Thanks for the lovely reviews for the last chapter and a warning. This chapter is probably borderline M but I don't want to change the rating for the entire story.
1.15pm approx.
Near the Clink Museum. Southwark.
Harry may have been walking alone in person, but he most certainly was not doing so in spirit, as he speculated upon the nature of what exactly he would be confronted with when he finally penetrated Coaver's lair. From the moment Calum's voice had intoned, "Subject believed to be Coaver seen entering the building 13.12. Our man entered 13.15. Internal tracker operational, transmitters working," seven sets of headphone clad ears were straining to process every sound, however miniscule.
The trio snuggled cosily together in the white plastic tent, along with the quartet sheltering in the equally white obbo van parked a few streets away, followed in audio form the slow steady tempo of Harry's footsteps as he climbed the ill lit staircase. Malcolm's gratification at the success of his latest techno trick being overborne by his worry as to Harry's predicted fate. Helplessness rendering them silent, they collectively counted the steps of his slow ascent, then noted the brief pause punctuated by a quick tap before the continuation of the trudging footfall, followed by further halt and two taps. After that slight interruption, which could easily be interpreted as that of an unfit individual pausing for breath, he proceeded upwards. Three more taps were heard, succeeded by a few footsteps, and then the stomach clenching reverberation of a knock on a door.
Leaning over Erin's shoulder a mystified Jane stared as the Section Chief fingered a set of plans through her Ipad. Malcolm noticing her scowl broke briefly away from his own task to explain, "The tracker isn't sensitive enough to tell us Harry's exact location in the building, but we now know he's on the third floor and had to walk down a short corridor." As Jane nodded her comprehension Erin displayed the screen image to Malcolm, declaring, with a pointing of her beautifully manicured finger, "He's in an office, on either this corridor or that one." Any further comments were instantly stilled by the transmission of a smug voice declaiming,
"Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly – welcome Mr MI5. So glad you accepted my invitation to pop in for a chat."
Pushing open the creaking door, the salient features of the room, - one of several cubbyholes in this building sublet to dubious businesses in need of an address and subsequently abandoned in the economic mayhem of the credit crunch - were revealed to Harry in all their magnificence. From the smeared single windowpane, confronting him as he entered, to the grubby, stained, threadbare carpet and scuffed paintwork, the place positively oozed an ambience of neglect. An impression confirmed by the cheap furnishings shoved haphazardly into a corner, consisting chiefly of a chipboard self assembly desk decorated with a jumble of indeterminate objects, from which odd spikes of wire and metal extruded. Crowned by empty food cartons the litter could easily have been a rejected exhibit from a modern art gallery: theme, the futility of materialism. Nestling at its side was a battered Calor gas heater, around which were strewn a couple of ripped floor cushions and a few empty beer bottles. Harry, operating on his engrained spook autopilot, absorbed these details without actually noticing them. His direct conscious was fully focussed upon his search for one thing, or rather one person. Scanning the room, alarmed by her apparent absence, he finally spotted her. Initially screened from his sight by the open door, rammed against the left hand wall, she lay supine upon a camp bed, her ghostlike pallor a stark contrast to the plain, but serviceable, navy blue blanket draped across her body. Seated beside her, sprawled upon a plain wooden seat, fingering a gun and grinning with self congratulation, was the repellent individual Harry now knew to be Chris Coaver.
Harry hadn't dignified this greeting with a response, nor did he do so as he strode over to his daughter. The stillness of her body and the bloodless, almost waxen, appearance of her skin making his heart constrict with dread. Was he too late? Coaver had boasted that she'd still be alive but Harry having had professional recourse drugs of all descriptions -most of them used for strictly illegal purposes - knew that dosage was a subtle art requiring precise supervision from either medical staff or expert torturers, the lines differentiating the two being thoroughly blurred in his world. Totally ignoring his self proclaimed Nemesis Harry bent over his daughter, stroking her cheek gently with his hand. Thank God! Despite being wan and disturbingly fragile in appearance she was still warm, and now that he was leaning over her he could see by the gentle rise and fall of her chest that she was breathing, although even to his inexpert eyes it seemed that those breaths were shallower than was advisable. His ministrations were effectively ended when her captor thrust the gun under Harry's nose with the words,
"What joy to observe a touching father and daughter reunion. Such a shame that she'll never remember it, her last contact with dear old Daddy." Digging his gun into Harry's ribs with a lightening change of tone he snarled, "Now get into the middle of the room and keep your hands where I can see them. I want to talk."
