End of another week and the weekend. It is the start of another week and another month soon. Hope the month of February have been a great one for everyone.
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Chapter 8:
McCain stepped forward with his clothes removed, a security protocol to detect if McCain was carrying anything lethal or dangerous. He was cleared, and escorted to a cubicle to put his clothes back on. Afterwards, he was brought to Smythe’s office, on the other side of the large compound. Everywhere he went, McCain could see security guards and military personnel, all deployed to secure the sole piece of British sovereign on their former Cold War enemy. He made a note to watch his back; the Soviet Union was dead, but its legacy remained. Approaching a pair of large oak doors with silver door knobs, a soldier knocked three times.
“Enter.” Smythe called out from within the confines of his office.
McCain was brought in before the soldier closed the doors, leaving the diplomat and the agent alone.
“I wanted us to perform this briefing alone.” Smythe explained the lack of a security presence. “I hope it’s alright with you.”
Silence.
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McCain walked over to a leather sofa and sat down, unsure if he should sit facing Smythe directly. The ambassador walked over to a coffee machine and pressed a number of buttons.
“I suppose MI6 has given you all their intel on our current issue.” a semi-exhausted Smythe rubbed his nose bridge. McCain sat silently, his expression giving the answer away.
“You should know that professor Nyechenko has been escorted onto these grounds, and we are planning an evacuation to the United Kingdom.” Smythe sat down on the sofa opposite McCain, placing the coffee mug on the table. “However, there has been a problem.”
McCain leaned in closer.
“What kind of problem?”
“This virus, which has been coveted by the Kremlin for potential use against Downing Street perhaps, is set to have an anti-pathogen developed. In short, a cure.” Smythe confided in McCain. “However, Nyechenko realised that the formula for the cure has all but one compound: a base.”
“We need a live sample of the virus.” McCain realised in mild horror, the colour fading from his cheeks.
“Where can we get one?”
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Smythe walked to his desk and picked up a file.
“This file contains a path for our asylum seeker.” Smythe waved the contents in the air. “We will escort Nyechenko to the Moscow University, where he has covertly stashed samples of the virus away from his government’s eyes. After that, we will take him away from this hellhole.”
McCain picked up a photograph of the city from above, the outer borders surrounded by snow.
“The UK has been operating a covert airbase near Zelenograd, just twenty-three miles west of the city.” Smythe pointed to a small Union Jack on the map, surrounded by greenery. “You and your platoon will join Nyechenko on the flight back to London.”
McCain took the file and stood up.
“When are we moving out?”
“Our assets have been told to rendezvous here, in the embassy.” Smythe answered, returning to his desk.
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“There will be another whole-squad brief at 1205 hours.”
The soldier opened the door, waiting for McCain to follow him. The agent complied and left the office, glancing back at the ambassador’s office before closing the door behind him. Outside, a variety of cars with various number plates swarmed the embassy, their occupants lined up to enter the diplomatic mission. As each car entered the car park, soldiers were deployed to secure their visitors and take them to the briefing due to take place in an hour’s time.
First, there was a young, dark-skinned lady with frizzy hair. It was black, with a red line running down the left side of her head.
Then, an Indian couple. The man had a black fur coat, a crew cut and a clean-shaven face. His partner had a beige fur coat with black leather gloves and high heels.
A young adult, barely in his twenties, with glasses and curly hair. He looked like a regular high school student, but was actually a bit older than that.
All three cars were lined up against a wall, their occupants all glancing at each other with slight nods. They then followed the security escort inside.
Time, eleven minutes past eleven in the morning.
The apartment block several streets down from the embassy was high enough for them to get visual. A lady with a brunette ponytail used a rifle scope to observe the cars entering the embassy. She could have taken several shots, but it was too risky. Beside her, a male of Geogrian ethnicity, leaning against the window and smoking a cigar from Cuba. He was holding a shot of vodka in his left hand. There were more people occupying the flat. A blond-haired lady typing furiously into her computer. A burly male with a ginger beard. And a man in a black Adidas sweatshirt. All except the man in the sweatshirt, and the lady with the scope, were from minority groups.
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“I have movement.” the lady reported to her superior, who approached and laid a hand on her shoulder.
“They have fallen into a deep trap.” Sweatshirt smirked, before turning to the Georgian. “The people up top are not paying you to waste your health, comrade.”
The Geogrian-looking soldier rolled his eyes and stubbed the cigar on the wall.
“I know, I know.” he sighed in boredom. “Slash to kill, run away. What’s new?”
“The new thing is that we could be inciting actual war.” the ginger bearded thug replied, never taking his eyes off the sight of St. Basil’s Cathedral in the distance. “And in an age where peace is fragile, it will most certainly come.”
“And we, the executors of the people, will win.” the computer expert boldly announced, turning away from the screen. There was a moment of silent boasting at this prediction, before Sweatshirt stepped forward.
“Come, my friends.” he sneered. “We must be ready. Our friend within the embassy grounds will notify us of the virus’ movements, and we will strike first.”
With that, all the mercenaries dispersed, each one preparing themselves for possible death. Only Sweatshirt seemed calm, holding out a hand in front of his Georgian-born colleague.
“Give me your lighter.” he commanded.
“I thought you didn’t smoke.” his employee reminded him.
Silence. Then, a chuckle between them.
“They are not for me, comrade. Everything has a use in war, if it is used correctly.” Sweatshirt replied. The smoker handed his pack over, soon brandishing his knives and sharpening them against each other.
Sweatshirt kept the lighter and cigar in his pocket, eager to store them for a better use than to kill his friends.
Original Novel by Red Wolf
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