Body Count (18 page)

Down in the street, a Marder tracked APC trundled past. Its commander was risking using dipped headlights. That could be a fatal mistake Revell thought, with enemy snipers in action. But then the Marder had decent armoured protection, at least against small-arms fire. The commander would have to stay closed down though. Even with all the sophisticated night vision devices he had available, that still brought other penalties ... Revell realized he was deliberately letting his mind be sidetracked, avoiding the conversation, trying not to hear her words.

“I enjoyed killing her, but not just because of what she was. She told me all of the things you had done together. I made her. Have I told you that before? I think the drinking I have done has affected my memory, but I am not drunk now.”

Revell turned to her, and found she was looking at him. “Was Sophia right about you? Or are you just a frustrated cock-teaser?”

“Perhaps I am a lesbian. When I was quite young, I had a special friend. She used to stay at my house at weekends. We would share a bed. I liked her touching me, and I did the same for her.”

“Why all the soul-baring?” Her conversation was so unlike any he'd ever had with her, he felt out of his depth.

“That I cannot tell you, because I do not know. I just felt I had to talk. As I know how you feel about me, I thought you would at least listen, without reacting to the sexual arousal you might experience at such a conversation.”

“I am human. Why do you think I would have more control than any other man?”

“Oh, I am not talking about control.” Andrea undid her belt. “Self-discipline I would expect you to have.” She unfastened her jacket. “You will not grab me because I am a dream you have. Touch me, yes. Watch me masturbate, yes. But to go all the way?”

Revell didn't take his eyes off her as she removed her jacket and threw it carelessly across a smart table setting.

“If you do that, what other dream do you have to replace it? You are a soldier, your battles are fought in the Zone, most of the time.” Andrea glanced out at the city. “For you there is no dream of comfortable retirement. You will not live to pensionable age, and you know it. So you made me your dream, your something to look forward to.”

“You're presuming a hell of a lot.” It was like she was reading his mind, but even that he couldn't admit. Like so much else he repressed it, pushed it aside. “So if this is what you believe, why bring it up? Why chose this time and place?”

“Because I feel there will not be another. Out there they are still fighting. I know you do not think so, but somehow I know this city has not finished with us yet.” “A premonition, is that what you're saying?”

“Give it what label you like. Call it the fabled woman's intuition if you prefer. I only tell you what I feel inside.”

“If you were right, is there anything I could do to prevent something happening?” Revell searched for a word. “Preordained, isn't that what it's called?”

Andrea looked hard at the major, trying to determine if he was having fun at her expense. Certainly he was smiling, but not in derision. It was a sad smile, like he was sorry for both of them.

“I've never shattered a dream before, especially not one of my own,” Revell looked towards the lifts, “and we might be discovered, I mean disturbed ...”

“You will not like it as much if we had more time and comfort.” Andrea sank down on her knees, then rolled sideways to lay full length on her back. Her hands began to edge her clothing lower.

“Please, don't tell me what I will and won't like. Don't try to do my thinking for me.” As her legs parted, Revell knelt beside her. He had seen her body before, watched her working it with her fingers to a climax.

While inside he screamed at himself to go faster, his shell moved slowly. She was right about him not liking the discomfort. Improvised lovemaking had never been to his taste. It least though, by not hurling himself straight on top of her, he could salvage some tiny measure of satisfaction of more than just carnal needs.

Andrea knew what he was doing, sensed his need to get more from this, their first intercourse, than the quick fulfilment of a physical need. She did not try to hurry him when he gently brushed his lips against hers, though she realized how little time they had. His actions called for no response on her part, not even when he lightly ran his fingertips across her stomach, between her legs, and then on to her thigh. Laying still she waited, feeling his erection warm against her leg.

Surely she should have felt more than this. Bracing herself to take his weight as he moved on top of her, she was surprised at how little discomfort there was; the effort he made to support himself.

“This is the first time... with a man.” The words came without her planning them. They surprised her, and she waited for his reaction.