Harry favoured his tormentor with a contemptuous stare before replying coolly, "So glad you spared no expense to look after my daughter. Such luxurious minimalism in the furnishing, a camp bed and a chair. Along with that gas heater it's a real home from home." Seeing the young man was puzzled by this apparent aplomb Harry capitalised on his evident confusion. With an airy wave of his hand towards the door he continued in the same vein, "And I do admire your in depth attention to security, Yales are so difficult to break are they not." While Coaver remained temporarily dumbstruck by this unanticipated reaction Harry pressed home his limited advantage by walking towards the window. An action that stimulated Coaver into rediscovering his voice as he yelled, 'Get away from there."
Having observed the key points of the not very attractive scenery Harry pushed on with the sarcasm, "I suppose the river view makes this luxurious penthouse worth the rent. What a shame you can only just glimpse it between the next two buildings."
Upon receipt of this Intel Erin began frantically scanning rooms as she attempted to pin down Harry's precise location. Malcolm, intently concentrating on twiddling knobs to boost the wavering sound quality, shifted slightly as he handed her a laptop displaying a 3D scan of the local buildings, accompanied by the hasty admonishment, "Use this programme to establish the viewing trajectory from the third floor."
Satisfied that his unsuspected listeners would have processed this seemingly casual remark, Harry deemed it advisable to pacify Coaver by obeying his instruction. His wasn't the strongest of positions. Harry wasn't just facing a man with a gun; he was facing a man with a gun who had the ultimate hostage at his mercy; Catherine. The trumps in Harry's game of nerves being Malcolm's undetected gadgets, and his suspicion that despite having effectively captured Harry, the boy was plainly rattled by the calm reaction of the older man. Chris had written a mental script that Harry had so far failed to follow. The next order confirmed that a confused, suspicious Coaver was trying to regain the high command.
"Jacket off. Throw it out the door before you shut it. In case you're bugged."
"I'm not, but if it makes you happy." Harry complied, hoping that he'd be allowed to retain his trousers, and with them his dignity. He was well past the age of wanting to cavort in his underwear, his youthful six pack had long since melted into a sagging sixty pack, plus courtesy of Jane's covert needlework his more intimate regions apparently rivalled a pouter pigeon's chest. Removing his jacket prior to disposing of it as instructed - did his over confident captor realise that he'd just ordered Harry to leave a clear marker as to their whereabouts -and with concern for Catherine fogging his brain, he made the classic error of under estimating his opponent. During the brief second in which he turned his head, checking that the discarded jacket was correctly positioned, he'd given the twitchy Coaver his opening. A rookie's mistake, forcibly impressed upon him with a sharp clump as the gun smashed into the side of his head, and then, as he lost his balance and staggered against the door frame the lesson was swiftly reinforced by a further blow that sent him crashing to the floor. Stunned and winded he was unable to collect himself quickly enough to offer any resistance to being picked up and shoved roughly into the chair that Coaver had previously occupied. Semi conscious, and fighting the sickening waves of pain that threatened to overcome him, Harry's recovery from the shock was too late to prevent the boy immobilising him. He felt, rather than saw, the rough contact of parachute cord that Coaver was using to tie his wrists individually to the wooden slats that formed the sides of the chair. The bonds cutting into his flesh quite painfully as the reduced circulation in his arms slowly numbed his fingers. An unobtrusive flexing of his muscles told Harry that he and the chair were nearly husband and wife, made one and not to be set asunder, since Coaver seemed unlikely to countenance a divorce.
"There we are, nice and comfy. I was in the Boy Scouts so I can tie good knots."
