The Lucifer Network (46 page)

Stockholm

After midnight

Twelve hundred miles to the north of where HMS
Truculent
was making her preparations, a Saab 900 drove through a western suburb of Stockholm. The vehicle was stolen and so were its plates.

Although the centre of the Swedish capital stayed abuzz until late on a Friday night, out here, where many immigrant families had settled close to one another for
support, the streets were empty after midnight and the apartment windows for the most part dark.

The history-loving schoolteacher behind the wheel wore a long, brown wig over his straight, fair hair, and heavy-framed spectacles without any lenses in them. It was a cold, wet night in eastern Sweden, justifying the parka he'd put on. He drove slowly through a bleak, run-down commercial centre, scanning shopfronts. Buildings of three floors – business premises at street level, with apartments above.

It didn't take him long to spot the doner kebab house on the opposite side of the road that he'd checked out a couple of days before. He slowed the car and glanced up at the apartments. To his relief, the windows were in darkness or curtained. No one to see him. He stopped a little way down the road.

He'd thought about this moment for days, doubting he would dare go through with it.
I wait
to
know
that
you
are
not a coward.
The words of the e-mail had lingered in his mind like a stain. He wasn't brave by nature. But on this issue he was determined. Determined that something had to be done to stop the contamination of Europe by the dispossessed from other lands.

He swung the car in a U-turn and drove slowly back to the takeaway, stopping outside. He pulled the parka's hood over his head, then got out. From the boot he removed a sledgehammer, a Molotov cocktail and a can of petrol, hurrying them over to the shop before he could change his mind.

He unscrewed the lid, lit the rag in the half-filled bottle with a Zippo, then swung the hammer at the glass, shattering it easily. Snatching up the bomb, he hurled it down on the stone floor inside. Flames splattered as the petrol/sugar mix spread, licking up the legs of the handful of chairs and tables. He slung the petrol
can after it, then ran for the car as flames leapt up behind him.

Foot hard down on the accelerator, he put some streets between himself and the scene of his crime. Then, fearing a heart attack if he didn't calm down, the schoolteacher slowed the car. Concentrating, he drove carefully so as not to draw attention to himself, his mind reliving every moment of what he'd just done.

Eventually he spoke. Not to himself, although anyone watching would have thought so, but to the man who called himself Simon, a man whose face he'd never seen.

‘You see, comrade? I did it. I am not a coward. And I
am
with you.'

COMMANDER ANTHONY TALBOT
sat glued to the attack periscope monitor as the marines made their preparations on the casing aft of the fin. He had a deepening sense of dread about the mission.

The monochrome thermal images were crisp and clear, the men's warm faces and hands showing up white. Bulky in their kit, the ten marines were grouped round the Geminis, inflating them with compressed air from bottles and attaching the silenced outboards to the transoms. Beyond them, where the casing slipped into the sea, the submarine's rudder swung slowly from one side to the other like the tail of a basking whale. Standing a little apart from the SBS men, looking ill at ease, were the two ‘passengers' on the mission, Sam Packer and Arthur Harris. It hadn't taken much to persuade the CT to step in as translator, but Talbot knew he'd be more scared now than at any time in his life.

His misgivings concerned the other man, however. Harris was military and would obey the lieutenant's orders, but Packer was a civilian, and a shady character judging by the press summary that had been included in the last broadcast from Northwood. It wasn't at
all clear why the man had been sent. No explanation from London except ‘security reasons'. But whatever they were, the man had his own agenda, which meant the mission had split aims, something naval commanders were trained to avoid.

The periscope swung away as the watch officer scanned the sea around them. Fishing boats were what Talbot feared most. If there was a danger of being discovered by one inside Croatian territorial waters then he would have to abort.

Lieutenant Harvey Styles aligned the periscope sight with the Palagra shoreline and cranked up the magnification to check the landing inlet again. The work boat they'd seen leaving a day ago was back at the jetty. They'd expected to spot a second vessel there, belonging to the family who farmed on the island, but there was no sign of it.

