The Vault by Mark Dawson

Author:Mark Dawson [Dawson, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Publisher: Unputdownable
Published: 2020-01-30T16:00:00+00:00

32

Mackintosh found Walker where he had left him. The unconscious guard was still on the floor; he hadn’t moved.

“Let’s go,” Mackintosh said. “We’re getting out of here.”

Walker followed him out of the building. “What happened?”

“Morgan is dead. They’re bringing Geipel down. I need to get my car.”

“Then what?”

“We’re going to take him somewhere quiet.”

They made their way to the side road. Mackintosh told Walker to follow him, got into his staff car and drove back to the front of the building. He waited, fumes rising from the exhaust. He saw Fisher, Cameron and Geipel in the lobby and reached back to open the kerbside door; Cameron shoved Geipel, urging him outside and across the pavement. He pushed him into the car and slid alongside him, the gun pressed against his ribcage. Fisher hurried around the car and got in through the opposite door so that Geipel was pinned between the two SAS men.

“Go,” Cameron said.

Mackintosh set off, the wheels slipping on the ice and the rear end sliding out until the rubber found traction.

“This is a bad idea,” Geipel said.

Mackintosh replied without looking back. “Shooting my agents was a bad idea.”

“I’m a serving officer in the State Security Service,” he said.

“I don’t give a shit what you are. You must have known there would be consequences.”

Mackintosh drove them south through Schillerkiez with Walker following behind. He saw the usual evidence of frantic building work, with construction sites still replacing buildings that had been damaged during the war. The skyline bristled with cranes, and heavy vehicles lumbered across patches of open ground, the snow melting into slush and mud. Mackintosh took a left and, eventually, they reached Marienfelde. Mackintosh drove into a street that allowed access to a row of warehouses and industrial units. The buildings nestled tightly together, with narrow streets cutting between them.

He pulled up against a wire fence that prevented access to a small warehouse. Walker drew up behind him. Mackintosh stepped outside, shivering in the sudden cold, unlocked the padlock and slid the gate to the side. Walker drove in first, and Mackintosh followed. The two cars pulled up outside the warehouse.

“What are we doing here?” Geipel said.

“I need to spend a little quiet time with you, Colonel,” he said. “We have a lot to talk about.”

Mackintosh opened the door and stepped down to the icy pavement. The snow had fallen heavily and he hadn’t been here to clear it away for several days. He crunched through it, cracking the icy crust, the snow reaching up to his calves as he stomped over to the warehouse. He took the keys from his pocket and found the one to open the door. He pushed it back, turned to signal that the two soldiers should bring Geipel, and then went inside.

Mackintosh had done this before. He had served in Northern Ireland during the height of the Troubles, and had broken Provos who would rather have sold out their mothers than confess to a Brit. They had their own methods—baseball

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