Harry, as the first pain slowly receded into a dull throbbing in his temples, stared Coaver squarely in the face. Now he had the opportunity to examine at the young man at close quarters he could process the resemblance to Jim that had struck a chord with himself and the two field officers who'd also been involved in the end game of Jim's life. The general facial features were close, but the mouth lacked his father's generous grin, Chris's attempt at a natural smile put Harry in mind of a gurning contest, and there was a complete absence of the serious but humane glow that Jim's eyes had possessed. Understanding in an instant why Graham had distrusted Chris Coaver on sight Harry's long ago assertion that his son was the child with the brains had finally been justified. Catherine was intelligent, but she lacked what Graham had seemingly inherited in spades, a natural antenna that bespoke an ability to detect falsity lurking behind a cast iron veneer of truth, the gift that Harry had characterised during their hostile exchange in Catherine's flat as 'spook instinct.'
"Thank you for sitting so nicely Sir Harry. We need to discuss your limited future, but first since you are a little tied up do you have any questions?"
Harry cut to the chase for the benefit of the audience. "What exactly have you done to my daughter?"
"Not to worry. I've kept her just under with Nembutal. I know how to give injections safely, a paramedic friend taught me, so no risk of air bubbles in her circulatory system. I've only given her that, and she's had the odd drink when she's woken up, I've let her stay awake for short time between doses." Encountering Harry's accusatory glare he faltered a little, "I've taken care of her, when she seemed cold I tucked her up."
"Well it doesn't look good to me. She's scarcely breathing. She needs a doctor now. When did you start dosing her?"
"Let's see." Confidence restored as Chris suddenly remembered he was the one in command. Playing with his sentient captive the young man cocked his head to one side as he made a pretence of considering the matter, "It must have been about three hours after I kidnapped her." He smiled once again in a manner that made Harry's toes twitch, if he could just get near enough, extend his legs far enough to kick the little git's teeth in...a fantasy that took a reluctant second place to listening to Coaver's ongoing bombast.
"Such a passionate girl in the search for truth, although I must admit my first plan for killing you had advanced quite nicely. Then when I met my old friend and he told me what they were doing to get Sir HP – so typical of you to have the initials of a particularly British revolting sauce don't you think – where was I - oh yes, I thought that if I could get them the information they needed then you'd be back in America and would be dealt with politely by my father's colleagues. They so wanted to welcome you."
Even incapacitated and with a rapidly closing eye Harry's freezing starer was sufficient to make Coaver waver, almost as if he was awaiting Harry's permission to continue.
"Ah so those letters I was receiving."
"Yes all came from me. I bet they had you worried."
Harry's scorn was searing. "Sorry to disappoint you. If I took notice of every death threat I received I'd never do anything. Now you were saying..."
"Yes, well of course Catherine wouldn't tell me where she'd hidden the information so I thought I'd try to get it another way, I set up a false contact and when she fell for it offered to take her to him. Just as well really, the CIA were going to bomb her flat and I knew that if the information was lost you'd walk, so I brought her here." The bragging ceased, to be replaced by rebuke. "Her mother ought to have taught her some manners. I saved her life and she wasn't in the least bit grateful to me. She really should have accepted I was her saviour."
Down in the plastic igloo Calum was muttering, "You don't say. This one has more loose screws than a defective meccano set." Before he was hushed by Dimitri, intent on hearng the remainder of Coaver's triumphalist explanations.
"Anyway I knew if her life was in danger you'd come running. I've been careful with the dosage, she'll be okay."
Out in the obbo van an unusually silent Jane, eyes widening with horror, was fixing an intent gaze upon Nat Reynolds, whose Pavlovian reaction to Coaver's newsflash had been to grab his mobile. Speed dialled through to the hospital, whose unfortunate lot in life was to discreetly patch up a never ending array of battered spooks, he was announcing, "Hello Richard, Nat here. MI5 Official Secrets, we have a female currently unconscious who's been dosed with injected pentobarbitone. As far as we know she's been under for approximately three days, has come too between shots, strength of dosage and exact frequency unknown. Status; breathing but seems to be having some respiratory difficulties." Turning to Jane he enquired, "Any known health problems or medications." Jane, terror stricken by Harry's exposition of their daughter's condition, she knew him well enough to know that he'd not been exaggerating, shook her head, "Not that I know of, only oral contraceptives, and we think she didn't have those on her when she was lifted." Nat didn't reply as he returned to his previous conversation, "Normal health, age thirty, weight normal." The exact words at the other end were indistinct but their import clarified by Nat's response, "We've no visuals but my guess is that she'll be dehydrated and possibly has mild hypothermia. The officer who's trying to get the information is unarmed, has been attacked, but is still attempting to talk down a first class nutjob armed with a Messiah complex and a gun- no of course that's not a clinical diagnosis." His next response, "Quite, a normal day for MI5." Having rung off sharply he enquired of Erin, in a matter of fact voice that held a slight hint of pleading. "Can you go in now?" Erin shook her head firmly, "Not when he has a gun and is behind a door that's locked. With Harry immobilised Coaver would be able to shoot at least one of them, probably both, before our officers broke in."