He switched back to wide-angle and focused on the casing again. Drum tight and loaded with their kit, the inflatables were being shoved towards the edge ready for the off. As the control room watched the monitors, two of the men unzipped their dry suits to urinate, their warm flow creating a white arc against the darker background.

‘One for the album, sir,' Styles commented before swinging the scope away for another all-round look.

Standing next to the captain, a young signaller had been monitoring the VHF from the landing party. Suddenly he began hopping like an electric toy. ‘Signal from Sunray, sir. They're ready for off.'

Outside, the night was black, the cloud cover not yet broken. Good SBS weather.

‘Fine.' Talbot stood up. ‘Shut and clip the engine room hatch. Clear the bridge. Officer of the watch, come below, shut and clip the upper lid.'

A few seconds later his order was acknowledged.

‘Bridge cleared. Conning tower upper lid shut and clipped. Engine room hatch shut and clipped.'

‘Ship control. Open one and four main vents.'

‘One and four main vents open, sir!'

Air roared from the ballast tanks. On the monitor they saw a blow of spray from the outlet in front of the rudder. Slowly, as the submarine settled, the sea began to wash over the casing. Catching a surge, the SBS launched their wallowing craft into the water and flung themselves on board, yanking the outboards into life. Both Geminis swung their bows away and began to motor.

As Talbot watched them go he crossed his fingers behind his back.

‘God bless,' he murmured.

The drum-tight tubes smacked gently against the waves. There was a light wind from the north-west. Sam crouched on the floor of the inflatable, gripping a webbing strap. A holstered Browning pistol pressed heavily against his thigh. The sound from the silenced engine was a burble, which Phipps had assured him would be inaudible from the shore. Above, breaks in the cloud were just beginning to appear, leaking light from the new moon, just enough for him to make out the vague shape of the other boat twenty metres to their left. Arthur Harris sat stiff-backed between two squat marines.

Willie Phipps lay in the bows of Sam's boat, a monocular thermal imager on his head that gave him the look of a Cyclops. They were making straight for the harbour. No alternative if they were to get on and off the island fast. With the naked eye Sam could make out little of the shore. He realised they were getting near when the marines cut the engines and began to paddle.

They rowed a few strokes, then drifted. Rowed a few more, then paused to listen.

Suddenly a shot rang out. It chilled their blood and flattened them to the neoprene. Then two more. Heavy bangs echoing briefly through the pines that crowned the island. Not the supersonic crack of bullets aimed at them, they realised with relief, but some act of violence being perpetrated in the middle of the island.

Safety catches clicked. The soldiers scanned the shoreline through the night sights of their MP5s.

Then came a sound which stopped their breath. A scream, splitting the night – a wail more animal than human. Three more shots followed, silencing it.

‘Fuck . . .' A low expletive from somewhere in the Gemini.

They drifted, listening and watching, then Phipps ordered them to don respirators and gave the signal to paddle again. In close to the low cliffs, they hugged the shore for the cover it gave them, inching towards the inlet and the jetty. As they closed with it, they saw a wooden landing stage grafted on at the end of the stone pier where the work boat was moored.

As the marines secured the painters to a ladder and scuttled ashore, Willie Phipps reached back and put a hand on Sam's arm.

‘You and Chief Harris wait in the boats. I want people around me who know what they're doing.'

‘Okay, but not for long,' Sam cautioned. ‘I've a job to do too.'

‘I know. We'll check what the fuck's going on here and come back for you.'

With that, the lieutenant joined his men on the jetty. The sky had cleared further, giving enough light for Sam to see a couple of the soldiers conceal themselves amongst the rocks. The rest went with Phipps, heading silently up the stone track that led inland.

A light swell rolled into the anchorage, causing the
rubber boats to nudge against one another. Arthur Harris was just inches away from him.

‘What d'you think?' the CT asked, his voice nasal with nerves beneath the rubber of the respirator. The scream they'd heard had been a woman's voice.

