who . . .?’
‘Just go . . .’
She turned and another loud bang came from the door. A single gunshot rang out and the door flew open smashing against the wall. Amelia caught a glimpse of a figure turning into the room and
then she was through the door in the far wall, closing it and locking it behind her. She paused for a second, heard voices; first the Englishman’s then a second man shouting in French. Three
gunshots came in quick succession, a cry followed by the sound of boots pounding across the floor of the room. Amelia turned and ran.
20
A safe house, Virginia. Present day.
‘They knew, I tell you. They freakin’ knew everything! A freakin’ SWAT team, armed to the teeth.’
The man in the black tracksuit, Vince Manlow – who Kate and Lou had known as ‘Pete’ – his face filthy with soot and a smear of dried blood down his left cheek, stared
into the camera of the laptop. He could see both Buckingham and Secker seated at the boardroom table of the headquarters of Eurenergy in London. They could see him sitting in a battered metal chair
in a bare room, a man holding a Glock beside him.
‘And you were the only one to slip away?’
The man nodded.
‘Very fortunate,’ Secker commented.
‘And you say Bates and Wetherall did not have the artefact in their cases?’ Buckingham asked.
‘I’m ninety-nine per cent sure.’
‘Why not a hundred, Manlow?’
‘Because, sir,’ he stared back at Secker, ‘we were about to open the last pieces of luggage when the bastards hit.’
‘Suitcases? Boxes? Which?’
‘A briefcase and a small metal box. One of my men thought the box could have contained samples.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, man.’ Buckingham glared at Manlow. ‘First the useless arseholes at the airport screw up, then you incompetent—’
‘We almost had it, ma’am. We had no idea we had been followed.’
‘No idea we had been followed,’ Buckingham mimicked. ‘Fucktard!’
‘And you have no idea who the men were?’ Secker said.
‘They were in full assault gear, sir, night-vision goggles, armed to the teeth.’
‘Yes, you said,’ Secker spat. ‘And you were far too busy saving your own skin.’
‘No! I did everything I . . .’
‘Oh, shut the fuck up, Manlow. Hans, shut the fucker up . . . I can’t bear this. I’m getting one of my headaches.’
Secker gave an almost imperceptible nod to the man standing next to Manlow’s chair. He lifted the Glock and fired, sending Manlow across the floor, a plume of blood and brains spattering
the wall just out of view.
Secker broke the link to the laptop in Virginia and turned to his boss.
‘You have a theory brewing.’
Buckingham held Secker with an expressionless gaze. ‘Not a theory exactly, Hans. Toit has missed his last two scheduled call-ins. I’m growing suspicious.’
21
Adam Fleming was staying in a Holiday Inn just outside Hampton. Utilitarian and predictable, it suited his temporary needs without eliciting the slightest enthusiasm.
It was 4 a.m. before he reached his room and although he had been awake for almost thirty-four hours, he did not feel tired. In the shower he touched the red marks already beginning to turn
black on his hip and across his chest, injuries from the raid. Moving close to the bathroom mirror he considered his handsome, bruised face, his blond curls plastered to his temple. He dabbed at a
cut under his eye and walked back into the bedroom. His mobile trilled.
‘Traction, fourteen, obelisk,’ said a voice.
Fleming pulled a notebook from the inside of his jacket where it lay on the bed. He flicked through a few pages and found the code for the day. ‘Portmanteau, Jeremy, Toucan.’ He then
flicked a switch on the back of the phone and a pinprick of green light appeared close to the mouthpiece. ‘Clear,’ he said.
‘Must be early for you, old chap.’ It was Seth Wilberforce, a senior assistant to the deputy chief of MI6, Sir Donald Ashmore.
Fleming caught sight of
‘Just go . . .’
She turned and another loud bang came from the door. A single gunshot rang out and the door flew open smashing against the wall. Amelia caught a glimpse of a figure turning into the room and
then she was through the door in the far wall, closing it and locking it behind her. She paused for a second, heard voices; first the Englishman’s then a second man shouting in French. Three
gunshots came in quick succession, a cry followed by the sound of boots pounding across the floor of the room. Amelia turned and ran.
20
A safe house, Virginia. Present day.
‘They knew, I tell you. They freakin’ knew everything! A freakin’ SWAT team, armed to the teeth.’
The man in the black tracksuit, Vince Manlow – who Kate and Lou had known as ‘Pete’ – his face filthy with soot and a smear of dried blood down his left cheek, stared
into the camera of the laptop. He could see both Buckingham and Secker seated at the boardroom table of the headquarters of Eurenergy in London. They could see him sitting in a battered metal chair
in a bare room, a man holding a Glock beside him.
‘And you were the only one to slip away?’
The man nodded.
‘Very fortunate,’ Secker commented.
‘And you say Bates and Wetherall did not have the artefact in their cases?’ Buckingham asked.
‘I’m ninety-nine per cent sure.’
‘Why not a hundred, Manlow?’
‘Because, sir,’ he stared back at Secker, ‘we were about to open the last pieces of luggage when the bastards hit.’
‘Suitcases? Boxes? Which?’
‘A briefcase and a small metal box. One of my men thought the box could have contained samples.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, man.’ Buckingham glared at Manlow. ‘First the useless arseholes at the airport screw up, then you incompetent—’
‘We almost had it, ma’am. We had no idea we had been followed.’
‘No idea we had been followed,’ Buckingham mimicked. ‘Fucktard!’
‘And you have no idea who the men were?’ Secker said.
‘They were in full assault gear, sir, night-vision goggles, armed to the teeth.’
‘Yes, you said,’ Secker spat. ‘And you were far too busy saving your own skin.’
‘No! I did everything I . . .’
‘Oh, shut the fuck up, Manlow. Hans, shut the fucker up . . . I can’t bear this. I’m getting one of my headaches.’
Secker gave an almost imperceptible nod to the man standing next to Manlow’s chair. He lifted the Glock and fired, sending Manlow across the floor, a plume of blood and brains spattering
the wall just out of view.
Secker broke the link to the laptop in Virginia and turned to his boss.
‘You have a theory brewing.’
Buckingham held Secker with an expressionless gaze. ‘Not a theory exactly, Hans. Toit has missed his last two scheduled call-ins. I’m growing suspicious.’
21
Adam Fleming was staying in a Holiday Inn just outside Hampton. Utilitarian and predictable, it suited his temporary needs without eliciting the slightest enthusiasm.
It was 4 a.m. before he reached his room and although he had been awake for almost thirty-four hours, he did not feel tired. In the shower he touched the red marks already beginning to turn
black on his hip and across his chest, injuries from the raid. Moving close to the bathroom mirror he considered his handsome, bruised face, his blond curls plastered to his temple. He dabbed at a
cut under his eye and walked back into the bedroom. His mobile trilled.
‘Traction, fourteen, obelisk,’ said a voice.
Fleming pulled a notebook from the inside of his jacket where it lay on the bed. He flicked through a few pages and found the code for the day. ‘Portmanteau, Jeremy, Toucan.’ He then
flicked a switch on the back of the phone and a pinprick of green light appeared close to the mouthpiece. ‘Clear,’ he said.
‘Must be early for you, old chap.’ It was Seth Wilberforce, a senior assistant to the deputy chief of MI6, Sir Donald Ashmore.
Fleming caught sight of
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