The Killing Game (32 page)

“I put the Regiment in a difficult position, sir. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I was concerned we were being played by spooks and God knows who.” He resisted fidgeting. He still didn’t know if he’d fucked up or not, but at least he hadn’t executed an unarmed old man. He could live with that. After twenty-two years in the army, he’d finally made peace with his past. He’d finally done enough to forgive himself his heritage and could live with his choices even if he got kicked out of the Regiment. Axelle had a hand in that.

“You’re a good soldier, Dempsey. As far as you’re concerned you were following
my
personal orders, got it?”

Dempsey blinked in surprise. The man was saving his ass, possibly at his own expense. “Why? Why would you go to bat for a man like me, sir?”

“A man like you?” Keen gray eyes assessed him. “You know way back when you applied for selection?”

Dempsey nodded.

“I was there, son. No one ever intended for you to get in to the Regiment.”

His eyes widened.

“Trouble was, no matter what we threw at you, you never gave up. You never stopped fighting. You never quit. The DSs started looking at one another and shrugging as if to say, ‘I’m not going to axe the best guy here.’ The hypocrisy was too great. We kept waiting for you to fail. To not make the cut, but you just kept coming.” The man smiled and Dempsey felt emotion expanding in his chest so much he couldn’t speak. “Then the Regimental CO at the time called a meeting and said something that stuck in my mind ever since. That you were probably one of the few soldiers who really understood what we were fighting for in Northern Ireland. Having lost your sister to your father’s bomb,
you
understood the stakes better than any of us. So you passed and have been a great asset to the Regiment ever since.”

Dempsey’s mouth felt as dry as the Gobi.

“Now I need to make some phone calls. You keep Volkov secure before the various factions arrive to start a tug-o-war over him.”

“And the grandson?” Dempsey grated out.

“Not in my remit, Sergeant. Not in yours either.”

No, but making a pawn out of a child’s life didn’t sit well. Didn’t sit well at all.

***

“Do you deny you spent a day in Dmitri Volkov’s company?”

Axelle didn’t bother trying to hide her utter disbelief. She leaned across a small square table and told herself not to hit the sonofabitch. They’d been over this ten times already. He was trying to rile her. “He kidnapped me, twice, shot at me, and strapped me into an explosive vest. It was hardly frickin’ date night.”

“So you say.”

Whoa, the guy’s eyes contained the same emotion as a bullet, but a bullet was warmer.

She tapped a foot. “I don’t get why you’re even interviewing me.”

“Because you spent time with—”

“I get that.” She raised her voice. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

His brows crunched together.

“I was kidnapped and you guys sent in a freakin’ airplane’s worth of bombs to blow us both to smithereens. The only reason I’m alive is a soldier saved my ass and found us a way out of the mountain.”

His face remained impassive. “What did you talk about with the Russian? Did he tell you what he wanted?”

She felt trapped and wanted to pace up and down like some caged animal. She sank her fingers into her hair, trying to remember everything so they’d let her go. She had nothing to hide. “He told me my family owed him. That it was a blood debt and it didn’t matter if I died because my family deserved it. Something like that anyway.”

The man in the green jacket wrote it all down. “What else did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“What about the soldier? Sergeant Dempsey? What did you talk to him about?”

Axelle stilled. Inside everything stopped rattling. “What do you mean?”

“What did you tell the soldier? What did you and Sergeant Dempsey talk about when you were escaping the mountain?”

She could hear her blood rushing through her ears. She didn’t want Dempsey in trouble. She didn’t want her time with him dissected. “We were too busy trying to survive to talk much. We didn’t exactly have a lot in common.” She stood and walked to the one-way mirror. Tapped the glass. “I’m done here. Unless you’re planning on breaking out the cling film and buckets of water, I suggest you get my father on the phone.”

Her interrogator shrugged one shoulder as if to say “I’m just doing my job.”

But she knew better. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Who do you work for?”

His smile stopped. “You can go. It must be nice to have contacts in high places.”