Malcolm spared a brief second to admire the Section Chief. With Jane sitting beside her, palpably fighting down the hysteria of the desperate, it took a hard head to refuse Nat's request when squatting in an atmosphere awash with emotions that threatened to drown out the key rules of logic and protocol. It was also, Malcolm knew, the right decision. One that was affirmed by Harry's failure to mention the agreed code word requesting backup. Harry's life, Harry's daughter, it had to be Harry's call. Hoping to ease the tension a little he suggested, "Harry's making him ramble on in an attempt to find the right trigger to break him down." With that falsely optimistic statement, - allow him to ramble on! Malcolm could think of no way legally acceptable method of shutting Coaver up and unfortunately, at present, illegal methods weren't a possibility either. Sighing inwardly Malcolm turned his attention back to his listening post, just in time to tune into the American's latest boasts being broadcast through the medium of Harry's trousers.
"I'll be famous as the man who killed Sir Harry Pearce, and outwitted the CIA as well."
Harry's snort was audible to them all, "In my experience that latter isn't difficult, your father was one of the few agents they ever employed who was actually intelligent."
The scream that followed threatened to burst seven sets of eardrums. "Yes and you killed him. Then you Brits connived to blame the Russians."
"Strictly speaking we blamed a Nationalist group, and despite the lies the CIA fed you they really were the guilty ones." Stated firmly in a matter of fact tone, Harry's insistence made Coaver's face constrict with fury."
"Don't you dare continue to lie. I'm not a fool."
Seven listeners possessed of one thought. That's debatable', heard Harry's exasperated response. "Possibly not, but you are a disgrace to your father. Jim would never have condoned your actions in kidnapping Catherine." A statement followed by sounds that made them all wince.
A thoroughly riled Coaver had taken three steps across the room as he smashed his fist into Harry's face, before retreating to admire the handiwork of the split lip and bleeding nose. His aim to make Harry grovel and writhe in agony didn't even make it out of the starting blocks. Harry would be damned before he gave Coaver that particular satisfaction. Impassively biting back the salty taste of his own blood, Harry was considering his next move. He'd listened to self justifying rants before. It was now obvious that Coaver was playing a lone hand, and that, in Harry's assessment, made him doubly dangerous. The MI5 advice to detect the weak link in any group, then exploit it to neutralise the danger, was a life saving tenet that in this situation was completely redundant. Coaver wasn't a groupie, he was a lone delusional wolf, an unhinged US of A version of Sasha Gavrik. Harry was the weakest link here, forced into dealing with a ruthless lunatic imbuded with a sense of mission, while rendered personally vulnerable by the love centred upon the person of his daughter. Keeping Cover talking would be the best bet, but with every minute that passed Catherine was slipping away, the longer the delay the greater the jeopardy to her life. Use the codeword authorising Erin to take action and that gun would be fired, probably into Catherine first.
"Not so cocky now are you. Let's see how you feel about what I'm going to do to you."
"I can hardly wait, but don't feel obliged to hurry on my account."
"I had various ideas. As I said I abandoned my first plan, then when I decided to lure you here I thought about a bomb of sorts, I even set it up, but I got a little bored, Catherine's not good company at the moment, so I visited that museum, which gave me a better idea."
