Bear Grylls: The Hunt (Will Jaeger Book 3) Page 29

  ‘I am going to tell you a story,’ she continued. ‘It is 1943. Sonia Olchanevsky is a Russian Jewess of great beauty. For three years she has fought with the French Resistance. But she is captured and sent to the Natzweiler concentration camp. There, amongst other horrors, she is raped. One man basically makes her his slave and his mistress.’

  She paused. ‘I am curious: have you ever heard this story?’

  ‘No,’ Kammler rasped. ‘Never. I swear.’

  The repeated administrations of the drugs seemed to have broken him. Perhaps, having peered into the face of death, his dark soul had finally been revealed to him.

  ‘The man who raped Sonia Olchanevsky was SS General Hans Kammler,’ Narov continued. ‘Your father. And Sonia was my grandmother. Your father raped my grandmother, which makes us . . . almost family.’

  She moved closer, until her mouth was next to Kammler’s ear. ‘That makes Falk my half-cousin and you . . . my half-uncle. Now, as I understand it, the term for killing your uncle is avunculicide. It is a bit of a mouthful, but it will do for now.’

  With that, she drove the final shot of suxamethonium chloride into Kammler’s bloodstream.

  ‘Goodbye, dear uncle. Today is judgement day. For you, it is long overdue.’

  Kammler’s gaze fixed itself on Narov for the briefest of instants, his lip curled in arrogance and hatred.

  ‘Tell Jaeger,’ he hissed, ‘now I am become death—’ His head slumped forward, cutting off the last words.

  Narov leant over and checked his pulse. There was none. Hank Kammler was dead. But what a weird way to phrase his final words: he hadn’t become death. He was dead.

  Weird. And chilling, in an odd, intangible way.

  Why in his dying breath had he sounded so exultant?

  And why the personal message for Jaeger?

  89

  The Super Lynx powered up the Thames, swooping over the river, pushing towards its 200 mph maximum speed. By the pilot’s calculations, they were one minute out.

  ‘Delta One, Stinger Three, sixty seconds out,’ he intoned, speaking into his helmet microphone. ‘Go live with LTD.’

  ‘Roger that,’ came the reply from Pete Iron, the SAS Counter-Terrorism troop sergeant, who was positioned with one of his corporals, Fred Gibson, at the London City marina.

  Ever since 9/11, the SAS had maintained a counter-terrorism team based at the SAS’s ultra-secret London headquarters, just a stone’s throw from Whitehall. Ready and waiting for just such an alert as they had received today.

  The call to action had come barely twenty minutes earlier. They were to destroy a Nordhavn yacht moored in St Katharine Docks, no matter what the risk of civilian casualties or collateral damage. The cut-off point was 0359 hours.

  If they failed, the team had been warned, the proverbial sky would fall.

  Iron and Gibson were crouched barely a hundred metres from the target. From their kneeling position adjacent to the dock’s Zizzi restaurant, they could see the vessel’s name clearly.

  Werwolf was stencilled on her stern.

  ‘Stinger Three, Delta One, lasing target now,’ Iron radioed the pilot.

  ‘Delta One, Stinger Three, copied.’

  The SAS sergeant fired his tripod-mounted Thales laser target designator – LTD for short – at the Werwolf, knowing that the hot point of the laser – where it bounced off the hull – would act as a guide for the coming strike.

  The pilot put the Lynx into a howling right-hand turn, bringing its nose around to face the marker – the smoke grenade that Gibson had lobbed onto the target. The helo swept in low across the river just to the east of the century-old Tower Bridge.

  Some eighteen minutes earlier, just as the Lynx was being scrambled, Special Branch had got busy dragging some seriously confused yachties from their beds. They’d had only a few minutes to evacuate the dock, getting any public the hell out of there.

  For a brief moment Sergeant Iron wondered how those yachties would react when they saw their beloved boats getting peppered with chunks of shrapnel. In truth, he didn’t much care.

  To receive an order such as this – an air strike on a civilian vessel in the heart of London – it had to be a crisis of gargantuan proportions. He wondered who could have dug up the intelligence to back such a ballsy move.

