The distant sound of slapping could be heard well before the stinging feeling of the blow, and Munroe woozily opened his bleary eyes just as another struck him across his right cheek.
“Good. Finally,” Kessler said in exasperation. “Drugging you may have taken twice the time but waking you up has been almost intolerable.”
Munroe had no idea how long he’d been out but given the view of a moonlit sky from the kitchen it had been some time. The muscles in his neck were sore from the attempted strangulation and as he looked past Kessler he could see the man who’d administered it. Blondie was leaning against the far kitchen wall, his bulging arms crossed, with a white plaster strip running across the bridge of his nose and two black bruises underneath each of his eyes, which were glaring at Munroe forebodingly.
“That looks painful,” Munroe said with a slur as the numbness in his tongue began to subside, “you should get it looked at.”
Blondie angrily unfolded his arms and took a step forward but Kessler put his arm out and tapped the muscular beast on the chest.
“No, Gustav. There’ll be time for that later.”
“Gustav!” Munroe said with a weary chuckle. “I had you pegged as a Barry or a Brian.”
Kessler delivered another hard slap across Munroe’s cheek and then shook his head in dismay. “For someone in such a precarious predicament I would have expected a bit more humility.”
Munroe wrinkled his nose at the blow and attempted a smile, even though his lips were also still numb and his head was pounding. “That’s the problem with expectations, they tend to let you down.”
Kessler let out a short snort. “I don’t like to be let down, Mr Munroe. But by the time I finish you’ll be screaming like everyone else.”
The word ‘everyone’ did not sit well, and Munroe struggled momentarily with the nylon rope binding his arms behind the back of the chair.
“It’s quite tight, I assure you,” Kessler noted as Munroe turned his attention to the cooking hob just feet away. It was an old gas stove and one of the burners was lit, its blue flame licking the glowing metal point of an ice pick which had been laid across it. “Cooking tonight? You really didn’t have to go to the trouble on my account.”
“Oh, but I do, Mr Munroe,” Kessler growled, and he picked up a green ceramic plate off the kitchen counter and smashed it over Munroe’s head, sending pieces tumbling down around him. “Consider that your entrée.”
Kessler reached over and picked up the black wooden handle of the ice pick and held it to within inches of Munroe’s face, the orange glow lighting up the droplets of sweat on his forehead. “I think we’ll forgo another entrée, but the main will consist of the curdling of horrified screams as I slowly probe one of your testicles with this red-hot ice pick.” Kessler moved the weapon nearer. “By the time I move on to the other one, you’ll beg to lick my arsehole just to make me stop.”
Munroe’s expression remained calm yet resilient and he winced slightly. “Not really the meal I had in mind.”
Kessler glared at him furiously and it looked as if he were about to jam the glowing point deep into Munroe’s eye, but at the last moment he pulled back and returned the ice pick to the stove burner. “Enough of the games,” he shouted, allowing Munroe’s cavalier attitude to get the better of him, frustrated that his initial threats had failed. “Why have you come here, Mr Munroe. What is it you want?”
Finally they could talk, and even though Munroe knew he was playing a risky game the only card he held was information. If he gave it up straight away he’d be dead within minutes. “I want Icarus.”
With closed eyes Kessler raised his face to the ceiling, his lips taut in a grimace. “Icarus, Icarus, Icarus. Hasn’t that poor boy has suffered enough.”
“Tell that to the people he butchered,” Munroe replied, sending a line of drool onto his shirt as he grappled to gain control of his mouth due to the after-effects of the unknown drug he had been given.
Kessler raised his eyebrow uncaringly and slowly shook his head. “Oh please, Mr Munroe. Let’s not bullshit each other. You’re not here for those deaths.”
Now it was Munroe who raised his eyebrows. “And how do you figure that?”
“Because that’s a job for the police, and police don’t swan into a foreign country and go waving guns at old men like me… No, you’re something else entirely, and unless you tell me what that is, I am going to ask Gustav to begin breaking your fingers one by one.”
Kessler flicked his hand towards Gustav, who was now smiling; he raised both his gigantic palms in the air and wiggled them slowly.
“We’ll get to the ice pick later, I promise, but let’s begin with some old-fashioned bone snapping.”
If ever there were a time to let slip a morsel of information, now was that time, and as Gustav took a step forward Munroe gave a nod. “OK. You’re right. I’m not here for all his victims. Just two of them.”
Kessler signalled to Gustav and reluctantly the muscular henchman stopped within a foot of Munroe’s chair. “Go on.”
“Two of them were MI6 officers.”
Kessler looked stunned, and his shoulders sagged. “How do you know that? Even if you’re MI6, you shouldn’t know that.”
It was an odd reply, but before Munroe could say anything a wicked look emerged across Kessler’s face. It wasn’t one of fascination but rather exhilaration, and he moved close to Munroe and looked over at Gustav.
“Unless… Could we have a true believer? Here in this very kitchen?”
Munroe had no idea what the old man was talking about but he played it straight and stared unemotionally as Kessler craned his head closer.