Propping himself up against the wall, gun still pointing at Harry, he flashed a smile as he asked, "You saw that rusty cage dangling outside, it's meant to be gibbet, they hung bodies up in them as a warning, sometimes they covered them with tar to last longer. So that got me thinking. I considered cold tar but then thought why go to the expense when black exterior gloss paint is cheaper. So what I'm going to do is this, strangle and strip you,then paint your naked body with this." Reaching out to the desk he grabbed a large decorator's paint brush which he flourished under Harry's nose, followed by a gesture towards a paint pot sitting in the corner by the window. "And tonight I'm going to put you in the gibbet and expose you for the sham you are to all of London."
Harry's totally blank face was unreadable. Rattled by his evident unconcern Coaver shouted, "What do you think about that?"
"I'll be dead so what happens to my body afterwards is a matter of complete indifference to me."
That was the sober truth, once his heart had ceased to beat as far as Harry was concerned he'd become a lump of dead meat, and in any case Coaver's plans for corpse disposal weren't going to achieve fruition. Harry was second guessing here, but assuming his trousers were doing more than just covering his knees, Erin would by now be planning an intervention, with or without his agreement. Aiming to rattle the young man further Harry was trying to achieve a look of total relaxation, not easy when his hands were forcibly clamped to the chair sides. Slumping his body into the back of the seat he simultaneously stretched out his legs. The nearer his trousers were to Coaver's voice the clearer the transmission. Seeing Coaver's astonishment at his continuing nonchalance he added conversationally, "But have you considered adequately the issue of hoisting a dead weight? I'm not exactly skinny. You could easily rupture yourself, or fall trying to carry me down that staircase."
A listening Calum murmured "We can hope," while Dimitri was seriously considering the merits of mounting a one man rescue mission in defiance of both Erin and Harry. The thought of allowing Coaver to defeat any of them was rankled, the more so because it was apparent that the preening twerp was even more barking than Fluffy and Cuddles combined.
Harry's scornful voice was continuing to outline the difficulties inherent in Coaver's scheme, "Then of course you've got to actually get me into the gibbet, which means bringing it down somehow, unless you're planning to forge your own. Anyway that will be your problem. I'm more interested in knowing when you're going to get Catherine some help."
Coaver's voice could be heard braying with insincere reassurance. "You really don't need to worry. Once I've killed you and dealt with your body overnight I'll make sure someone knows she's here. Now excuse me while I find what I need."
Out in the obbo van Nat Reynolds was shaking his head, "She'll not survive much longer with potential respiratory failure, and our friend sounds deadly serious." It was a phrase as exact as any medical diagnosis. Jane, recognising it as such, supported him with a quiet "Erin?" Erin swallowed, she'd heard the underlying challenge from both, but with no visuals she was operating on minimal information, interpreted with difficulty. Make an impulsive decision, rush in too early and unnecessary death would stalk Section D again. On the basis of what she was hearing though, she was forced to agree that Coaver sounded out of control and lethal. Biting her lip she wondered what Harry would do in these circumstances. With Jane seated beside her silent and shaking, Erin was being proffered a living reminder of panic stricken state she'd been reduced to when Rosie was kidnapped. Now she truly understood the impossible position that event had placed Harry in, and the agony he'd have felt as he issued the kill order, knowing as he uttered the command that he may also have condemned Rosie.
Harry was also considering his choices. If Coaver was going to strangle him he'd probably have to drop the gun as he approached Harry to jerk the ligature around his throat. Although attached to the chair Harry still had the use of his legs, he could put up a short fight, distract Coaver, giving his officers sufficient time to burst in. Admittedly he might end up strangled or shot, but it gave Catherine a slim chance of survival. The sight of Coaver ferreting around the untidy desk in search, Harry assumed, of a suitable rope – the option of using Harry's own tie or belt hadn't occurred to Jim's offspring and Harry certainly wasn't going to suggest it - pushed him into making his final throw of the dice. Casually he spoke the phrase authorising Erin to proceed, "Well I'm sure that 'The Clink Museum' will welcome another exhibit."
'The Clink Museum', not just 'The Clink' or 'The Museum', - a piece of natural pedantry to be expected from someone of Harry's vintage pedigree - placed in a single sentence, translated to the team as 'intervene.' Erin's relief was made manifest by the speed with which she issued her instructions. "Dimitri, proceed with Jason to the building entrance but no further until I give the word."
