Total Fallout Read online

  But he was wrong.

  A siren sounded behind him and Tate turned his head to see a patrol boat belonging to the Monaco Maritime and Heliport Police Division rounding the stern of the Saudi mega-yacht and ploughing after him. Tate swore again, this time in English. Where the boat had come from he didn’t know, but he knew he had to get it to focus on him. Tate tapped his earpiece in the forlorn hope of speaking to Salter but when the call wasn’t answered, it confirmed what he already knew: the SBS man was still underwater. He needed to buy Salter time to get back on his boat and away with his cargo. The cargo was the most important part of the mission; even Tate himself was expendable.

  Tate could outrun the patrol boat, but much like a car chase it was what was further down the road he may run into that worried him. He assessed his options. If need be, he’d use the pair of grenades in his bag to scuttle the boat, and then he’d swim ashore – but he didn’t want to risk being hunted like a drowned rat. Tate let the patrol boat inch closer, then he throttled back and came to an almost standstill, reached into his bag, and then in his best hackneyed acting gesticulated with his right arm to show his frustration with the engines. All the while, however, the engines were still running and his H&K was ready on his seat.

  The larger vessel approached him, riding high on a bow wave. He could make out a man at the helm and a further two with automatic weapons slung across their chests. The military of Monaco was the third smallest in the world after those of Antigua and Barbuda, and Iceland, but that did not mean its men and women were untrained. Nevertheless, he imagined this was the most excitement they’d had for years, and he didn’t trust their trigger fingers. A loudhailer blasted orders at him in clipped French: ‘Turn off your engine! Raise your arms above your head!’

  Tate had run out of time. He brought his two hands together, transferred what he was holding in his left to his right and pulled the pin. He counted, one … two … and then he hurled the grenade at the bow of the oncoming patrol boat.

  As he’d expected, the boat and its crew were too slow to react, and as he’d calculated, the grenade didn’t reach the vessel but exploded ten feet ahead of it, showering the rising bow with shrapnel. Immediately after the explosion he whipped up his H&K and poured rounds at the vessel.

  Tate turned, grabbed hold of the wheel and pushed the throttle full ahead. The bow of the Soleil 35’ shot skywards as it lurched forward. At the same time the police patrol boat veered to port. The two vessels shot away from each other, as though Poseidon himself was separating them. There was a moment of silence, a moment of indecision from the police and then a barrage of shots rang out. Tate ducked, knowing that a lucky shot was all that was needed, but also knowing that the shots were being fired in an attempt to keep face rather than with any hope of stopping the fast-retreating target. Tate kept his focus forward as he ran parallel to the coast in a straight line. At maximum speed, within a minute he had left the police launch behind and a minute later had left Monaco and was off the coast of France.

  He passed Cap d’Ail and headed directly for the marina at Beaulieu-sur-Mer. To the west the coastline alternated between jagged cliffs and sandy beaches. With the exception of a high-powered motorbike, which could cut through the traffic on the undulating, winding coast road, the Soleil 35’ would beat any land-based vehicle to their destination, police included. Tate just hoped that there wasn’t already a reception waiting for him.

  Over the roar of the engine and the cadenced crashing of the waves against the hull, Tate now heard another pulsing sound, one that he didn’t want to hear. He had company, uninvited company.

  He looked back and studied the sky. A smudge of colour, coming from the direction of Monaco. A helicopter was on his tail. Tate couldn’t yet make out what type it was, but he was no stranger to either abseiling out of one or being hunted by the same. His mind flicked back to the events of a year before in the US, when a Spetsnaz team in a modified GlobalRanger had forced him out of the sky. He slammed a fresh mag in the H&K, but defending himself on a bucking boat from a swooping chopper would be no easy thing; spray and pray would be the order of the day and he could not and would not lose any more time by slowing down to engage. He just hoped that if it came to it the pilot would care more about losing his life than losing his target.

  Tate held the short assault rifle against his right leg to minimise its profile, and continued to motor. The helo was moving fast; it grew larger and then Tate relaxed. It was a civilian Eurocopter EC130. It swished past the boat, just above the height of the cliffs. His iPhone rang.