  Above him the Lynx slowed, creeping closer to a firm firing position, its nose rotating around towards the target.

  ‘I see your laser,’ the pilot intoned. A lengthy pause. ‘I have lock-on.’ Another pause. ‘Engaging now.’

  There was a second’s delay, and then a burst of violent fire bloomed on the Lynx’s snub-nosed rocket pods, slung to either side of the aircraft, and a pair of CRV7 precision-guided 70mm rockets streaked towards the marina.

  The 4.5-kilo explosive-point-detonating warhead was capable of penetrating a T-72 main battle tank’s armour. Unsurprisingly, the steel hull of the Nordhavn 52 was torn open as if it had been attacked with a giant tin-opener.

  The twin warheads penetrated the deck, detonating deep in the bowels of the vessel. It struck Sergeant Iron as being a tad overkill, as the two-million-dollar yacht was ripped asunder from the inside, vomiting chunks of molten aluminium in a boiling sea of flame.

  As the smoke cleared, he could see what remained of the burning hulk of the Nordhavn sinking fast, the water hissing and gurgling as it sucked the twisted red-hot wreckage downwards. To either side, other boats had suffered fairly extensive damage.

  He winced. Some very wealthy individuals were going to need some serious repair jobs on their oh-so-shiny vessels.

  And the rebel within him loved it.

  He looked at his watch: 0358.

  ‘Bang on schedule,’ he noted to the figure crouched beside him.

  Corporal Gibson nodded. ‘Job done. Let’s get out of here.’

  90

  Narov punched answer, clamping the Thuraya to her head. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Brooks. Crisis over. Tel Aviv was first. The Israelis don’t mess around. Scrambled an F-15 Strike Eagle and put a Harpoon anti-ship missile through the yacht. Fireland vaporised. New York was second. A Black Hawk headed up the Hudson and put a Hellfire through the Adler’s bridge. London was last. Typical of the Brits to push it to the wire. Slammed a couple of CRV7 rockets through the Werwolf’s deck at 0358 precisely.’

  ‘Two minutes to spare,’ Narov noted. ‘More than enough.’

  Brooks smiled. She was one cool customer. He was glad she was on the side of the angels. ‘You managed to extract the other information we needed?’ he asked.

  ‘Eventually,’ Narov confirmed.

  She passed the details of the other ships and their targets to Brooks. Thankfully none of the five vessels had yet to set sail, or so Kammler had claimed. Those five, plus the three already destroyed: she allowed herself a rare moment of self-congratulation. Soon now, they’d get them all; all eight of the killer devices.

  ‘I’ll get teams scrambled to take them down,’ Brooks confirmed. ‘Any chance the crews might have got word from Kammler to scarper?’

  ‘Unlikely.’ She glanced at the corpse slumped it its chair. At last he looked almost at peace. ‘He certainly won’t be warning anyone now.’

  ‘Maybe you can connect me to our . . . friend. I’d like to let him know in person that he failed.’

  ‘That might be a little difficult,’ Narov replied flatly. ‘The questioning: it was most robust. His heart failed.’

  ‘His heart? He’s dead?’ Brooks cursed. ‘I was looking forward to putting that bastard on trial.’

  ‘Were you? Why? He didn’t deserve a jail cell; to be made a rallying point for the Nazi cause. He deserved what he got.’

  Brooks didn’t argue. Kammler was dead and the world was undoubtedly a safer place for it, no matter what the means of his removal. The CIA man knew Narov as a straight talker, which was rare in this business. He appreciated it.

  ‘What about you guys? Any casualties?’

  ‘Peter Miles has been beaten to within an inch of his life. He needs urgent medical attention. Jaeger has suffered serious blood loss due to an arterial wound. He’s in and out of consciousness, but we’ve stabilised him.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Unwounded.’ She paused. ‘But some of Kammler’s men are unaccounted for. Among them his deputy, Steve Jones. He’s injured, but he got away.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘There were some vehicles parked in a subterranean hangar, in a hidden cave in the cliff. Jones managed to get to one of those. We tried to stop him, but he got away in a hail of bullets.’

  ‘Jaeger’s wife?’ Brooks prompted.