Dimitri and Jason needed no amplification to that order. The haste with which they vacated the plastic snowball could, under different circumstances, have suggested that Calum's personal hygiene routine required some dramatic improvements.
Disposing themselves beside the doorway Harry had vanished into, their casual postures transmitted the impression to any casual observer that the great British tea break was now being succeeded by the more recent tradition of the great British outdoor ciggie cum gossip break. It was a pretence that masked their anxious listening for Erin's further instructions, as the hope that Harry was going to talk Coaver down diminished.
The next sound however originated not from their respective earpieces, but from the screeching brakes of a large black car skidding to a halt just beside the gaping hole in the road drilled by Jason and the water board. The doors, thrown open before the vehicle stopped, disgorged two well muscled men. One glance at the American number plate and the swagger of the occupants, dressed in the regulation black, now moving towards the space occupied by the two MI5 officers, was sufficient to identify the new unwanted arrivals as CIA operatives, exuding a typical contempt for all things British, including the law.
Watching them approach, with no time to contact Erin for guidance, it fell to Dimitri to decide whether or not their oldest, ostensibly friendly, allies should have unfettered passage. In theory they, like Section D, wanted to apprehend the same person, Coaver, but considering that when last heard of the CIA had,
a: abetted Coaver in approaching Catherine,
b: blown up her flat with no heed for her life,
c: wanted to get their hands on Harry even more badly than they wanted Coaver,
d: were attempting to cover up illegal rendition and torture,
e: life was too short to continue the list, so...
In view of these recent events Dimitri was of the opinion this was not the moment to extend the hand of friendship to the Cousins, unless of course the said hand was going to grasp them warmly by the throat. With Harry and Catherine's lives in acute danger the politicians could deal with the diplomatic niceties later. He'd abide by the spooks unwritten code that stated that they looked after, and rescued their own.
Jason, having wordlessly picked up on his senior officer's decision, swayed gently on the balls of his feet blocking the doorway, just as the first man approached snarling, "Get out of my way." The accent confirmation of his nationality.
Moving to join Jason, his cigarette tactfully held in a position that meant the slight breeze blew the slipstream of acrid smoke into the American's eyes, Dimitri growled, "And who the hell are you to order us about?"
The representative from 'the land of the brave and land of the free' having apparently failed to memorise the statement that all men were created equal, moved to draw his gun by way of reply. Not a wise action. Dimitri, with no ashtray handy found a suitable substitute. Stubbing out his cigarette on the American's hand, the yelp of surprised pain gave Dimitri a quick advantage, which he followed up with a classic punch to the jaw sending the man reeling backwards by some distance to smash into the hole so painstakingly created by Jason. Jason himself advanced forward to tackle the other man with a pile driving thrust to the solar plexus, so hard his adversary doubled over in agony and then, with an aim that had Jason punching the air in glee, projectile vomited over his companion, whose expletives were blotted out by the stream of vomit coating his face. The victorious pair were denied a further celebration. Buddies felled, the driver and another man began to emerge from the black car and run menacingly towards the MI5 operatives.
Calum, all the while itching to get outside to support his colleagues, had remained at his post relaying the latest developments to Erin. "Erin the cavalry has just been ambushed by the sodding CIA masquerading as mounties determined to get their man." Erin's reply was definite, "Leave sorting them out to Di and Jason, keep listening into Harry, we're only getting muted sound."
Three stories up in the sky ever so high, distracted and alarmed by screams of the musuem visitors, who were less than appreciative of the free live floor show featuring real blood and guts, Coaver ran to the window, catching sight of the mayhem below. The sounds drifting upwards suggesting that it was high time he ended the duel with his father's murderer.
"So you didn't keep your word then. Well it's back to plan B."
Harry made a stab at maintaining his cover fiction, "Not my officers I assure you. Probably the CIA. I assume they also want a friendly chat."
"It doesn't really matter to me, as long as you die."
With that he flicked on the gas heater but didn't ignite it. Opening a small tube of glue that had emerged from his pocket he proceeded to squirt the entire contents over the controls.
