variant that uses the .338 Lapua Magnum rounds. The same as you analysed. Big holes, without the weight of a .50 cal, they were designed for the war in Afghanistan. And then getting a suppressor for this, which I imagine is not sold commercially in the US, is extremely hard.’
‘And what if you’re wrong again, Mr Tate?’
‘I never make two mistakes on the same day.’
‘OK.’ Donoghue flipped open his laptop and pressed a few keys with his large fingers. ‘Tell me the name of that rifle again?’
‘A Blaser R93 LRS2.’
‘I’m going to look it up as I’ve never seen one.’
A question formed in Tate’s head as the police chief checked his Google results. ‘Are there any links between the victims?’
Donoghue didn’t look up. ‘Not that we know of. The first was a banker by the name of Darren Sant; the second was Senator Piper.’
‘And these shootings happened in the Camden area?’
‘The first in Rockport – just down from us – and then today’s was in Camden.’ Donoghue’s expression changed. ‘Now that’s interesting.’
‘You’ve found something?’
Stabbing his screen with his index finger, Donoghue spoke. ‘On Wikiwand I’ve found a list of “users” of this rifle. And the nearest to us here is the New Jersey State Police. I’m going to call them and pick their brains.’ Donoghue finally looked up. He cleared his throat. ‘Look, Mr Tate, I feel I owe you an apology.’
‘I see.’ Tate smiled thinly.
Donoghue continued, ‘If a thing is too good to be true then it usually is, and hauling you in for this was just that. The FBI and the national news crews are going to be swarming all over me come lunchtime tomorrow. You are free to go, and your rental car has been brought around the front of the lot.’
‘Good.’ Tate stood.
The police chief extended his hand. ‘No hard feelings? You were speeding, after all.’
‘OK,’ Tate said with more enthusiasm than he felt. The man had ruined his day, but he was a man in uniform and he had a job to do.
‘Where are you planning on going now?’
‘I’ve got a reservation at the Elm Street Inn.’
Donoghue smiled wryly. ‘I live just across the road. Mind you, when I moved in, the place was called something else and they hadn’t made the bar what it is now. The wife’s not happy about it, but I am.’
‘If I see you there, I’ll buy you a beer.’
‘Would you be attempting to bribe a police officer, Mr Tate?’
Tate smiled. ‘I don’t know. How good is the local beer?’
‘Good. And thanks for your help identifying the rifle, if you’re right.’
‘I am.’
Chapter 3
Camden, Maine
Donoghue waived the speeding ticket, so all Tate had to do was sign for his watch. He left the air-conditioned cool of the police station. Outside, the late afternoon was still warm, and particles of dust danced in the sun as he opened the driver’s door of the Tahoe. The built-up interior heat hit him. He sighed. It hadn’t been parked in the shade. He climbed into the stuffy cabin, powered down both front windows and switched on the satellite navigation. He was finally on holiday again.
Fresh air blew on his face as he took Mechanic Street and then Elm before arriving at the inn minutes later. Elm Street Inn consisted of three white buildings, clad, as was the norm in New England, in white wooden planking. Two buildings were long two-storey accommodation blocks sitting at right angles to each other across a parking lot. The third, which had been the original house on the property, sat squat and heavily extended, facing the street. There was a grassy area to the right of both accommodation blocks with a screened-off section concealing a pool.
Tate brought the SUV to a halt at reception and stepped out. Having lost most of the day at the pleasure of the local police, he’d arrived much later than planned. He stretched and gave the inn a quick 360, noticing a large figure in jeans and a black polo shirt who seemed to be taking photographs of the parking lot. Tate squinted in the sunlight … no, the man was taking photos of the cars. Tate raised an eyebrow, entered reception and gave the old guy behind the counter his name.
‘Ah, our guest from England?’ the elderly guy asked in a chirpy voice and not waiting for Tate to answer said, ‘Been over a few times myself; Pop was stationed there in the war. Very pretty place, England. Which part are you from?’
‘Camden.’
‘Camden?’ the old guy said with a frown.
‘Camden, London. And it’s not as pretty as Camden, Maine.’