  ‘I have the package,’ Salter stated over the crashing of the waves.

  ‘We have company. Monégasque patrol boat.’

  ‘Have that. Am proceeding as planned.’

  Tate ended the call.

  He slowed the Soleil 35’ as he started to approach Beaulieu-sur-Mer. The faster he motored the quicker he would be able to get ashore, but a slower approach would raise fewer French eyebrows. Tate scanned the shoreline with his binoculars. Apart from general pleasure craft he could see no official-looking vessels or watchers on the shore. Only now did he repack the H&K into the kit bag and zip it up. He woke up his iPhone and called the team driver. ‘How are we?’

  ‘All clear, Guvnor,’ the SAS man growled back in deadpan Glaswegian.

  ‘Police?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘ETA seven zero minutes.’

  ‘Have that.’

  Tate throttled back the twin Volvo engines further as he followed the channel to enter the marina. Unlike its counterpart in Monaco, which was protected from the sea by the curvature of the bay, the Beaulieu-sur-Mer marina and yacht club was fronted by a man-made breakwater. Eyes darting in every direction from behind his dark Oakleys, he entered the marina proper and immediately made a turn to starboard and motored past the pontoon-mounted Total petrol station to the first row of berths. This was where the largest of the vessels were moored, serious powerboats and cruisers.

  Four berths in, there was a gap between two imposing vessels. Tate took in the name of the largest. It had “Princess 72” printed on the side. The other was shrouded in a large cover and looked as though it hadn’t been moved in a while. Both towered above his own boat and would provide some cover. He slowly backed the Soleil 35’ into the berth, and cut the engine. Tate secured the boat and cast his eyes around the marina. This end was quiet, and there was no one obviously watching him, but that probably wouldn’t last for long. Tate quickly scanned the boat’s interior for spent shell cases. He found a handful, the rest having been ejected and whipped away into the sea, and put them back into his kit bag. He then removed a packet of alcohol wipes and started to rub down all the surfaces. After thrusting the used wipes into his kit bag, Tate then hefted it onto his shoulder and stepped off the Soleil 35’ for the last time, making sure to leave the boat’s keys in the ignition as an open invitation to any light-fingered passers-by. If it got stolen it would muddy the waters even further, and if not, the police would confirm that the boat had been bought and used by the known Russian hitman Egor Blok, or someone who looked very much like him.

  Without pausing he leisurely followed the perimeter walkway towards the main entrance. In front of him the sun glinted off the white-walled villas of the town, and behind them rose mountainous hills like the jagged spine of some ancient beast.

  Tate reached the main car park as a gunmetal grey Renault Trafic SpaceClass executive people carrier turned in from the coast road. Without looking at the office or the security box, Tate pulled back the sliding door and climbed inside.

  ‘Crap here, isn’t it?’ James “Paddy” Fox’s voice was gruff, guttural, Glaswegian and laced with sarcasm. ‘Neither a stick of rock, nor a donkey to be seen.’

  Tate rolled his eyes; he was used to the Glaswegian’s dour humour. ‘Any issues?’

  ‘None.’

  They left the marina complex and joined the one-way system, which would enable them to drive out of town in the
direction of their second rendezvous point. Both men had memorised the local area and knew the streets as well as any local taxi driver.

  Tate opened his line again with Salter. ‘ETA?’

  ‘Five minutes,’ Salter reported over the thundering of waves in the background.

  The interior of the Renault fell silent for the next few minutes. The veteran SAS operative continuously scanned the road and his mirrors, whilst Tate sat by the door with his H&K at the ready. Stuck behind a slow-moving local bus on the narrow roads, their progress was slower than envisaged and by the time Fox pulled the Renault in next to the scooter parking area, overlooking Plage la Calanque, eight minutes had elapsed. Unwilling to leave the vehicle and visually tie himself with it, Tate sat with his eyes fixed on the path leading down to the beach. Another minute rolled past and despite the air con, Tate felt a wetness at his temples. He absentmindedly scratched his face with his left hand. Motorists passed them and such was the ubiquity of the vehicle’s use as a taxi that even though it was illegally parked, no one paid them a second glance.

  And then someone did.

  ‘Plod,’ Fox said.

