Snakehead extra chapter- Coda

The airport belonged to another age, a time when
air travel was an adventure, when planes still had
propellers and had to stop at strange-sounding
places to refuel on their way across the world.
There was just one runway, a narrow strip of silvergrey
concrete cutting through grass that had been
perfectly mown. The single terminal was a white
building with a curving entrance and a terrace
where people could watch the planes take off. It
could have been the clubhouse of an expensive
golf course.
The airport had no name. Although it was only
an hour outside London, there were no road signs
pointing to it. Indeed, it seemed to have done its
best to lose itself in a maze of country lanes that
looped and twisted through thick woodland. The
local residents – and the nearest house was more
than a mile away – believed it was a private flying
club, used by millionaires with their own planes.
For a brief time, it had been.
CODA
It had been bought by the British secret service
back in the seventies, and now it was used for
flights that nobody talked about. People who
weren’t meant to be in the country arrived here
on planes that didn’t exist. There was no passport
control, because very few of the travellers carried
passports – and if they did, they would probably be
fake. A white control tower stood at the far end of
the runway. It managed not just the incoming and
outgoing flights but all the surrounding airspace.
When planes were ready to take off here, Heathrow
and Gatwick just had to wait.
At nine thirty on a cold morning at the end
of April, a blue Rover Vitesse was making its way
towards this secret airport. The sound of the V8
engine was almost inaudible as it cruised through
a virtual tunnel of leaves. The start of the month
had been warm and sunny, but there had been a
cold snap the night before, and the result was
a layer of fog floating over the ground, deadening
everything and turning the world a ghostly white.
A man and a woman were sitting in the back.
The driver had no idea who they were. His name
was Enderby and he was a low-level MI6 operative
trained for certain duties – the first of which was
never to ask questions. He had picked them up at a
London hotel at six o’clock exactly, loaded a single
suitcase into the boot and brought them here.
And yet, glancing in the rear-view mirror,
Enderby couldn’t stop himself wondering about
his passengers. He guessed they were husband and
wife. There was something about their body language
that said as much, even though neither of
them had uttered a word throughout the journey.
The man was in his thirties, well built with closecropped
fair hair and dark, tired eyes. He was
wearing a suit with an open-necked shirt. What
would you think he was, seeing him in the street?
Something in the City, perhaps. Private security.
Ex-army. This was a man who knew how to look
after himself. He had the relaxed confidence of
someone who is very dangerous.
The woman sitting next to him was unhappy –
Enderby had noticed that from the moment she had
stepped reluctantly into the car. He could see it
now in her eyes. They were nice eyes: blue, very
bright. But they were troubled. All in all, she was
very attractive. A couple of years younger than the
man, maybe an actress or a dancer. She was wearing
a jacket and grey trousers and – yes, there it
was – a wedding ring on her finger.
Enderby was right. The two people in the back
of his car were called John and Helen Rider. They
had been married for four years. They were here
because they were leaving the country – perhaps
permanently. They had been apart for a long time,
but that was all over now. Their new life together
was about to begin.
They had almost arrived. Enderby had driven this
route many times and recognized the elm tree with
the nesting box hanging from one of its branches.
The airport was half a mile away. However, he
was completely unaware of the advanced highresolution
camera with its 25mm varifocal lens
concealed inside the nesting box. And he would
have been surprised to learn that even now his
face was being examined on a television screen
inside the control tower. It was actually the third
hidden camera they had passed in the last five
minutes.
The car broke out of the wood and crossed a cattle
grid set in the road. If the driver had been
identified as an enemy agent, the grid would have
rotated and shredded the tyres. The airport lay
ahead; a plane was waiting on the runway. It was
an old twin-engine Avro Anson C19 that might
have been rolled out of a museum. Once used by
the RAF for coastal patrol, the Anson hadn’t been
seen in regular service for twenty years. Certainly
it suited the airport. They were both relics of the
past.
A slim, dark-haired man stepped out of the
terminal building, supporting himself on a heavy
walking stick. He had been sent to supervise the
departure. Enderby recognized him with surprise.