The door behind Tate swung open and the photographer entered. He nodded at the receptionist and said in Russian-accented English, ‘Number seven.’
‘Right you are, sir.’ The receptionist handed him a key.
Tate eyed the large man. And large was an understatement – he was huge. He had several inches on him in both height and shoulder width. His hair was cut short, but not in any way that could be called stylish. It certainly wasn’t the work of a trained barber. Tate noted his boots were well worn, whilst there were still shop-creases in his dark blue Levi’s and black Ralph Lauren polo shirt. The man nodded curtly before exiting again. Tate watched him stride away. He recognised his upright, chest-first bearing as that of a soldier, or at least someone who had until recently been one. Questions formed in Tate’s mind and as if to answer at least the first, the old man spoke.
‘We got a pair of Russians staying with us; came up from Portland way the day before yesterday. He’s the biggest. I’m Joe.’
‘Jack, Jack Tate.’
‘That’s lucky, because we have a reservation in your name.’ Joe smiled at his own joke as if it wasn’t the first time he had told it. ‘Well, Jack, if you’ll just let me take a look at your passport and credit card, I’ll see about giving you your room. Oh and if you can write the details of your vehicle on this form here?’
‘Is there anywhere to eat around here?’ Tate asked as his details were tapped into an ancient-looking computer.
‘Sure is; didn’t you see “Eric’s” on Elm? It’s the restaurant and bar attached to this place. Same owner, great food, great chef – I’m the chef. You like oysters?’
‘I do, but the last lot I had were faulty.’
‘Faulty?’ Joe repeated.
‘Yep, I had five but only three of them worked.’
Tate watched Joe’s face go blank for a moment before he started to snigger. ‘At my age, I imagine most of ’em would have been faulty.’ He handed Tate a key. ‘Here, room number six, next to our Russian friends in the building on the left. Now you go and drop off your things, and I’ll see you a bit later at Eric’s.’
‘Thanks.’
Tate returned to the parking lot and drove the fifty feet to the accommodation block. Hefting out his bag from the trunk, he scanned the doors for number six. A few minutes later, he had located his room, thrown his bag on the floor, and was looking out of the window, across the car park to the view of the dense woodland. Tate shook his head and smiled; Camden, Maine, was definitely more to his liking than Camden, London, even if a rogue gunman was on the prowl.
Tate stayed motionless and took in the scene for a minute before undressing and stepping into the bathroom. He pulled the cord for the light. The bulb flickered for a moment before it went out with a small clink. Tate sighed, relocated the waste bin, and used it to prop the door open before turning on the shower.
*
Oleg sighed as the bartender plonked a plate piled high with food in front of his colleague.
‘Double bacon cheeseburger with slaw and fries. Extra onion rings.’
‘Thank you.’ The large Russian rubbed his hands together in appreciation.
‘Will that be all?’
‘Yes, it is all.’
‘Enjoy your meal.’ The bartender retreated.
‘You eat far too much. You’ll be fat and unfit by the time you hit fifty,’ Oleg stated.
Sergei sneered at his older colleague. ‘In twenty more years, Oleg, when I am old like you, I will worry. But today I will eat good, hot American food because the day after tomorrow I will not be able to.’
Oleg glanced warily around the room. ‘You are also as discreet as a T-62 battle tank!’
‘I am sorry. Now can I finally eat?’
The pair lapsed into silence as the large Russian devoured his meal. Oleg slowly drank his beer. The quality was good, and he had to drink it to keep up the appearance of a man on vacation, but he also knew that it dulled his senses and he did not wish to miss anything that may be of note for his mission.
‘And nothing has changed?’ Sergei asked, wiping his mouth with a red paper napkin.
‘I’ve received no call. Everything is going to plan. We stay to observe the attack and then we pull out six hours afterwards.’
‘And then we shall return to Russia as national heroes whilst America falls to its knees.’
Oleg’s eyes widened. ‘You must say no more!’
Sergei chuckled. ‘You think anyone here speaks Russian?’
‘They may! For the next thirty-five hours we must not let our guard down.’
‘In thirty-five hours, no one will be worrying about anything they overheard you or I say, even if they could understand Russian.’