“Could you be working for… DS5?”
Munroe continued to stare blankly but Kessler obviously saw something in his eyes, perhaps a flicker of recognition, and he laughed out loud and slapped his hands together as Gustav also let out a deep grunt of satisfaction.
Munroe wasn’t sure exactly what his connection meant to these people, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. “Not for them, but I’ve had contact with them, and you should know, they’ll be on their way as we speak.”
His answer wasn’t what Kessler had been hoping for and his excitement waned for a moment, but as he continued to stare at Munroe his smile returned.
“Oh, I doubt that, Mr Munroe. If they knew who I really was they would have sent a team instead of a hired lackey to do some of their legwork.”
Kessler leant back against the kitchen table and folded his arms. “You have no idea of the fiery cauldron you’ve been dropped into. Do you? What are you, ex-special forces? That’s usually the murky pool they dip into when they need a hired gun.”
There were a lot of things that Munroe could have been concerned about at that moment. That he was tied to a chair at the mercy of Gustav. That he could be murdered at any minute, or that the ice pick on the stove was now red hot again. But what was top of his list was that this man appeared to know more about the organisation he was working for than he did.
None of this was lost on Kessler, who once more folded his arms together. “You, my friend, have found yourself in the middle of something very, how should I say, hush hush. Not just within Whitehall’s corridors of power but globally. Very secretive, but I’m sure DS5 told you none of that.”
Munroe said nothing as Kessler continued to speak, his voice wavering from time to time. He appeared to be taking great joy in illuminating everything Munroe didn’t know.
“Icarus is but a pawn. A pawn within a much larger game. A chess match, if you like, that has been playing out for some years. We all have our parts to play, although young Icarus has taken it upon himself to try and shorten the game, and it’s left a bitter taste in everyone’s mouth.”
“Can I ask you a question?” Munroe asked politely, and Kessler smugly replied with a nod.
“Of course, ask away.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Gustav sent a hard punch across Munroe’s face, knocking him to one side as Kessler waved the blonde meathead off. “It’s all right, Gustav. It can be frustrating being a lapdog and not in the know.”
Kessler knelt down next to Munroe and rested his elbow upon the armrest. “Icarus is not his name, obviously, but it refers to something much bigger.” The old man began to unbutton his white shirt all the way to the bottom, and then he slipped out his right arm and lifted it up in the air before pointing to a small, black tattoo on the underside of the skin. It was a maze within a triangle, and at its centre lay a red circle, thin lines running off it in all directions like the symbol of a dark sun. “There is only one way in, and once inside you never leave.” Kessler sneered at Munroe’s puzzled expression and he tapped the tattoo with his free finger. “And neither would you want to. Project Icarus represents the kind of true devotion that transcends time and can never be extinguished There are those who build for a better future and those who hope for it… We take it.”
Munroe was struggling to fully grasp what the old man was alluding to. To him it sounded like any other terrorist organisation he’d come across. And there had been a few. But as he stared into Kessler’s blue eyes he recognised something that all these people shared. It was the look, glassy wide eyes with an unshakeable stare. The look of a believer.
Kessler, still kneeling, slipped his shirt back on and began to button it up. “Of course no one gets the tattoos anymore, they’re far too identifiable. A practice from a bygone age, but one that is soon to resurface in all its magnificence. As a kinsman of yours once wrote, ‘Cry Havoc, and let slip the dogs of war’.” Kessler looked up at the kitchen clock and then smiled ominously. “But I’m sure you can discuss it with your new friends.”
“New friends?” Munroe replied as Gustav emitted a playful grunt.
“Yes, I called them just before you woke up. They should be here any minute. But I should warn you, they don’t like to play as I do… they’re far more serious.”
Munroe thought about it for a second and then he gave a polite and accepting nod of his head. “Then I should thank you for giving me the time I needed.”
A look of puzzlement fell across Kessler’s face and he leant in closer. “For what?”
“For this.”
Munroe pulled his hands free, grabbed the red-hot ice pick from the stove and jammed it between Gustav’s ribs, sending the searing hot spike sizzling directly into his heart, which dropped the man to the floor like a sack of bricks. Kessler was already stumbling backwards as Munroe grabbed him by the hair and held him tightly in his grasp. “Piece of advice,” he said, holding up a small shard of green ceramic plate between his fingers. “If you smash something over someone’s head, make sure they don’t catch any of it. Cuts through nylon easily.” He threw the piece at Kessler’s chest and tightened his grip. “And thanks for the information. A little bit vague, but I’ll take it.” With his left hand Munroe jerked Kessler forward, as his right fist slammed into the old man’s face, crumpling his nose in one blow.
Kessler dropped to the floor in an unconscious heap as Munroe slid out of his chair and knelt beside him to pat down the old man’s jacket. He quickly found the bulge he was looking for in the side pocket and retrieved his black SIG Sauer P320. “And I’ll take that back, government property and all,” Munroe whispered to himself as he grabbed Kessler’s arm and hoisted the body onto his shoulders using a fireman’s lift. “Now let’s take a ride.”