If her family flipped burgers for a living she had a feeling that she wouldn’t be sitting here being grilled like a piece of meat. Axelle snatched up her bags—which had been thoroughly searched—and left. Before he changed his mind.

***

Dempsey refused to let Dmitri Volkov out of his sight. He even showered with the guy, with Taz and Baxter guarding the door. Not his finest moment but if the old man escaped in this country and killed anyone, he’d never forgive himself. Now Volkov lay on an uncomfortable couch in a small coffee room in a building they used for lectures and debriefs. The
News at Ten
was on. Taz stood at the door, Baxter and Cullen slept in a side room. They had perimeter guards too. On base in Credenhill they were secure. If anyone attacked the SAS on their home ground, they’d not live to regret it.

But Dempsey felt unsettled. Nervous. He had a laptop out and was trying to track down Axelle.

Pointless.

They’d hooked up, that was all. Parted ways. So why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?

Because he was worried. Because he had that horrible feeling he’d done something stupid like fallen in love with her. All these years trying to prove himself to the army and suddenly he couldn’t stop thinking about a woman.

He’d emailed the address on her MSU website and received no reply. Yet his senses were tingling. He’d tracked down her cell number and left her a message there too. He felt foolish. He also felt like he’d missed something. Again.

“Why did you kidnap Axelle, Dmitri?”
Keep working the hearts and minds angle and don’t beat the old bugger to a pulp.

Volkov turned his head. They’d found him some old jeans, olive green socks and a West Ham United T-shirt no one dared claim. He was cuffed, secured to the base of the couch. With his straggly hair and long beard he looked like a lot of former soldiers—a panhandler.

Dempsey didn’t like staring into this man’s eyes because the more he saw him, the more he became aware of the similarities between them. They’d both betrayed their roots for a seemingly better cause that hadn’t turned out exactly as they’d expected. He’d dedicated his life to saving innocents, but people had died too. People always died and it wasn’t always the bad guys.

Shit happened.

The Russian shrugged. “I wanted to get someone’s attention.”

“Well, it worked.” Dempsey narrowed his gaze. Maybe they weren’t so similar. He’d never have done that to an innocent woman.

“Who is
that
?” The Russian pointed at an image of the new PM on the telly.

“David Allworth, the new British PM. Why?” Dempsey sat straighter. Volkov had gone whiter than a June bride. “What?”

“He looks like a man I captured in the Wakhan many years ago.”

“Captured?”

Dmitri clammed up but Dempsey could see the cogs turning. He googled information on the Allworth family. He turned the computer screen toward the man who was now leaning toward him with bright alert eyes.

“It says here Allworth’s father died in a plane crash in Kashmir in 1979.” He showed him a picture of Sebastian Allworth.

Dmitri nodded. “He died in ’79, but it was not in a plane crash.” A crafty grin spread over his face but his eyes hardened to stone. “Get my grandson a new liver and I’ll tell the prime minister exactly how his father died.”

“The Americans have your grandson and will only get him treatment once we hand you over.”

“Then hand me over.” The man’s tone got imperious and he shifted against his bonds. “What are you waiting for?”

“They’re waiting for me.” David Allworth, the British PM, walked into the room flanked by the CO of the regiment and his own personal bodyguards. Dempsey recognized then because he’d trained them. He climbed to his feet.

“Sergeant Tyrone Dempsey.” Allworth looked him over, then held out his hand. Dempsey was aware of his less than stellar pedigree when shaking the hand of the leader of his country. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Sir.” He nodded to the PM but didn’t shift his defensive position in front of Volkov. The Russian had hurt a woman he was halfway in love with. More than halfway. The old goat had helped extremists murder thousands of innocent people over the years. Why the hell did he care what happened to Volkov?

The PM vibrated with tension as he peered at Volkov. “
You
murdered my father.”

Volkov’s smile was neither bitter nor surprised. He looked resigned to whatever treatment they decided to dish out. “I will not talk to you until my grandson is in surgery, getting the new liver he needs. Then I will tell you everything.”

“You shot my father in the back.” A pulse throbbed in Allworth’s temple.