  Narov’s face darkened. ‘Same as Jones. We understand she’s injured, but no sign of her either. We figure she and Jones made a joint getaway.’

  ‘Right, how long has that vehicle been mobile?’

  ‘Twenty minutes. Thirty at the outside.’

  ‘We’ll find it. Don’t worry, we’ll find it.’

  ‘And then? Bear in mind what it might be carrying. It’s unlikely, but it might just be loaded with—’

  ‘Understood. Don’t worry, it’s history. Even over China, we have ways and means.’

  ‘Good. But don’t go starting a third world war. We were so close to Armageddon this time . . .’

  ‘Leave it with me. Time to come clean with the Chinese, but since Kammler planned to hit two of their foremost nuclear plants, I think they’ll cut me some slack.

  ‘And Jaeger?’ Narov probed. ‘Do we come clean with him too? About his wife? That vehicle?’

  There was silence for a beat, before Brooks answered. ‘I think not. Better for all if he doesn’t know. At least not yet; not before it’s all over.’

  Narov allowed herself a fleeting smile. ‘Understood.’

  ‘Keep this line open. It’s a fast-moving situation.’

  Narov told him she would, and killed the call.

  91

  Narov left the command cell, making her way towards the kitchen area, where the injured were being treated. Raff had got the generator working, so at least they had power and light.

  As she stepped through the mess left by Jones and Jaeger – the blood and detritus from their savage close-quarters battle – her eye caught the glint of a half-obscured blade. Her heart missed a beat.

  It was instantly recognisable.

  She bent and retrieved it. This dagger meant the world to her.

  It had once belonged to Brigadier Edward ‘Ted’ Jaeger, SAS war hero and founder of the Secret Hunters, the man who had helped rescue Narov’s grandmother from the World War II concentration camp.

  Ted Jaeger had been a man of true compassion: when he’d learnt that Sonia Olchanevsky was pregnant as a result of rape, he had offered to be the unborn child’s godparent. He had been Narov’s mother’s godfather, and he had treated Narov herself as if she were his own niece.

  It was from Ted Jaeger that she had first heard of her family’s dark history, and had first been drawn into the work of the Secret Hunters. When she had met Will Jaeger, she’d wondered whether he could ever be worthy of his grandfather’s legacy.

  Now, as she moved towards the kitchen, she knew in her heart that he most certainly was.

  After their battles here in Kammler’s lair, she had to admit it: Jaeger had the Secret Hunter spirit in spades. She also knew that without him they would never have got Kammler.

  The plan in the Amazon to switch the aircraft’s cargo: that had been Jaeger’s brainchild. The tungsten bomb – their Trojan horse – his inspiration again. Plus blowing the pipelines, a touch of true Jaeger genius.

  She looked the bloodstained dagger over. It would need a good clean, she thought. But it was home. At last.

  She stepped through into the kitchen, seeking out Raff and Alonzo. They were crouched over Jaeger’s barely conscious form. She could see where they had cut the combat trousers off him and slapped a tourniquet on his right leg.

  ‘How is he?’ she asked tightly.

  Raff shrugged. ‘You know how he is. Soft as shit. He’ll pull through.’

  The humour: it had to mean that the worst was over.

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘Miles is unconscious but stable,’ Raff explained. ‘With some proper medical attention he should be okay. And Falk will be fine.’ He paused. ‘We lost Hing, but assuming you got Brooks to rustle up the medevac, the rest should be good.’

  ‘He promised. I’ll chase him.’

  Narov turned and left the room. She could only get satphone reception from the command cell. As she made her way down the corridor, her mind wandered. Hunting Kammler had been her life’s mission. But now his life had been snuffed out, that dark evil extinguished, and the debt she owed to her grandmother had been repaid.

  So what was to be her life’s work now?

  What mission was there that could draw her close to Jaeger, as their work in the Secret Hunters had done? She didn’t know, but she lived in hope. As the brigadier had often told her: life rewards the persistent. It was a dream that she would nurture.

  She dialled Brooks’s number, and he reassured her that a medevac team had been scrambled. It should be no more than twenty minutes away. ‘And the vehicle?’ she queried. ‘The getaway car? Jones and his . . . sidekick?’