Munroe quick-stepped it back to the hallway and headed for the front door but he stopped within a few feet, realising there was one thing he’d forgotten. To his left in the front room his dark navy coat was still folded on the yellow sofa and he made a beeline for it, dropping Kessler down to the floor momentarily and slipping it on.
“I like this coat, and besides, it’s got my driver’s licence in it,” Munroe justified to himself given the urgency of getting out of the house. He then picked his host up again and headed back towards the entrance, but he stopped dead in his tracks as the door handle began to turn.
Munroe froze, his gun raised, and watched as the door slowly swung open and a man in blue jeans wearing grey body armour over a navy T-shirt stepped inside. There was a moment of hesitation and then he turned to face the sight of Munroe, with Kessler flopped over his back, pointing his handgun directly at him. The man remained stationary – there was no twitching or jerking back in surprise but instead only a slow movement from the other side of his body as his left hand reached for something by his waist. Munroe shook his head warningly but the handgun was already being raised towards him and so he discharged two shots. The first clipped the man’s neck but the second hit its intended mark just above the left eye, sending his assailant to the ground in a puff of red mist.
Munroe was already moving to the far side of the living room to find cover when he heard the familiar sound of a metal spring unloading and a grey canister flashbang dropped into the hallway, bouncing along the carpet before coming to a stop next to the dead body.
With his eyes clenched tightly shut Munroe turned his head, clutching Kessler’s body close to one ear and raising his shooting hand to his other. Both rooms were lit up in a bright light as the canister erupted in a white flash and unleashing a deafening explosion, sending plumes of smoke outwards in every direction. Fortunately Munroe’s reaction had softened most of the intended sensory overload and he looked back to the doorway to see two men pile through it holding M4 carbines with vertical grips, training their barrels around the hallway in arcs.
The first shot Munroe got off hit the closest attacker right in the forehead, sending him colliding backwards into the other one, knocking him off balance. His next shot merely winged the second man’s shoulder as his assault rifle now began spraying bullets across the living room, sending trails of broken plaster into the air as they riddled the walls of the front room.
Munroe’s final shot capped the man right through the throat and with blood gushing from the wound the attacker dropped his rifle and fell to the carpet in a writhing heap, clutching at his neck.
Before the attacker had even hit the floor, Munroe was already manoeuvring through the living room side door into a dining room and heading deeper towards the rear of the house when the bombardment of gunfire erupted all around him. The rouge-tinted china on the dining table began to explode around him as the barrage shredded everything it came into contact with and Munroe plunged to the floor, bringing Kessler slamming down on top of him. Inches above the mayhem continued as shots tore over both men, slamming into the walls and sending pieces of plasterboard down on top of them.
Munroe pressed his head to the floor and waited. If Kessler’s friends had wanted him alive then their plans had changed and they had no misgivings about taking out the old man either.
The volleys above him abruptly ceased and Munroe could now hear the attack being focused on the other side of the house. He seized the moment and rushed to his feet, slung Kessler back over his shoulder and ran as fast as he could to the only visible way out, the large single window at the far end of the dining room. Above the intense sound of gunfire the shattering of glass was hardly audible as Munroe crashed through the window and landed with a hard thud on the lawn outside, with Kessler rolling off to one side. The nose of Munroe’s gun had hit the ground barrel down, twisting his wrist painfully in the process, but after a quick shake to ensure no bones were broken he got to his feet to see the old man regaining consciousness, his eyelids beginning to flutter. One swift punch to the face and Kessler was once more out cold. Munroe heaved the old man back onto his shoulder again and, after quickly rotating his gun hand a few times just to shake off the stiffness, he made his way towards the waist-high wood-panelled fencing skirting the property and the row of conifers towering behind it.
Back at the house the gunfire was beginning to die down, and by the time he’d dumped Kessler’s body over the fence and followed after it the commotion had stopped completely. With the old man back on his shoulders, Munroe pushed past the dense conifers until, on the other side, he found himself only a hundred metres from his rental car. Better still, there was no one guarding it.
Within seconds he had reached the silver Renault, unlocked the front passenger door and pushed Kessler inside. It was now he got his first clear look at the men undertaking the assault. Three tan Humvees were parked up in a line and six men, dressed identically to the others in jeans and grey chest body armour, were lined up outside the front entrance about to make a breach of the chateau. Everything from the trucks, weaponry and tactics screamed military, but the nearest HQ Munroe knew of was the NATO air base in Bordeaux-Mérignac, twenty miles away.
Munroe made his way to the driver’s side and quietly slid into the leather seat as he felt an unsettling twitch in the depths of his stomach. With the high-tech rescue of Icarus back on Waterloo Bridge and now this crew of trained mercs, whoever was pulling the strings clearly had serious, professional backing.
He turned to the slumped body of Kessler, propped up in the seat, and then tapped the old man’s leg. “You and I need to have a talk,” Munroe whispered, waiting for the team to enter the house, and with the sound of flashbangs going off in the distance he turned on the engine and slowly drove away into the night.