A Jack Tate SAS Thriller
About the Author
ALEX SHAW has lived and worked in Ukraine, the former USSR, the Middle East, and Africa. He is the author of the number one international Kindle bestselling Aidan Snow SAS thrillers. His writing has also been published in several thriller anthologies alongside International Bestselling authors Stephen Leather and Matt Hilton. Alex, his wife and their two sons divide their time between Ukraine, England and Qatar.
www.alexwshaw.co.uk
Praise for the Jack Tate series
‘Looking for breakneck pace and a relentless hero? Alex Shaw has you covered’
James Swallow
‘Alex Shaw is one of the best thriller writers around! Fast paced, Total Blackout gripped from page one and didn’t let go … as fast as a Hollywood movie’
Stephen Leather
‘Compelling and authentic. An explosive new series with an uncompromising hero’
Tom Wood
‘A perfect mix of hi-tech, high-concept modern action thriller and old school, Cold War espionage where evil Russians are still plotting the downfall of the West and only one man can stop them’
Simon Toyne
‘Jack Tate is a powerful character, a true Brit hero. A cracking start to a new series!’
Alan McDermott
‘Alex Shaw is a master of the action thriller. Grabbed me from the first page and never let go’
Michael Ridpath
‘Riveting thriller with an original plot and surprising twists. Tate is totally convincing as a classic Brit operative. Great drama and characterisation’
Duncan Falconer
Also by Alex Shaw
Cold Blood
Cold Black
Cold East
Total Blackout
Total Fallout
ALEX SHAW
HQ
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021
Copyright © Alex Shaw 2021
Alex Shaw asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © February 2021 ISBN: 9780008412272
Version: 2021-01-25
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Praise for the Jack Tate series
Also by Alex Shaw
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Dear Reader …
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
For my wife Galia, my sons Alexander and Jonathan, and our family in England and Ukraine.
Prologue
One year ago
Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
Outside the high marble walls, the desert was flat and featureless. An immaculate access road shimmered in the heat before it vanished into the far distance. Inside the walls, verdant green grass sparkled in the desert sun. Ornamental trees and flowers lined winding paths. In the heart of the compound was the main house, a three-floored modern interpretation of an Arabian palace. Chen Yan didn’t like it.
She sat respectfully on the terrace, wearing a long, gold skirt and sipping black tea. By her side Kirill Vetrov, dressed in a light business suit, seemed totally unaffected by the stifling heat. Opposite, across a table laden with fresh fruit, sat the man they had come to see and his nephew.
‘Maksim and I have known each other for many years,’ their host said, a slight smile playing on his lips, ‘and we have always conducted business face to face.’
Chen smiled. Men were the same the world over; they needed to be praised, honoured, coerced and tempted. ‘Maksim offers his sincere apologies. Were it not for ill health he would be here, as he holds his friendship with you in the highest regard. That is why, as his trusted business partner, I am here on behalf of Blackline to discuss our proposal. What I am about to share with you has not and will not be shared with any other clients.’
The prince nodded his head for her to continue.
‘The situation with your neighbour is obviously close to your heart. To have a family member not only turn their back on you but embrace a mutual enemy …’ The prince’s eyes narrowed slightly. Yan continued. ‘They have risen above their station. Their relationship with the Persians is a security and moral threat to the entire Arab brotherhood.’
‘For a foreigner, you are well briefed, madame,’ the prince said reaching for a sliver of pear in an attempt, Yan thought, to hide his annoyance.
This was shaky ground, and this was why Vetrov sat next to her as both her personal bodyguard and the focus of what she was about to expose. ‘I understand certain measures have been taken to rein in the wayward ruler of your neighbouring state, but I would like to show you an example of the assistance we can provide to bring them to heel.’
The smile returned and the prince spread his palms. ‘By all means.’
Vetrov reached into his attaché case, withdrew an iPad Pro and handed it to Yan. She brought up a video.
‘Simply press the play icon.’ The prince clicked his fingers and Salman Al Nayef, who had been sitting slightly behind his uncle, approached and took the device. He held it in front of the older royal, who retrieved a pair of frameless reading glasses from a pocket in his thobe and poked at the glass display screen with his finger.
His face took on a perplexed expression as he viewed the footage. ‘This video I have seen. I am aware it was found on a mobile phone years after the bombing, and broadcast across all the world media a week ago. It is sad that a once great city was targeted but I am thankful that the noble shahid ended the immoral lives of so many non-believers.’
