on o the grass, then tried to open the door. It was closed from the inside – the key still in the lock. He could feel the anger rising as he pressed the bell. There was no answer. He started to bang, then pound with his fists. ‘Open the door!’
There was movement inside, a twitch from a curtain. Fox took a step back and was about to shout again when another mini moto shot past. He turned in the direction of the noise just as two saloon cars swept into the road. Both were going too fast for the bend.
As Fox watched, it felt as though he were seeing everything in slow motion. The first car swerved to avoid the youth on the mini moto. The bike bounced up onto the kerb and carried on, but the car hit the opposite kerb and the wall to the garage compound.
There was a heavy crunch and shrieking of metal as the Ford Mondeo hit the wall. The second car, some fifteen metres behind, slammed on its brakes and stopped sideways on. At the same time, there were noises and movement from his house. Fox ran across the road to the Ford; joyriders or not, they needed help. The driver’s side had hit first and what was left of the screen was covered in blood. Fox’s eyes scanned the vehicle; the driver was dead, he was sure of that, but the passenger was moving. He was reaching down to pull at the door when he saw a weapon in the footwell. There was a whimpering from the back.
Fox peered in. Lying half on the seat was a girl, an Arab-looking girl, with duct-tape over her mouth and arms fastened behind her back. A man was lying under her; he tried to push her off. Fox saw the second weapon, this one a semi-automatic. The girl locked eyes with him and Fox recognised the pleading look of fear.
Without hesitating, Fox grabbed the handgun from the front of the car, took a step back, and shot the passenger though the ear. The sound was like thunder in the enclosed space. Momentarily deafened, he pulled the rear door and the girl half-fell out. The second male passenger opened his eyes and reached for his weapon. Fox dragged the girl clear and put a double tap directly into his temple. His head exploded.
Shots from behind. Fox threw himself over the girl and pulled the door in front of him. It was the only protection they had. More rounds and now shouts. Fox sprang to his feet, weapon held in both hands, instantly acquiring a target. A passenger from the second car was running at full sprint towards him, with what looked like an assault rifle in his hands. Fox fired the first round, hitting the assaulter in the chest, and then a second, aimed at the head. The man span sideways and crashed to the ground.
Movement from his right. Another X-ray, this one using the houses for cover, was heading his way. Both men fired. Fox ducked again and looked at the girl. She was shaking beneath him. He took a breath and sprang back up. He let off a single shot at the target. The man was moving now, back towards the car as the driver shouted at him wildly. Another target came into view, blocking Fox’s line of fire to the retreating car; this figure was wearing a dark-blue shirt and was racing directly towards the Z4. Taking a millisecond to decide, Fox fired a round into the man’s back.
The second car spun its wheels in a ‘J-turn’ and screeched away. Fox, out of rounds, had no time to grab another weapon as he tried to catch the number plate. All around he saw curtains twitching. Two teenagers wearing hoodies were standing stunned, next to their mini motos, holding up mobile phones, videoing the whole event. On seeing Fox staring at them, they both legged it, carrying their toy bikes.
Fox bent down and pulled the girl to her feet; he spoke to her in Arabic. ‘You’re safe now. I’m going to take the tape off.’
The girl let out a moan of pain as the tape was removed, then started to sob as he undid her bonds. She was about seventeen and beautiful. She held her hands to her face.
‘Come with me.’ Fox reached out gently and took her by the arm. He walked her up his neighbour’s path. Reynolds opened the door, a shocked expression on his face. Fox pushed the girl at him.
‘Jim, look after her.’
Without waiting for a reply Fox moved back to the street and, bending down, checked the nearest X-ray for a pulse. There was none. He kicked the assault weapon away to the side of the road and then moved towards the man with the dark-blue shirt, his former boss, Leo Sawyer. The sales director lay on his back, eyes open, breathing laboured. Fox’s single round had ripped through him, puncturing a lung. Fox aimed the empty weapon at Sawyer’s head and let him hear the ‘dead man’s click’.
Fox felt no remorse; the man had tried to screw him and had screwed his wife. It had been a split-second but conscious decision, his anger and the urge for revenge manifesting itself in the single bullet. He didn’t care if Sawyer lived or died.
Fox didn’t need to check on the two X-rays in the car – he had drilled them at point-blank range; half their skulls were missing. He knew they were dead. Fox took out his mobile and dialled 999. The operator confirmed his mobile number and asked him which service he required, then transferred him. Before he could speak he heard sirens nearing. Fox sat on the kerb and waited to be arrested. He had once again demonstrated to the world that he was only good at one thing – killing.
Presidential Dacha, Minsk Region, Belarus
Dark hair patted down, burgundy tie, crisp white shirt and dark-blue suit. Sverov admired himself in the mirror. It was important he make the right impression; he was, after all, going to be the first ever head of the Belarusian Intelligence Service – the KGB – to be interviewed by the BBC.
When the BBC had contacted him via the embassy, his initial reaction had been to refuse the journalist an entry visa into the country. However, after a moment’s thought, he’d decided that the potential positive publicity would greatly help the image of Belarus. So he’d replied yes and got his hands on the most recent reports filed by the same journalist to check his credibility.
It was going to be a full half-hour interview for the BBC World programme HARDtalk Extra. Sverov had read with much interest the list of former interviewees, some of whom he greatly admired, while others he would have shot on sight if they ever entered his country. He had advised the President of the benefits this interview would bring and then made him believe it had been his own idea all along. Megalomaniacs like the President, although he never would have admitted to anyone that he thought his leader was one, were easy to manipulate.
Sverov exited the bathroom in the presidential dacha and took his seat in the study. The BBC make-up girl had already applied his, something he found effeminate, but a necessary evil. The sound recordist clipped a microphone to his lapel, a ‘backup’, he had said, to the furry grey sound boom suspended out of shot above his head. The BBC journalist, Simon White, lived up to his name. He was possibly the pastiest individual Sverov had ever met. His thin frame actually looked bigger onscreen but his eyes had a dark intensity.
Sverov had demanded a list of questions a month in advance and made it clear he wouldn’t answer any new ones unless they’d been faxed and agreed. Sverov spoke, in his own opinion, ‘good English’, but had said that, for the actual interview, he would feel more ‘comfortable’ speaking in Belarusian. The producer, however, had asked if the interview could be in English, as this was the style of the HARDtalk series. Sverov accepted his reasoning that, to ‘woo the West’, one must speak their language. For the past month he had been practising with the KGB language instructors. His English was more than ‘good’ – he was in fact fluent – but he wouldn’t have passed for a native speaker. He still had an accent and sometimes paused to find the most appropriate words.
As the crew readied themselves, Sverov noted