At the moment the tip of his penis entered her body, he checked for an instant. Then he was pushing into her. His mind was in turmoil. He had speculated, for so long, to himself. Not that he could ever have hoped ... if she was telling the truth.

Beyond the windows a whole city was struggling to survive. On the floor in the deserted restaurant, two people were managing to forget it existed.

THIRTY-ONE
“Can you trust him?”

The SAS Colonel stalked from behind his desk and glared at Boris, though it was Revell he spoke to.

“So far I've had no reason to think otherwise.”

“Shit, shit, fucking shit.” Col. Granger looked at the document that Boris had just translated. “At least it confirms what we've obtained from interrogations. And it almost matches the number of chutes that have been retrieved.”

“It matches exactly.” Revell noticed that the Russian was edging towards the door. “The Police have spotted two canopies on the roof of the Olympic Stadium. Bodies are still attached.” He saw Boris finally manage to sidle from the room.

The Colonel didn't bother to add the figures again. The body count stood at one hundred and ninety exactly. All the available evidence indicated that a total of two hundred and two Spetsnaz troops had made the drop.

“What about those snipers you engaged ? You claimed no kills. Where was it ? Oh yes, a side street hotel and the bank on Marienplatz. So how about it, think you're being pessimistic?”

“I'd like to think I'm being realistic.”

“Could the bodies have been destroyed by the fire or explosion?”

“I couldn't say, Colonel. I stick by what I know for sure. We left the hotel starting to burn nicely. On Marienplatz we scored a direct hit. We got no more fire from either location, but that doesn't say that the Reds had hung about waiting for us to hit them.”

“In both cases I'm waiting for police and fire brigade reports. Do you think you got two sections with those hits?” Granger rubbed his hands hopefully.

“I'd think it highly unlikely. We weren't utilizing that sort of firepower.” A motorcycle messenger entered and handed the colonel a paper. He unfolded it, and had to turn it hand over hand to get it the right way up.

“Shit, fucking shit. You missed them.”
Revell wasn't about to labour the point again. If the colonel chose to persist in deluding himself by thinking that Revell and his unit had put in false claims, then let him. He truly didn't care any more. He was too tired and had too many other things on his mind.

“We're still missing twelve of the bastards.” “Maybe they've deserted. Taken vehicles and skipped, right out of the city, perhaps. After all, we ran into a few who were trying just that.”

“Because you've seen a lot of men do that in the Zone, it doesn't mean every unit is likely to disintegrate if it gets half a chance.”

“I wasn't suggesting that, Colonel.” Revell could kick himself for suggesting anything. “But I do think we're helping the Russians by building up this superman image of their Spetsnaz troops.”

“You're an authority, you've fought them before?” “No, all I'm saying is that I don't believe the Russians have managed to build up and maintain elite troops trained to the standards that these are rumoured to have achieved.” Revell sought an example, and found an obvious one. “How about your outfit? Even with years of preparation, do you think you could find and train upwards of thirty thousand men to your standards?”

Col. Granger had flushed an angry red when the major had started speaking; gradually he managed to bring his temper under control. “So what are they then, boy scouts ...?

“Simply well-trained troops who've had a good PR campaign organized for them in the West. Among them will be the good, the bad, and the deserters.”

“Fortunately I don't subscribe to your theory, Major. I believe they will be holed up somewhere in the city centre, waiting for things to get back to normal, before popping up again.”

“You could be falling into a trap, Colonel, one of your own making. You work on that supposition, and you'll be tying up troops and snarling up the city for a long time to come.”

Revell could see the colonel was not about to be convinced, but felt he had to give it one more try.

“They've had plenty of time to make a rim. They could have stolen transport, or hidden and waited to mingle with the first of the crowds coming from the shelters. Easy enough for them to obtain civvy gear.”

“That's enough, Major. I’ll take care of matters my way. Don't you have some transport waiting?”

For a moment, Revell stood his ground, then tiredness and apathy swept over him. What the hell, it wasn't his fight any longer. Maybe he should make one more try. No, the hell he would.