Yan nodded. ‘He was indeed a noble shahid, and now he will be at peace in paradise.’
The prince took another sliver of fruit.
‘Please be so kind as to swipe left and press play. If you could focus on the other individual in the footage, the figure who did not explode.’
Al Nayef set up the second video and pressed play. The elderly Saudi squinted, despite his glasses, and leant forward.
‘Is this you I am seeing here, Mr Kirill?’
‘Yes, Your Highness,’ Vetrov replied, his tone emotionless. ‘You are one of only a handful of people in the entire world to see the original footage.’
‘Original?’
‘Your Highness,’ Yan now took over, ‘this new footage, which the world has seen, and which the British authorities are now using to chase down the second bomber, is fake. It has been manipulated.’
The prince looked up at Al Nayef. ‘Play it again.’
Yan kept a thin smile on her face as they watched the video. The old man looked up and spoke. ‘They are absolutely identical with the exception of the man’s face.’
‘Quite so. We have used our unique technology to remove all trace of Mr Kirill and replace his face with that of a rogue operative, who will, once identified, become the sole focus of the British investigation into the bombing.’
‘Uncle,’ Al Nayef said, ‘may I ask a question?’
‘You may.’
‘Ms Yan, how is it that your technology is so advanced it has not been detected?’
Yan was encouraged by his question because she believed the older royal did not fully understand the complexity and sophistication of this technology. ‘That is the salient question, Your Highness, and one that can be answered with a simple statement. We are the only people in the world who can achieve this.’
Al Nayef continued, ‘This is a process and technology you have pioneered?’
‘It is. We believe it will be at least five years until anyone else can achieve anything remotely rivalling this, and by that time we will be two generations ahead.’
‘A powerful tool.’
‘Nephew, it is not a tool,’ the older Saudi said, suddenly understanding, ‘it is a weapon.’
Chen nodded. ‘It is, Your Royal Highness.’
‘We would like to use this technology to aid our cause,’ the older royal stated. ‘Now let us discuss how.’
Chapter 1
Port Hercule, Monaco
Jack Tate’s hair was long; so was his beard, and both itched. Wraparound sunglasses and a dark baseball cap obscured his face. The beard, shades and hat gave off the impression of someone attempting to not be seen, which was at odds with his loud Hawaiian shirt, red slacks and green Adidas trainers. Tate wasn’t attempting to be hip, he was trying to look like someone else – Egor Blok – a Russian assassin held in a black site, at an undisclosed location in Eastern Europe. Blok had a lousy fashion sense, and on the circuit he was well known for it, as well as his recent spiralling gambling debts. Tate just knew he felt daft, but here in Monaco even the most outrageously dressed specimens blended in with the principality’s gaudy, glitzy, glamorous mise-en-scène. Tate scratched his neck. The Mediterranean sun was starting to make him sweat.
In Monaco only the rich mattered, and to the rich only the super-rich mattered. Tate’s target was one of the super-rich. To these people he was invisible and that was why he was hiding in plain sight, on a boat. Tate liked the water and he liked boats, but didn’t know much about them. The one he was lounging in was a Tullio Abbate Soleil 35’. Which meant it had been made by the Tullio Abbate shipyard and was 35 feet in length, but he only knew this from reading the sales advert for the vessel. When dressed as Blok, but using a different Russian ID, he’d bought it a week before, over the border in Italy. With its muscular lines, and a top speed of thirty-five knots, in most marinas it would be a flashy item. In Monaco it was a plaything.
Tate sipped water, not champagne, as he observed the procession of rich residents and bewildered tourists meandering along the promenade. To his right, the expanse of Port Hercule stretched into the bay. Powerboats, many larger than his, and small yachts, gave way to super-yachts bobbing gently in the sparkling Mediterranean waters on the sea-end pontoons. Further out, vessels too large to enter the port sat at anchor. These were the mega-yachts of the truly wealthy. In among all of this, regal-looking polished wooden tenders ferried their guests to and from the jetties.
Some, Tate imagined, found the principality the pinnacle of sophistication, but it didn’t float his boat. He’d much rather be halfway up a mountain. Instead, he was team leader of a four-man E Squadron unit. One member of his team was dressed in scuba gear on a small launch out in the bay, another was parked up in a people carrier across the French border and the last was guarding the safe house in Nice.