He had visited the man a couple of times recently
in hospital and had worked with him in the past.
His name was Anthony Howell. His middle name
was Sean.
People called him Ash.
The car slowed down and stopped. The man got
out, went round and opened the door for the
woman. The two of them moved forward to meet
Ash.
“John. Helen.” Ash smiled at them but he had
recently been in too much pain. It still showed.
“How are you, Ash?” John Rider asked.
“I’m OK.”
That obviously wasn’t true. Ash was feverish,
sweating. His hand was gripping the walking stick
so tightly that the knuckles were white.
“You look terrible.”
“Yeah.” Ash didn’t disagree. “They sent me to
say goodbye. Are you ready? I’ll get your case
loaded on board.”
He limped past them, over to the car. Enderby
unlocked the boot and took out the suitcase.
“He’s not very talkative,” Helen muttered.
“He’s hurt.” John glanced at his wife. “Are you
OK?”
“I don’t like leaving Alex.”
“I know that. Nor do I. But we didn’t have any
choice. You heard what the doctor said.”
Alex Rider was three months old. Just a few
days before, he had developed an ear infection
which meant that he couldn’t fly. Helen had left
him with a cheerful Irishwoman, Maud Kelly, a
maternity nurse who had been with them since
the birth. Helen’s first instinct had been to stay
with her infant son. But she also needed to be
with her husband. The two of them had been apart
for too long.
“Maud will come out with him next week,” John
Rider said.
“His new home.” Helen smiled, but a little sadly.
“It’s strange to think he’ll grow up speaking
French.”
“With a dad who’s a fisherman.”
“Better a fisherman than a spy.”
Secret agents don’t often retire. Some are killed
in action; some leave the field and end up behind
a desk, providing support for the men and women
who have taken their place. Even when they leave
the service, they are still watched – just in case
they decide to sell their secrets or go into business
for themselves.
John Rider was different. He had recently completed
a long and brutal assignment which had
culminated in a shoot-out on the island of Malta,
followed by his faked death on Albert Bridge in
London. During that time, he had inflicted serious
damage on the criminal organization known as
Scorpia. If Scorpia discovered that he was still
alive, they would make him a primary target. MI6
knew that. They understood that his usefulness
was effectively over. They had decided to let him
go.
Ash came back over to them. He had a mobile
phone in his hand. “The control tower just called,”
he said. “You’re all set for take-off.”
“Why don’t you come and stay with us, Ash?”
Helen suggested. “You could fly down with Alex.
A week in the sun would do you good.”
Ash tried to smile but something prevented him.
“That’s kind of you, Helen. Maybe…”
“Well, keep in touch.” John Rider was examining
the other man with a certain unease. The two of
them had worked together, but they had also been
friends for many years.
“Good luck.” Ash seemed in a hurry to get away.
They shook hands. Then Ash leant forward and
kissed Helen once on the cheek, but so lightly that
she barely felt his lips. The husband and wife
began to walk towards the plane.
“What’s wrong with him?” Helen asked as soon
as they were out of earshot. “I know he’s hurt. But
he seems so … distant.”
“He’s being axed.” John spoke the words casually.
“He screwed up in Malta and he knows it.
Blunt wants him out.”
“What will happen to him?”
“An office job somewhere. A junior outpost.”
“Does he blame you?”
“I don’t know, Helen. To be honest, I don’t really
care. It’s not my business any more.”
They had reached the plane. The pilot saw them
through the cockpit window and raised a hand in
greeting. His name was Robert Fleming and he had
flown with the RAF in the Falklands War. Killing
Argentine soldiers, some of them just kids, had
changed his mind about active service; and after
that he had allowed himself to be recruited by
MI6. Now he flew all over the world for them. The
co-pilot was a man called Blakeway. Both of them
were married. There was no cabin crew.
Standing on the terrace outside the terminal,
Ash watched John and Helen Rider climb the metal
staircase that led up to the plane. John stood aside
to let Helen go first, gently taking her arm as she
reached the top step. They entered the aircraft and
pulled the door shut from inside. A couple of
ground crew in white overalls wheeled the steps
away. The first of the Anson’s two propellers began
to turn.