“If I did, it was standard practice for both our countries.” Dmitri’s eyes burned with bitterness. “He was a spy, spreading anti-Soviet propaganda.” He eyed each of the weapon-carrying men in the room. No one said a word but they all knew the truth of his words. “Why would I lie? What difference would one more crime make to a man like me?”

Allworth stepped forward and raised his hand as if to strike. “My father wasn’t a spy.”

“Sir.” Dempsey shifted a half step and the PM’s guards closed in exactly the way they were supposed to. Dempsey didn’t back down. “You need to hear him out,” he said quietly. “After that, you can make your decision on what to do with him. But if we can get him talking and help save a child’s life, even his grandson’s”—brown eyes rose to meet his—“don’t you think that’s something your dad would have been proud of?”

Allworth’s jaw flexed as he tried to rein in his fury. “My father worked as an interpreter for the Foreign Office. His best friend told my mother exactly what happened, and he said this animal tortured my father, and then shot him in the back.”

“That is
not
what happened.” A pained smile touched the edge of the Volkov’s lips. “Give me to the Americans and I will give you the name of the man who shot your father.”

Allworth clenched and unclenched his fists. “Tell me the name or I’ll send you somewhere no one will ever find you.”

“I have nothing left to lose except my grandson.” The eyes were ancient and as emotionless as stone. “If you want the information about who killed your father, hand me over to the Americans. I won’t tell you otherwise.” The Russian turned and looked Dempsey straight in the eye. The hair on the nape of Dempsey’s neck stood erect. “If you really love someone you need to protect them.”

***

In the back of the limo on their way back to London, Jonathon hid a fake yawn behind his half-finished
Times
crossword. His heart hadn’t stopped doing a jig for the past eight hours.

“Damned exciting goings-on. I’d assumed it would be more of the same over-engineered, overpriced rubbish we’ve had for years, but this time they actually look like they’re on to something.” Rear Admiral Jenkins puffed out his barrel chest.

They did indeed. Moscow would be both terrified and thrilled.

“We can’t discuss it off the base,” Jonathon admonished the naval officer, who looked a little startled to be chastised. Jonathon rolled his eyes. Seriously, how the Brits ever won any war when they were led by such imbeciles was beyond him. “Top Secret. Eyes and ears and all that.” He tapped his nose.

“Of course, of course.” The admiral crossed his arms.

Not a weapon
per se
. But something that would give the Brits a new dominion of power nonetheless. He had to get this information to Moscow, and he had to leave ASAP to return to a hero’s welcome finally acknowledging the brilliance of his long and illustrious career. The perfect spy. The most successful spy in history. There would be books written about him—he might even write his memoirs. He tried hard not to grin like an idiot.

The car pulled to a stop outside his Fulham home.

“Good night.” He climbed out without the driver having to get the door for him. He stood and gave them a wave, sauntered to the big front door and slowly went into the house he’d lived in for almost fifty years. Volkov’s spawn had turned up at the American Embassy—Jonathon had seen it on the news in the limo. Even though his sources told him the man was dead, he couldn’t risk that he’d left some sort of evidence to be sent to the media in the event of his death. Hell, the Volkovs could be selling him out right now as he climbed his creaking stairs. But he couldn’t rush this. He had to act as though this was an ordinary day, especially after what he’d seen earlier. It was imperative for him to get this information to Moscow.

In this day and age it was all about satellite communication.

The Brits had sent a device into space that could control and disable any satellite of their choosing. It was a way of blinding and deafening the opposition. Simple, yet brilliant. Moscow needed to find a way to neutralize this threat if they were to stay in the game.

His feet paused on the stairs. The cotton he’d left on his doorknob was gone. Of course it was a crude and flawed early-warning system, but he also had other monitoring systems in place inside his apartment, and state-of-the-art locks and electronics defenses on his windows even though he was on the top floor. No alarm had been tripped.

He eased down a step when he heard a voice coming from within his apartment and his heart beat faster.
No…

The door was flung open and there was his granddaughter on the telephone. The only person in the world who had the code to his alarm system. “Oh, there you are. I just left a message on your cell.”