Abruptly, Revell left the room. In the outer office he collected Boris. He was not alone. There were a number of the colonel's troops there, all tough-looking heavily armed men. Their proximity was clearly causing Boris considerable distress. His manner was nervous and agitated.

“Major.” Boris hissed out the corner of his mouth as they went out. “In the last few hours, you have made me go up against drunken Spetsnaz, and sit in a room with ten SAS men. My bowels will not take what you are putting them through.”

“You'll be okay. We're finished with Munich. Transport is laid on. We leave as soon as we're boarded.”

“Then my only regret is that it was not thirty-six hours sooner.” Going out through the front door, Boris walked straight into an SAS machine gunner draped with belts of ammunition. He jumped, apologized in Russian, and then went deadly pale as he realized what he'd done.

By the time Revell was outside, Boris was already two blocks away. Munich was returning to normal at an almost frenetic pace. Battalions of city employees were sweeping the streets, and squadrons of tow trucks removing burned-out, smashed, and abandoned cars. Damaged storefronts were being boarded over with sheets of pastel-coloured ply, giving the appearance of undergoing refit, rather than being hidden from the gawp of tourists.

True, there were more police on the street than was usual, but not exceptionally so, a few APCs parked in side streets, but that wasn't such an unusual sight. Only the frequent roadblocks, where the identification of every man was double- checked, were out of the ordinary.

A few side streets were cordoned off, and the taint of smoke hung over the city, but the smell permeating the pedestrian malls was more likely to come from hot dog stalls and hamburger stands than buildings being damped down. 

The main railroad station was still closed, after the destruction of its signal cabin by an overenthusiastic application of force by an SAS team. It was by truck that the Special Combat Company was to be moved.

There was no one to see them leave, bar the passing pedestrians, and they took no notice of so common a sight. The last men were climbing aboard, when a military police station wagon pulled up in front of the lead vehicle. Two police cars boxed in the little convoy at the back.

“Bloody hell.” From the back of the tail-end Bedford, Scully watched the police approach their officer. “This doesn't look like a social visit.”

“Perhaps they're going to bill us for any damage we've done.” Burke's tone was caustic.

“Sure as fuck they haven't brought a vote of thanks from the city fathers.” Dooley watched the conversation between the major and the officers. It was short, almost curt. During it Revell's expression hardened. At its conclusion, he laid his submachine gun on the ground and emptied a pocket of shells. An MP pointed to his holster, and when Revell shook his head, a police officer stepped forward and reached for the pistol.

“They're arresting the major!”
The shout Dooley gave as he jumped out was heard along the line of trucks. Suddenly every member of the company was leaping down and making for the rear of the convoy.

Seeing the numbers advancing on them, the police fell back to their cars. For a while, the four MPs stood their ground, until they were pushed and jostled against a store window that bowed ominously under the pressure. One of them tried to draw his side arm, but had it wrenched from his hand, unloaded, and then thrust back at him hard.

Two of them pulled their clubs, but those too they were relieved of, but those weren't returned, disappearing instead into the encircling crowd.

Civilians, sensing trouble, scurried away. A police officer attempting to use his car radio had the handset pulled from his grasp and ripped out, complete with its coiled lead.

“Hold it, hold it.” Revell had to bellow at the top of his voice to make himself heard above the threats being hurled at police and MPs. “Back off, all of you.”

THIRTY-TWO
The pile of firearms on the sidewalk grew as the men handed in the weapons they had obtained in the city. Revell stood to one side, watching the process.

In turn each man would step forward, unload, show the breach of his weapon was empty, and add it to the stack. The first few had thrown the rifles and submachine guns down hard, obviously hoping to damage them. When the lieutenant in charge of the military police detachment protested, Revell had to order more care taken.

It was an impressive collection, and the assortment of grenades and ammunition beside it was no less daunting.

“That's everything. We can go now?” Revell got no reply. The police were totally absorbed in worried contemplation of the heap of ordnance they'd suddenly inherited. “Oh, one last item.”