  ‘I see them.’

  ‘It’s bloody Laurel and Hardy!’

  To their left a pair of police officers were strolling towards them. The first was shortish and rotund whilst his partner was gangly. At that exact same moment there was movement from the opposite direction, from the beach path. The broad-shouldered figure of Chris Salter appeared. He was wearing a cut-off scuba outfit, carrying a black holdall and ushering a thinner man towards the road. Tate impatiently watched them approach. The road was too narrow for the Renault to turn and they couldn’t reverse against the oncoming traffic, not with a pair of advancing gendarmes. The only option Tate could see was to draw the policemen’s attention away from the van and towards him. For the second time that afternoon he knew the mission was more important than he was.

  ‘Change of plan,’ Tate said. ‘I’m going walkabout.’

  Fox turned in his seat, a quizzical look on his craggy face. ‘You sure?’

  ‘No other option. You get to the safe house and I’ll see you there.’

  Minus his H&K and bag, Tate opened the sliding door of the executive Renault and stepped out. He’d know immediately if his description had been circulated. For the gendarmes to link him to the attack in Monaco was acceptable but Salter and the man he was accompanying had to get into the van. Tate shut the door, and swaying like a drunk, ambled in the direction of the policemen. After several steps he let himself slip off the kerb and stumble into the road. An oncoming car sounded its horn. Tate shouted in angry Russian and raised his middle finger. He stepped back onto the pavement and then pretended that he’d just registered the presence of the gendarmes.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen! Could you help me? I’m looking for an exciting place to drink!’ Tate said, in Russian-accented English.

  Both Frenchmen had scowls on their faces, disgust at dealing with a belligerent, drunk foreigner rather than fear or apprehension at confronting a violent suspect. So far so good.

  The nearest of the two, the gangly one, spoke in French.

  Tate shrugged.

  The second officer took over, switching to English. ‘Show me your ID.’

  ‘ID?’ Tate frowned, swayed.

  ‘Passport. Papers. Documents.’

  ‘Ah, I understand.’ Tate slowly reached his right hand into the back pocket of his trousers. As he did so he turned his head just enough to see the door on the opposite side of the Renault open and the two men get in. Tate casually retrieved a wallet as the Renault drove past. ‘I have these papers.’

  The second officer grabbed the wallet and examined its contents. ‘You have broken several laws: drunk in public, jaywalking and using obscene language.’

  ‘Have I?’ Tate shrugged, innocently. Perhaps he had, or perhaps this was a shakedown; either way it gave the rest of the team time to make good their escape.

  ‘Yes, you have! There is a penalty for each of these offences.’ The officer now had Tate’s euros in one hand and the leather wallet in the other.

  A wide smile formed under Tate’s beard, and he nodded. ‘Surely there is some financial accommodation that could be made? Could I pay a, how do you say it, “on-the-spot fine”?’

  Laurel spoke in French to Hardy who nodded then addressed Tate. ‘My colleague has informed me of the required fine. You have here enough to cover it.’

  ‘That is good news.’

  ‘It is.’ Hardy handed him back the empty wallet.

  There was a crackle of a radio transmission. Laurel frowned. He unclipped his radio with his left hand and spoke into it, in at first slow then progressively faster French. The fatter officer’s eyes widened. A vehicle passed them, a seagull squawked overhead but other than this the only sound was the muffled voice on the other end of the radio, at police dispatch. Tate swayed slightly on the spot. As Laurel listened, his eyes narrowed and he took a step forward, shortening the distance between them. The man’s right hand traversed towards his baton. He said something to his colleague.

  With his left hand still full of euros, Hardy started to reach with his right for his baton. The time for talking was over. The two batons meant that this wasn’t going to be a fair fight, and it couldn’t be, because Tate would win that with ease. He had to be quick and he had to be fast and the two officers, who had suddenly been reminded of their real jobs, had to go down. Hard. Tate threw his empty wallet at the face of the first gendarme, stepped sideways and drove his elbow into the face of the second. Tate followed the elbow with a fist and the officer collapsed into the road. Turning on the spot, Tate kicked the first officer, who was still gawping at him, in the groin. A fist to the side of the head landed him next to his colleague. Tate booted the pair of them again, just to stop them from getting up, grabbed his wallet and his money, and sprinted away in the opposite direction to the van.