Ash thought he was going to faint. The pain
in his stomach was worse than ever. It was as if
the Russian assassin Yassen Gregorovich had somehow
managed to stab him a second time and was
twisting the knife even now. The plane’s engines
had both started up but he could barely hear the
sound. The sky, the grass, the airport, the Anson
… nothing connected any more. He could feel
beads of sweat on his forehead. They were ice-cold.
Could he really do this?
Was he going to go through with it?
He had been released from hospital after six
weeks of treatment that had included being given
eleven pints of blood. The doctors had told him
what he already knew. He would never be the same
again. Not completely. There had been too much
damage. And the pain would always be with him.
He would need a barrage of drugs to keep it
at bay.
And had they been grateful, the people he
worked for, the ones who had caused this to happen
to him? He still remembered his meeting with
Alan Blunt. The head of MI6 Special Operations had
given him precisely five minutes: his injuries were
his own fault. He had totally mishandled the operation
in Mdina. He had disobeyed orders. He was
being taken off active duty with immediate effect.
Blunt hadn’t even asked how he was feeling.
Ash had known what he was going to do even
before he left Blunt’s office. For a moment, the
pain was forgotten; he felt only anger and disbelief.
How could they treat him like this? No. It was
obvious now. They had always treated him like this.
Nothing had changed. He had been overlooked and
underrated from the start.
But he had numbers. He had contacts. He didn’t
care what he had to do. He would show MI6 that
they were wrong about him. They had made a mistake
they were going to regret.
He made the call as soon as he was in the street,
away from the eavesdropping devices that were
scattered all over Special Ops HQ. After that,
things happened very quickly. That same evening,
he met a man in a south London pub. The next day,
he was interviewed at length by two blank-faced
men in an abandoned warehouse behind the old
meat market at Smithfield in Clerkenwell. Patiently
he repeated everything he had said the night
before.
The next call came two days later. Ash was given
twenty minutes to get across London to the Ritz
Hotel and a suite on the second floor. He arrived
in exactly the specified time, knowing that he had
almost certainly been followed the whole way and
that it had been arranged like this to prevent him
communicating with anyone else. There was to be
no chance of a trap.
After he had been thoroughly searched by the
two men he had met before, he was shown into the
suite. A woman was waiting for him, sitting on her
own in an armchair, her perfectly manicured fingers
curving round a flute of champagne. She was strikingly
beautiful with shoulder-length black hair and
glittering, cruel eyes. She was wearing a designer
dress, a whisper of red silk; diamond earrings; and
a single large diamond at her throat.
Ash tried not to show any emotion. But he knew
the woman. He had never met her but he had seen
her file. It was hard to believe that he was actually
in the same room as her.
Julia Rothman.
According to the file, she was the daughter of
Welsh nationalists, who had married – and murdered
– an elderly property developer for his wealth. She
was on the executive board of Scorpia. Indeed, she
was one of its founding members.
“You want to join us,” she said, and he heard a
hint of Welsh in her voice. She seemed amused.
“Yes.”
“What makes you think we’d be interested in
you?”
“If you weren’t interested in me, you wouldn’t
be here.”
That made her smile. “How do I know we can
trust you?”
“Mrs Rothman…” Ash wondered if he should
have used her name. He spoke slowly. He knew he
would only have this one chance. “I’ve spent four
years with MI6. They’ve given me nothing. Now
I’ve finished with them – or perhaps I should say
they’ve finished with me. But you probably know
that already. Scorpia always did have a reputation
for being well informed. How do you know you can
trust me? Only time will give you an answer to
that. But I can be useful to you. A double agent.
Think about it. You want someone inside Special
Operations. That can be me.”
Julia Rothman sipped her champagne but her
eyes never left Ash. “This could be a trick,” she
said.
“Then let me prove myself.”
“Of course. Anyone who joins Scorpia has to
prove themselves to our complete satisfaction, Mr
Howell. But I warn you: the test might not be an
easy one.”
“I’m ready for anything.”
“Would you kill for us?”
