Ghosts

His right hand went to his shoulder holster, bringing out the Sig.

He rolled onto his stomach and aimed in a single, fluid motion.

Pascha Shcherbatov was stooping for the M4 he had dropped.

“Don’t,” Milton said, his breath still ragged.

Shcherbatov stood. And raised his hands.

“I am unarmed. I surrender.”

Milton got up. Blood was ru

“Hands on your head,” Milton ordered.

Shcherbatov did as he was told, lacing his fingers and resting his hands on his head.

He indicated with the gun and Shcherbatov stepped away from the M4, heading back into the corridor. Milton gestured that he should keep going and he went back into the room adjacent to the one where Vladimir had hidden from him.

It was dark. Milton brought the goggles back down again.

Ahead of him, against the sloping wall, was a narrow bed. There was someone on the bed.

“Very good, Captain Milton. I am impressed.”

He activated the torch attached to his helmet rails and a sharp, bright beam of white light trained onto Shcherbatov’s face. He winced, a hand automatically coming down to shield his eyes.

“On your head!”

Shcherbatov replaced his hand and looked away.

“Anyone else up here?”

“No.”

“Just Vladimir?”

“That is right.”

Milton turned the light onto the bed. Pope was laid out there. He looked worse than when Milton had seen him before. He was unshaven, with thick curls of beard, brown streaked with grey. His eyes were rheumy and uncertain and there were fresh bruises on his face.

“I did not expect this,” Shcherbatov said. “It is Control’s doing?”

“No. All my own work, I’m afraid.”

“How many of you?”

“Six.”

He looked surprised. “An armed incursion onto Russian soil? That is a dangerous precedent for a little thing such as this.”

“Don’t worry,” Milton said. “We had help.”

“My comrades in Red Square, I presume?”

“What can I say? Turns out you’re not a very popular fellow.”

Milton turned the lights back onto Shcherbatov’s face and he squinted into them again. He laughed. “Then my congratulations, Captain. You have outmanoeuvred me.”

“Pope,” Milton called out. “Wake up.”

“Do not concern yourself. He has been well treated.”

“Is that right?”

“He has pneumonia. A doctor has been attending to him. He is not in danger.”

“Pope.”

“What will happen now, Captain Milton? You will finish the job you failed to do when we first met?”

“Pope.”

“I am not afraid of death.”

Milton had thought long and hard during the flight to Kubinka. Shcherbatov was not his enemy, not really, despite what he had done to Pope. The man wanted revenge for what had happened to Semenko and using him was his means to that end; that, Milton concluded, was reasonable. Milton was similarly inclined. They had both been burned by Control. His thoughts ran back to an i

That was the big picture; but it also served both him and Beatrix very well to leave Control with a problem that he would not be able to solve.

Shcherbatov’s arms were spread. “Please, Captain. You must do what you must.”

“I’m not going to shoot you, Colonel. I’m going to give you what you want.”

He tore open his thigh pocket and was reaching his fingers down into it when he heard footsteps behind him. His hand stopped as he half-turned, the beams of light raking across the wall towards the darkness of the doorway, just in time to see the muzzle flashes from Callan’s suppressed M4.

He turned back into the room.

Shcherbatov was on the floor. Callan had shot him cleanly in the head. Three rounds. The was blood and brain matter around the entry wound. He was still moving a little, the last spasms that would precede a certain death, but Callan trained his laser on the old man’s chest and fired two more rounds into him to hasten him towards his exit. The body spasmed again and then fell still.

“Ten, Group. Last man down.”

Milton turned to him, his fists clenched. “What are you doing?”

“We had orders, Milton. Everyone here is to be eliminated. No witnesses.”

“Those weren’t my orders.”

Callan was impassive. “You don’t work for us any more. I don’t take my orders from you.”

Milton surreptitiously sealed the pocket again, leaving the drives where they were.

“Six, Group,” Blake reported over the radio. “Hurry, please. There’s more of them on the way out here.”

“Bring him,” Callan said, indicating Pope with the muzzle of his M4.

Milton knew that the terrain was shifting beneath him.

He pulled his CamelBak hose from his kit and held it in front of Pope’s chapped lips.

“John?” he said, his voice weak.

“You’ve got to get up, Pope.”

“We need to move now,” Blake said. “I can hear police.”

Spenser’s voice was tense. “Ten, report.”

“Ten, Group,” Callan said. “Third floor secure.”

“Two, Ten. Copy that. Mission status?”

“Affirmative, Ten. SNOW is down.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Milton and Callan helped Pope down the stairs. He was barely able to support himself and Milton wasn’t sure if he had even recognised him. They reached the ground floor and then the courtyard. He clasped his fingers around Pope’s belt for a better grip as they picked him up and hurried towards the outside gate.

There were lights on in most of the nearby dachas; the residents had been awakened by the explosions and the gunfire. Milton could see the silhouettes of locals in their windows and perhaps two dozen had come outside and were climbing up the hill towards them. They were keeping a cautious distance, wary of the soldiers, but some of the more intrepid ones were only fifty feet away. Blake could speak fluent Russian and he bellowed out for them to go back inside. They didn’t, but they didn’t advance any further. It was a temporary stalemate, but Milton knew that eventually their curiosity would win out. There was also the question of footage of the raid finding its way online; he could see the glow of several smartphones held aloft to record the action. It would be on YouTube before they had crossed the town limits.

They carried Pope onwards. “He won’t be able to travel on the snowmobiles,” Milton said.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Spenser said.

“What do you mean?”

Callan released his grip on Pope and stepped away. Milton had to bear the weight alone.

Callan raised his handgun and aimed it at Milton’s head. “On your knees,” he said.

Milton looked at Callan and then at the others. None of them looked surprised. Hammond and Spenser had stepped back a little, their hands resting on their automatic weapons, standing ready to provide support should it be necessary. Blake and Underwood had one eye on the crowd outside the wrecked gate and another on Milton. There was his confirmation, then: they were all in on it. It had always been part of the plan. Control was going to call his bluff after all. Bravo.

“Get it over with,” Spenser said to Callan. “You wanted to do it, so do it.”