With a quirky grin at Harry's appalled face he swiftly extracted a construction of wires and metal from the corner jumble, explaining as he fiddled with a couple of buttons,
"Not quite a bomb, but in five minutes this will open up the cigarette lighter in the centre. The super glue welds the heater controls in place. They might just find a few burnt bits of you to bury. Especially when I add this as an extra precaution."
With the air of a magician pulling a rabbit from the inevitable hat he produced a small petrol can, whose contents he then proceeded to spray indiscriminately around the room as he trilled, "You see I thought of everything, you pathetic loser."
In a last attempt to infuse some sanity into proceedings Harry, with as much authority as he could muster spat at him, "You'll not get away with it. We have evidence of you picking up Catherine."
Coaver had his reply ready, suggestive of a pre-prepared defence, "Rubbish. So I picked her up to take her to the CIA. She became suspicious and jumped out of my car. I've spent three days looking for her off comms. Presumably she contacted her asset and just disappeared. You tracked her but, oh what a tragedy when you accidentally triggered the bomb set by him for reasons unknown. I'll sneak out the back way while the fight goes on downstairs." He smiled as he delivered his valedictory statement. "I was going to take her to the CIA for revival and interrogation, but with her death no one knows where the evidence was. The treaty will be safe and the bastards who work for you will be exposed."
Harry had operated in the spying game long enough to know that the CIA where all too likely to believe, or make a pretence of believing, the son of Coaver. After all most people outside the a restricted charmed circle within Section D had been force fed the lie that Elena had committed suicide. Harry, if he was going to die, was at least going to do so letting Coaver know that in the wider battle the CIA had lost. In this, his last fatal operation, his team had still outwitted the not so kissing Cousins.
"Sorry to disappoint you but we found it. My bastards will be safe. So fuck you, you little shit."
"Shame but my primary mission will be accomplished. To paraphrase your famed Monty Pythons." He paused for a moment and then in a singsong voice chanted. "Always look on the bright side of death." Finishing with a couple of whistles he added, "By the way if anyone tries to switch this off it'll automatically explode, no turning back you see. Now I must run. Goodbye it was a pleasure killing you."
With that he flicked the switch and was gone, slamming the door behind him. Harry fixed his eyes on the large digital counter attached. Five minutes, and counting down. He strained against his bonds. Tight, no wriggle room, he was securely trussed. Speaking as clearly as possible he issued his final command.
"You all heard that. Do not enter the building. You won't be in time. I don't want anyone else to die on my account. That is an order. Erin you are in charge of Section D as of now. Good luck everyone and thank you, it's been an honour to serve with you."
Formalities completed he made his last personal statement, "Malcolm, tell Jane I'm so sorry I couldn't save Catherine, and please she must patch things up with Graham."
Jane's eyes were wet with tears as she fought down the desire to scream. She simply couldn't believe it, she realised now that she'd never really expected him to die. As she'd shouted at him those two short days ago – if felt more like two years – he was like a boomerang, he'd always returned, tattered at the edges maybe, in need of a good retread from the medics certainly, but crucially he'd survived, wriggled his way out of dangerous situations she could only guess at, so surely this couldn't be the end, could it? Transfixed by shock and searching for reassurance from the MI5 trio she saw only an equally stunned, hopeless acceptance of the facts, Harry, the wily scourge of intelligence world was about to die. Having in the course of a lifetime faced every form of professional terrorist and career criminal he'd finally been defeated by the machinations of ill informed amateur nutcase bearing an erroneous grudge. Unbelievable, incredible, an event as cataclysmic as the ravens suddenly taking wing from the Tower of London, but it was the stark reality. Nothing could be done, nobody could prevent it. Together they sat in a numbing silence, awaiting the thunderous sound of the inevitable terminal explosion that would inform the world that Harry Pearce was no more.
Imprisoned in his lofty cell the noise of battle raged below as a tethered Harry, the stench of petrol wafting into his nostrils, stared hypnotically at the clock's remorseless countdown.
Four minutes fifty seconds left to live.
Four minutes forty nine,
Forty eight,
Forty...
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