The Cassandra Sanction

Chapter Fourteen

‘I’m on them. Looking at them right now,’ said the man behind the wheel of the dark grey BMW 6-Series Gran Coupé that was parked down the street. From where he was sitting, he had an oblique view of the pawnshop doorway through the rain-splatted windscreen, and he could see the two targets inside the silver Kia. The one called Hope was in the driver’s seat as before. The watcher could see intermittent wisps of cigarette smoke drifting from the inch-wide crack in the window.

Cars hissed past on the wet road. Some workers from nearby offices were out on their eleven-o’clock break, munching pastries in the street and trying to soak up what anaemic rays of sunshine were struggling to reach down from the damp sky.

The watcher and his colleagues had been monitoring the targets’ movements all that morning, ever since before nine when they’d left the apartment and driven north through the city to see the private investigator, Leonhard Klein. That visit hadn’t taken long. From Klein’s, a different car had shadowed them back to the bar on the edge of Glockenbach district and then reported back to base when, not long after, Fuentes and Hope had come running out of the place as if they were onto something.

When Hope had suddenly veered to the side, for an anxious moment the watchers had thought they were blown. They knew he was good; very, very good; but they were experts and extra-careful about constantly switching between the three cars in the chase, keeping in constant contact via their mobile phone conference network that worked like unlimited-range two-way radio and also allowed them to keep the Boss informed of their movements. Nobody was that good. After that false alarm, they’d dropped back and followed the silver Kia straight here. The two men in the grey BMW watched from a distance as Fuentes and Hope entered the pawnshop.

‘Are they still inside?’ asked the Boss on the phone.

‘Negative. They’re out and back in their car. Engine’s off. Just sitting talking. Fuentes looks agitated.’

‘They know something,’ the Boss said.

That was how it looked to the watchers, too.

‘Time to make a move.’

‘Negative,’ the watcher said, eyeing the office workers. Another car hissed past. ‘It’s too public here.’

‘First chance you get. Take them down as planned.’

‘Roger that,’ the watcher said. ‘Hold it. They’re on the move again.’ He’d seen fumes spurt from the Kia’s exhaust as its engine started. Its indicator started flashing to pull out into the traffic.

‘Stay with them,’ the Boss said. ‘Hacker, Ruddock, move into position.’

‘We’re on it,’ said Hacker’s voice.

‘Copy,’ Ruddock came in. ‘We’re circling the area.’

Cook, the driver of the BMW, checked his mirror as he waited for a yellow minivan to pass, then pulled out. The silver Kia was two cars ahead, moving as if Hope was eager to press on. Cook followed, with the dogged, flat-eyed look of a man just doing his job. The tools of his trade were in a case on the back seat. He’d be using them soon enough, but the thought didn’t leave him much moved.

Some men fixed cars for a living. Others paid their bills by frying their brains sitting behind computer terminals all day. Cook and his colleagues hurt and killed people. It was no big deal. Today would be no different, except it meant they could get out of this German shit hole. Fucking Germans. Cook hated the food, hated the language, hated the people. Then again, Cook hated just about everything, and his employer most of all.

The BMW stayed with the Kia for three kilometres with Cook hanging carefully back and Lewis in the passenger seat maintaining phone contact. They peeled off as Ruddock and Dean in the black Fiat panel van took over for a stretch, Ruddock driving, Dean on the phone. Ideally, they’d have air backup and a couple of motorcycles to fill out the surveillance team. It wasn’t as if their employer couldn’t afford them. But his resources were scattered elsewhere in pursuit of this mission, and in any case six on two was considered ample to get the job done. Which Cook had to agree it was, more or less.

Cook followed a parallel course as Dean reported the Kia’s progress. It was clear that Hope was returning to Catalina Fuentes’ apartment. The strike could take place there.

As the Kia hit Glockenbach, Nicholson and Hacker in the Opel Insignia picked up the chase. When the Kia parked outside Fuentes’ building, Hacker pulled up fifty metres down the street, and Nicholson phoned in to say that Hope and Raul Fuentes had gone inside.

The Boss said, ‘Do it.’

The six-man team closed in from three directions and positioned their vehicles close to the building with the Fiat panel van parked near the entrance, two spaces behind the silver Kia where the frontage of the building blocked its view from the apartment windows. Cook and Lewis left the BMW and joined Hacker and Nicholson, and the four of them stepped quickly into the back of the van, where Ruddock and Dean had already opened up the kit bags and started laying things out.

They togged up in silence. Body armour under black nylon jackets, thin gloves. The ski-masks would go on at the last minute, before the assault. Lastly, they checked their weapons. Pistols only, for this kind of urban work. The hollow shell of the van resonated to the metallic noises of magazines being snicked home, actions being jacked, locked and loaded. None of them had a problem with doing a job like this in a busy city environment. They’d done it plenty of times before, for this employer and others in the past. If there was any tension in the air, it was because all six of them knew what they were going in against.

If Fuentes had been on his own, this would have been an easy one, straight in, get it done, clear out and gone. It wasn’t going to be so simple. Even unarmed and caught off guard, Hope was dangerous. Whatever his involvement, his presence made Fuentes a hard target. For that reason, the team had come doubly prepared.

Cook clipped his pistol into its concealed holster, zipped up his jacket and stuffed the ski-mask into a hip pocket ready for use. He scanned the five serious faces and said, ‘Okay?’ Nods and grunts all round. Nicholson leaned over the front seats so he could peer out of the passenger window at the entrance of the building.

‘We’re clear,’ Nicholson said.

Cook picked up the phone and said, ‘Moving in.’ He signalled to Hacker. Hacker went to open the back doors. Once they committed themselves, speed was going to be everything.

‘Wait,’ Nicholson said from the front, raising a hand. ‘Hold it. They’re out.’

Cook shoved Nicholson out of the way to look out of the window, just in time to see Hope and Fuentes stepping out of the building and walking fast to the silver Kia. Fuentes was carrying a holdall, Hope had a green canvas bag slung over his shoulder, old-spec British military issue. The two climbed into the Kia, Hope taking the wheel once more.

They hadn’t been inside the apartment five minutes. Cook noticed the way Fuentes looked jumpy and on edge. This could be it.

Cook reached again for the phone. ‘Standing down. Targets are in motion. Looks like something’s happening, for sure.’

‘Stay with them,’ said the Boss. ‘Do not bugger this up.’

Cook snapped off the phone.

The silver Kia started up and pulled out sharply and moved off fast into the traffic. Cook waited three seconds, watching the car disappear into the distance, then he and Lewis burst out into the street and raced for their BMW and Nicholson and Hacker ran to the Opel while Ruddock and Dean clambered into the front of the van.

The BMW took the lead, chasing fast up the street in the direction the Kia had gone. The targets were out of sight by now, but they wouldn’t get away. Strategically, Cook faced a decision whether to concentrate all his forces on going after Hope and Fuentes or to send Nicholson and Hacker to check out the pawnshop connection.

He decided to leave that for later. If the hit went smoothly, they could forget about the pawnshop. And for now, they needed the numbers to take down Ben Hope.