  There were shocked faces and a yell of outrage from another pedestrian and a few cars beeped their horns as they went past, but no one attempted to stop him or to give chase. An elderly couple moved aside, both cringing as he ran by.

  ‘That’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into,’ Tate muttered to himself as he left the scene.

  He knew the road layout and had agreed the route with Fox. Unless the van wasted time negotiating the one-way system again it would take the mini-roundabout and drive back past the two police officers. Tate ran up the street, towards the salmon-pink-walled Royal Riviera hotel on the corner. Now out of sight of the two gendarmes and anyone who had seen the altercation, he slowed to a walk. He pulled off his baggy shirt, exposing the white muscle vest he was wearing underneath, and balled it into his left hand.

  Tate carried on up the Avenue Jean Monnet and paused at the access road for the Hotel Delcloy complex. A taxi entered with two passengers in the rear. He allowed himself now to glance back down the avenue before and saw the Renault round the corner. He let it pass him and carry on up the hill. His phone vibrated in his pocket.

  ‘Last chance for a lift. There’s a junction up ahead; I’ll meet you after it on the left,’ Fox stated.

  ‘Negative,’ Tate replied. ‘Get to the safe house.’

  ‘Aye.’ He heard Fox audibly sigh. ‘Have that.’

  Tate ended the call.

  Tate knew he wasn’t going to blend in anywhere, and as long as the van wasn’t linked to him, that was all that mattered. Confronting the gendarmes had been a dumb decision but his only play: it made him the sole target. He stayed where he was, hidden from direct view of the passing traffic, and waited for the taxi to re-emerge. He heard sirens scream down the hill. The now empty taxi reappeared.

  Tate flagged it down and asked the driver to take him to the Hotel Negresco on Nice’s Promenade des Anglais. The driver started to complain but a fifty-euro note made him change his mind.

  Tate sat low in the back. The traffic become heavier as the taxi passed through the cent
re of Villefranche-sur-Mer and then entered the outskirts of Nice.

  *

  Forty minutes later Tate arrived back at the safe house. He’d covered his tracks by ducking in and out of the Hotel Negresco via different doors, and then taking a second taxi that dropped him two roads away from the safe house. He went through the large gates and up the gravel drive that led towards the villa.

  The exterior walls were painted a pastel yellow and it was surrounded by a bright green lawn and palm trees.

  Salter, now dressed in jeans and a dark T-shirt, secured the gates behind him. ‘Fancied a bit of shopping, did we? Our guest is in the living room with Paddy.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Tate walked up the steps to the entrance of the villa. Inside the temperature was several degrees cooler, due in part to the high ceilings, white walls and white marble floor. Tate crossed the voluminous entrance hall and entered the living room. The space was sparsely furnished. One figure sat at a table whilst another stood at the far end, framed by the window.

  ‘You’re alive then?’ Fox noted with mock surprise.

  Tate shut the door and walked farther into the room. ‘Just.’

  The other man now stood and faced Tate. He was equally as tall as Fox but a lot narrower, and thirty years younger. ‘This is the man who shot me!’

  ‘It is,’ Fox said, a slim smile forming on his face. The veteran SAS man had most recently been operating as a security adviser to several royal houses in the Middle East, whilst in fact being on the SIS payroll. It had been Fox who had recruited their guest as an SIS asset, suggested that he defect and set Tate’s mission in progress.

  ‘Paddy, you personally guaranteed my safety.’ The man’s accent was Oxbridge; in fact Tate thought he sounded more English than he did. ‘Without your assurances I would not have agreed to this, but it is this man who made my escape possible.’

  Tate took in the figure of His Royal Highness Salman bin Mohammad Al Nayef, the man they had been sent to extract, the man who had made a deal to pass on detailed information regarding his uncle’s business and personal links to an alleged new terrorist threat. Al Nayef may well have been a member of Saudi Arabia’s extended royal family, but he wasn’t getting anything more than a “sir” from Tate. It was something the man needed to get used to. ‘I’m happy you made it here in one piece.’