  ‘Found,’ Brooks confirmed.

  Narov felt her pulse quicken. ‘And? How are you tracking it? What are you intending? Whose take-down is it – ours or the Chinese?’

  ‘I can’t say,’ Brooks demurred. ‘That’s beyond highly classified. But what I can tell you is this: I’m eyes on a video feed of that vehicle, even as we speak.’ Brooks paused. ‘I can patch you in, if you have a screen handy and a broadband connection running.’

  As it happened, Narov had. With Falk’s help she’d managed to log onto the base’s wireless connection. She passed Brooks the details and a grainy image flashed up on a nearby screen. It showed a Great Wall Haval H6, a Chinese manufactured 4x4 that was hugely popular in the country, speeding along a frozen track that snaked through a grey-walled gorge.

  ‘Thermal imaging reveals four individuals aboard,’ Brooks remarked. ‘So along with Ruth Jaeger and Steve Jones, we have two other escapees. Don’t suppose you have any idea who they might be?’

  ‘None.’

  As the powerful 4x4 took a series of sharp bends, it slewed alarmingly, spraying snow and dirt from its wheels.

  ‘Notice the less-than-impressive handling,’ Brooks added. ‘No fault of the vehicle. See how low it sits on its springs. We figure it’s armoured, and whoever’s at the wheel isn’t used to how the extra weight affects the cornering.’ Brooks paused. ‘But armour or no armour, it won’t help those aboard much with what’s coming.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Put it this way: they could be riding in an Abrams main battle tank, and they’d still not stand a hope in hell of surviving.’

  At last, Narov told herself.

  ‘As it happens, the . . . termination is due about any time now,’ Brooks added. ‘Keep your eyes on the prize …’

  The seconds ticked by as Narov studied the screen closely. She could barely stand the wait. It was like watching some kind of computer game – not that Narov was in the habit of doing so much. With those who truly deserved it she preferred hunting – and killing – for real. Just like now.

  Suddenly, there was a blinding flash of light, which whited-out whatever observation platform Brooks was using to track the vehicle. As the image adjusted, and pulled back into focus, Narov could see shattered chunks of smoking debris scattered across a wide swathe of the gorge.

  She didn’t have a clue what asset – what weapon – Brooks had deployed in the strike, but whatever it was, the 4x4 had been totally obliterated. Shredded into blasted, fiery ruin. And whoever had been riding in it had been vaporised along with the vehicle.

  Narov smiled. At last: Steve Jones and Ruth Jaeger – good riddance to the both of them.

  92

  Jaeger stumped down from the Range Rover. His right leg was still painful, but he hated using the walking stick. While it was healing, he wasn’t too proud to lean on Narov’s arm.

  She’d offered to drive, for which Jaeger had been grateful. He wasn’t supposed to get behind the wheel, not with the powerful painkillers that he was taking.

  What mattered most right now was that he was alive, he was out of hospital and he was about to see his boys again. Plus the world was safe – for now, at least. Until another madman like Kammler tried to wreak havoc and destruction.

  Luke and Simon strode across from the far side of the playing field: muddy, soaked and steaming, but proud in their new school colours.

  They’d lost the match, yet they’d played like demons, which was all that really mattered in a game of rugby. Or indeed in life, Jaeger told himself. As they approached, he marvelled how a few months at a school such as this could have turned his sons from boys into young men.

  They had matured so much. They weren’t just bigger, taller and with voices noticeably gruffer; they walked with a new sense of purpose.

  They stopped a few yards short of him. Eyes smiling, but a little unsure whether to go for a hug in front of all their rugby mates, and with this stranger of a woman standing by their father’s side.

  Jaeger eyed the thick mud plastered over them. ‘Glad I cleaned the Pinkie for you guys – caked in all that crap!’

  Pinkie: it was their in-joke. During World War II, the SAS had learnt that a light pink colour was the best camouflage for their vehicles while on desert operations. Not brown or khaki or yellow or ochre, but pink. SAS Land Rovers were still painted that hue for desert ops, hence the nickname for the Range Rover.