For once there was logic in Sergei’s words, but Oleg did not want to tempt fate. The man made him feel uncomfortable. Oleg drank his draught beer and continued to observe the bar and its patrons. What would happen to this place and the many thousands like it, he wondered, not just on a technical but also on a societal standpoint? A myriad of unanswered questions trooped through his mind, like soldiers at a Moscow military parade. Would the local grid or emergency generators turn on? Would the bar be used as a meeting point? Would the bar share its food and water supplies with stranded guests and needy locals? And what about criminal gangs? Would they take over and jockey for power with the powerless authorities?
These questions were his concern. These were his part of the mission.
*
Refreshed after a nap, Tate entered Eric’s and took a stool at the end of the bar. It was early evening but a Saturday night nonetheless, yet fewer than half of the dozen or so tables were occupied. He spotted the big Russian sitting at a corner table with another man. They were facing out across the room. It was the exact spot he would have chosen, out of habit. It provided a clear line of sight to the exit; no one could approach without being seen. But the Russians had taken it first. It was puzzling, especially the way they were not facing each other but out across the room, almost as though they were waiting for a cabaret show.
If the large man was military, or military trained, was the second? He was older, grey-haired yet from Tate’s swift analysis seemed too soft to be an officer. He eyed Tate suspiciously. So what did that make him? Tate sighed and shook his head a little. He was on holiday, and by the look of the large Russian’s brand-new clothes, so were they. Tate needed to relax and enjoy his downtime. He’d been ordered to take a month off to relax, unwind, and if he didn’t, he knew his boss wouldn’t be happy. He turned his head away slowly, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself.
‘What can I get you?’
Tate was taken aback for a moment by the barmaid. He made a conscious effort not to stare at her cleavage. ‘Just a beer will do for now.’
‘Draught or bottle?’
‘What’s best?’
The barmaid popped a bottle and placed it on a mat in front of him.
‘Thanks.’ Tate studied the bottle. The beer was labelled “King Titus” and brewed by the Maine Beer Company. Tate took a sip and nodded in appreciation. ‘Will you have one?’
She shook her head. ‘Too early for me. Are you staying here?’
‘Yes.’ He took a greedy slug of his beer.
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re the guy from London.’
‘Close. Camden.’ She frowned and Tate explained, ‘Camden’s a borough of London.’
‘Funny, I never knew that.’
Tate took another swig. ‘There’s probably a word for people who travel to find their town’s twin. I don’t know it though.’
‘There’s another Camden in New Jersey, but that place is apparently the second most dangerous city in the US, and the poorest, according to an article I read.’
‘A bit different from here then.’
‘A lot different.’
‘I’m Jack.’
‘Sara.’
‘Nice to meet you.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’ Sara turned away and served another customer.
‘Have you seen the menu yet, Jack?’ Joe asked, entering the bar from the kitchen door.
‘Nope. Sara didn’t give me one.’
‘You said you just wanted a beer,’ she snapped from the other end of the bar.
‘To drink, but I’m also hungry.’
Sara smiled without sincerity and handed him a leatherette folder. ‘Here we are, sir. Please let me know what you would like to order.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Joe, can you take over for a minute?’
‘Sure.’
Sara exited the bar and Joe shrugged. ‘She’s a bit … what’s the word? Agitated at the moment.’
Tate nodded; it was no skin off his nose. ‘So what would you recommend?’
Joe leaned forward and placed his index finger on an item. ‘That. It’s something I concocted myself. Seafood stew.’
Tate nodded. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Scallops, haddock, and shrimp … with a dash of chilli. It goes surprisingly well with a bottle of white wine.’
‘Sold.’
‘On the stew?’
‘On both.’
‘Great, but I thought you were drinking beer?’
‘I’m on holiday. I’ll throw caution to the wind.’ He finished the beer in two gulps.
Sara reappeared; Joe gave her a mock salute and returned to the kitchen.
‘So what do people do around here for fun on a Saturday night?’ Tate asked.
‘Go into town, drink too much and fall over, or get on their boats, drink too much and fall overboard. You want another?’
‘Nice, you should work for the Camden tourist board.’