Ash shrugged. “I’ve killed before.”
“Before it was duty. For queen and country. This
time it would be murder.”
“I’ve already explained: I want to join Scorpia.
I don’t care what I have to do.”
“We’ll see.” She set the glass down, then produced
a white envelope. She slid it towards him.
“There is a name inside this envelope,” she said.
“It is the name of a man who has done us a great
deal of harm. Killing him will prove beyond all
doubt that you mean what you say. But a warning.
Once you open that envelope, you will have committed
yourself. You cannot change your mind. If
you try to do so, you will be dead before you leave
this hotel.”
“I understand.” Ash was uneasy. He picked up
the envelope and held it in front of him.
“We will provide the manner of his death,” Mrs
Rothman went on, “but you will be the one who
pulls the trigger. And when he is dead, you will be
paid one hundred thousand pounds. It will be the
first payment of many. Over the years, if you stay
true to us, Scorpia will make you very rich.”
“Thank you.” Suddenly Ash’s mouth was dry. The
envelope was still balanced on his fingertips.
“So are you going to open it?”
He made his decision. He ripped the envelope
open with his thumb. And there was the name in
front of him. Black letters on white paper.
JOHN RIDER
Julia Rothman looked at him quizzically.
So they knew. That was his first thought. The
elaborate trick that had been played on Albert
Bridge hadn’t worked – or if it had, there had
somehow been a leak. They had learnt that John
Rider was still alive. And as for this test, they knew
exactly what they were doing. Ash would have
been happy to kill anybody in the world. He would
have killed Blunt or anyone else in MI6. But
Scorpia had gone one better.
They were asking him to kill his best friend.
“John Rider…” His mouth had gone dry. “But
he’s—”
“Don’t tell us that he’s dead, Mr Howell. We
know he is not.”
“But why…?”
“You said you didn’t care what you did. This is
your assignment. If you want to prove yourself to
us, this is what you have to do.”
But could he do it? He asked himself again now,
watching the ancient plane as it completed the
final checks before take-off. The propellers were
buzzing loudly; the whole fuselage was vibrating.
And it wasn’t just John. It was Helen Rider too. He
had once loved her – or thought he had. She had
rejected him. But John had always stood by him.
No. That wasn’t true. Blunt had axed him and John
had done nothing to help.
The plane jerked forward and began to rumble
down the runway, picking up speed.
The bomb was on board. Ash had no idea how
Scorpia had got it there, or even how they had
found out about the flight in the first place. Such
details didn’t matter. The fact was that it was
there, and the cruelty of it was that Scorpia could
easily have detonated it without his help. The
bomb could have had a timer. They could have
transmitted the signal themselves. But they had
turned this into the ultimate test. If he did this,
there would be no going back. He would be theirs
for life.
We will provide the manner of his death, but you
will be the one who pulls the trigger.
He couldn’t do it. They were his closest friends.
He was the godfather of their child.
He had to do it. John and Helen were dead anyway.
And Scorpia would kill him if he failed.
The plane was halfway down the runway. Slowly
it rose into the air.
Ash took out his mobile phone and pressed a
three-digit number, followed by SEND.
The explosion was huge, much bigger than he
had expected. For a moment, the plane disappeared
completely, replaced by a scarlet fireball
that hovered fifteen metres above the runway.
There were no wings, no propellers, no wheels.
Only flames. And then, like some hideous firework,
broken pieces of glass and metal burst out of the
inferno, bouncing off the tarmac and slamming
into the lawn.
The plane had gone. There was nothing left of it.
The people inside would have died instantly.
Already alarms were sounding. Enderby and half
a dozen men were running towards the wreckage,
coming from every direction – as if there was anything
they could do. Black smoke billowed into the
sky.
Ash turned away and walked back inside. He was
sure that Scorpia would be watching. They would
know that he had done it. He had passed the test.
He took a deep breath and tasted smoke and burning
aviation fuel.
A new life. But how was he going to enjoy it
when he was empty inside? Too late. He had made
his choice.
Slowly he made his way down the stairs and out
onto the runway, limping towards the flames that
for him would never die.