‘Sounds like they're killing people,' Sam answered inadequately, trying to stifle a worry that events might prevent Phipps from coming back for him.

Harris's breath was coming in short, uneven bursts. ‘I've not done this sort of thing before.'

‘Everybody's scared,' Sam assured him. ‘But these boys know their business. Just do what they tell you.'

‘I realise that.' Harris fell silent again, but Sam could tell there was more. ‘I simply wanted to say that if you see me not reacting right, or doing something stupid, then tell me. Okay?'

‘No problem.'

As the minutes passed, they didn't speak again. There was no more shooting, but at one point they heard voices, too far away to make out the words or the language. Finally, after an age, Willie Phipps reappeared, his rubber soles moving silently over the stones.

‘Quick!' he hissed, pulling them onto the jetty.

‘Tell me,' Sam growled, frustrated at having been out of the loop.

‘This is plague island, by the look of it.' Phipps kept his voice low as he led them up the hill. ‘Whatever these witches were brewing, they seem to have screwed up. At the old monastery there's a guy in a respirator removing stuff from the building and stacking it for a bonfire.'

Sam cursed. ‘We've got to stop him, Willie. That's evidence he's destroying.'

Phipps paused and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. Then he pressed the mouthpiece of his respirator close to his ear.

‘We can't stop anybody doing anything, Sam. Understand that. My orders are to stay covert. If these jokers are shutting the place down, that's fine by NATO. It'll save the cost of a Tomahawk. Intervention by us, in any way, means a change of rules.'

‘Well bloody call London on your satcoms and get them changed,' Sam snapped, despairing at the thought that proof of Harry Jackman's connection with Palagra might go up in smoke at any moment.

‘I've called already . . .'

‘And?'

‘I called because of what's going on at the farmhouse,' Phipps explained, reluctant to elaborate.

‘Go on.'

‘They're sick bastards,' he said eventually. ‘Two arseholes with AKs and wearing respirators have shot dead the couple who live there. Two lads, teenagers – could be the couple's sons – are being forced to dig a pit to bury them in. Fucking animals!'

They both knew what would happen to the boys when the digging was done.

‘We asked Command if we could intervene and the answer was no,' Phipps added bitterly.

‘Remaining undetected matters more than the lives of two Croatians.'

‘That's the implication.'

Sam swore under his breath. ‘Willie, we're supposed to be finding out what's been happening on this rock.'

‘
Observing
what's happening. That's the key word.'

‘But if we let them burn the evidence, we'll never know.'

‘I hear what you say. But I'm paid to obey orders. And for as long as you're with me and my men so are you, Sam.'

They began to move and Phipps warned that they
shouldn't talk any more. The track narrowed into a natural gully between outcrops of rock. They were getting close.

Sam decided the MoD's rule book was going to have to be bypassed. He hung back a little, then pulled Arthur Harris close to him.

‘Whatever happens, stick to me like glue, Arthur. I'll watch your back.'

The answering grunt from beneath the mask was noncommittal.

Soon they heard the rumble of a generator up ahead and saw the soft glow of lights. Two more shots rang out, off to their right. They dropped to a crouch, sickened at the thought of two young men slumping forward into the hole they'd dug, their blood mingling with their parents'.

Arthur Harris tasted vomit in his throat. It was the closest he'd ever come to the act of death. Despite the supportive words from the SIS man, he was far from sure he could handle what was happening here. He'd thought of saying so, down by the boats, but knew that if he'd refused to leave the safety of the harbour, he would never be able to look Navy men in the eyes again. Swallowing for all he was worth, he watched Willie Phipps press a hand to his radio earpiece as a report came in from one of his squad.

Sam edged forward to where Phipps was crouching.

‘They've done it, the bastards,' the marine muttered softly. ‘Killed them. Why? That's what I want to know.'

‘The answer'll be at the monastery,' Sam growled, his respirator nudging the other's ear. ‘On that bonfire.'