‘I’ve had a long day,’ Sara said.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘OK, I will.’ Tate rolled his eyes, but she continued to talk. ‘My ex-boyfriend woke me up drunk at four a.m. like he has done nearly every morning for the past week. Hollering at my window and ringing my bell. Then, when he finally decided to leave, he slashed the tyres on my car, which meant I had to take a taxi to the grocery store. Then when I got back, I found out the meat supplier hadn’t made his delivery, so I had to then spend an hour calling other suppliers to be able to serve my guests this evening.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Sara folded her arms. ‘So tell me about your day.’
‘I drove down from Bangor, and then got arrested and thrown in a cell by your very efficient Camden PD.’
‘So are you a dangerous criminal?’
He smiled. ‘A case of mistaken identity.’
Sara exchanged his old bottle for a new one. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just tired.’
‘Hey, I’m a Londoner. Anything less than a slap in the face is viewed as politeness in my local boozer.’
‘Boozer?’
‘Pub.’ Tate swigged his beer. ‘Did you get your tyres fixed?’
‘Yes. Why, were you offering to fix ’em?’
‘I was.’
‘Are you a car mechanic?’
‘No, but I can have a look.’
Joe appeared with a plate. Sara pointed across the room. ‘Take that spare table over there. I don’t encourage eating at the bar. It makes the place look messy.’
‘Fine,’ Tate said with a shrug and shifted to the table. It was nearer to the Russians.
Joe deposited a large bowl. ‘Enjoy.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Here.’ Sara placed a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a glass on the table.
Tate watched her walk back to the bar. There was a noise from the corner and he saw the large Russian also assessing Sara. He nudged the second Russian and said something Tate couldn’t quite make out. The older man remained silent.
Tate started to eat. He’d always liked fish and chips and, as a teenager, had a Saturday job at the local chippy. Back then some places still used newspaper to wrap the food in, well the outer layer at least. He remembered wrapping his brother’s order in page 3 of The Sun on more than one occasion to try to embarrass him. Whether he noticed the bare breasts of the page 3 girl or not he never mentioned it. Tate hadn’t been the best younger brother in the world and certainly far from the best son, but he and his brother had a strong bond. Tate took a sip of wine then continued to eat. What he was eating now shamed the simple fish and chips, and there wasn’t a mushy pea in sight.
A group entered the bar. A family. The parents appeared to be in their late fifties. Their two daughters, tall, mid to late teens. All four were dressed in matching blue hiking shirts, khaki shorts and sturdy boots. Tate noticed the big Russian obviously ogling the girls as they took a table.
‘Dad, can we order now? I’m hungry,’ one of the two girls said, from behind her iPhone.
Tate ate his meal and thought again how the world had changed since he was a kid. They hadn’t had iPads and iPhones; they’d had to make do with conning their parents out of change for the pinball machine or the pool table whenever they’d been treated to a pub lunch. He frowned; actually at the girls’ age he’d already joined the army whilst his brother had studiously studied for his A levels. Tate looked at the family again. The two kids absorbed in their screens, seemingly oblivious to where they were or who they were with, whilst the parents checked a large tourist map. Meanwhile the eyes of the smaller, older Russian continuously roved the room.
Tate finished his meal and wiped his mouth on a napkin. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the older Russian jerk, as though poked with a cattle prod, and then thrust his hand into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a mobile phone, pressed it to his ear and turned away from the room. Moments later he rose to his feet and said something to the big Russian who stood and towered over him. They exchanged a few words. The older Russian’s voice was low, almost inaudible, but Tate caught the other say in Russian, “That is why he is needed on this mission.” He slapped the older Russian on the back and they left the bar.
There was something odd about the Russian’s coded language and their behaviour, something that brought back bad memories. Tate drained his wine glass, left cash for his food and drink on the table, waited for a minute and then, on impulse, followed the men. As he stepped outside, he saw the duo reach the other side of the parking lot. They inspected a Winnebago belonging to another guest. After some finger pointing and gesticulation, they moved towards an SUV. In the dim sodium lights, Tate could just make out a second Chevrolet Tahoe, which was the same colour as his own, parked next to his.
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