Tate’s mission was classified at the highest level because E Squadron’s existence was an official state secret. Run by the Secret Intelligence Service, it was formed on an ad hoc mission basis from serving members of the Special Air Service, Special Boat Service, and the Special Reconnaissance Regiments of the British Army. But Tate was an anomaly. A new initiative had seen him transferred from the SAS and made the only permanent member of E Squadron. Two years later he was still alive and kicking in doors, which to him was a relief.
Tate sipped his water and kept “eyes on” his target, or the target’s boat at least. But his weren’t the only eyes scanning the marina. With approximately one policeman for every hundred residents and a CCTV system among the most extensive in the world, Monaco was friendly soil. But the target was also from a friendly nation and the attack would upset both of them. What would be completely unfriendly would be the response once the target’s uncle realised his nephew, and aide-de-camp, had been murdered by a desperate Russian hitman. This was in addition to the loss of the sixteen million euro in diamonds he’d been transporting.
Due to the clandestine nature of the operation, Tate had decided against standard communication equipment, which if recovered could possibly imply the involvement of a nation state. Instead, each man had been issued with a Bluetooth earpiece and burner iPhone loaded with WhatsApp, for its “end-to-end encryption” ability and a VPN to add an extra onion skin of security.
Touching the button on his earpiece, Tate connected to Chris Salter, the SBS commando in the distant boat, as he moved to the helm. He spoke with a Russian accent, his words vague enough to hide his intention and his true nationality if overheard. ‘Have you seen our friend yet?’
‘I have eyes on. He’s on deck, on schedule. They’re preparing to come ashore. I count five. The target, two BGs and two crewmen. Target is dressed in cream slacks and a navy-blue shirt. They are lowering the tender.’
‘Understood,’ Tate stated. He turned the key in the boat’s ignition and started the Soleil 35’s twin Volvo Penta D4/300 engines. He cast off both the bow and stern lines, before pushing the throttle forward. With a mild whiff of diesel fumes he moved away from the mooring and started to navigate the route out into the bay.
‘The tender is in the water,’ Salter stated, over the open line. ‘Stand by, stand by. They are in the tender. Moving …’
Tate pulled off his Oakleys and raised a pair of field glasses to his eyes. He focused on the mega-yacht’s tender. One crew member was at the helm whilst the other made sure that the passengers were seated. Tate noted with relief that none of them were wearing life preservers. Moving his field glasses, Tate pulled focus and just made out the splash as Salter rolled backwards from his launch into the sea. He was ready.
As he cleared the port, Tate pushed the throttle forward and the prow of the Soleil 35’ sat up. He leant down and pulled a black kit bag from under the table in the seating area next to him. It was open and from it he gingerly retrieved a stubby H&K G36c assault rifle and held it ready below the line of the gunwale. He took an inadvertent sidestep as the boat was momentarily buffeted by the waves when it left the port for the bay itself. Ahead Tate saw the tender bobbing gently by the giant stern of the mega-yacht.
Tate had rehearsed and refined the plan, and each of the E Squadron operators knew exactly what to do. As the tender moved away from the Saudi-owned mega-yacht, Tate approached it on a parallel course – still not a threat, just a plaything going out for a cruise. The distance between the two vessels closed. Tate could now make out the facial expressions of each man on board, the two crewmen in white polo shirts looking professionally relaxed; the two bodyguards in their tight-fitting suits, looking hot and uncomfortable; and the target who had now turned his head and was looking directly at him.
Tate waited until the last possible moment and then swung the Soleil 35’ directly into the path of the oncoming tender and put the engines in full reverse. It was the nautical equivalent of an emergency stop and Tate’s boat was now broadside on to the tender. He put the throttle back to idle.
The tender started to turn, taking evasive action, and then Tate swung the H&K up and sprayed the bow with 5.56mm rounds. The crew member at the helm ducked, but one of the two bodyguards was now on his feet, a pistol in his hands. Tate cursed as the last two rounds of his magazine hit the bodyguard, catapulting him back into his seat. Tate changed magazines and acquired his target, the Saudi. The one remaining bodyguard was trying to shield the royal but he’d pushed him aside and bounded to his feet, as though he was outraged and demanding an explanation. The Saudi’s left hand held the handle of an attaché case, which was chained to his wrist, whilst his right hand had formed a fist, which he was shaking. Tate sent a burst of rounds into the Saudi. The target cried out, stumbled to his left, toppled over the port side of the tender and plunged into the Mediterranean Sea.
‘Suka! Chort!’ Tate hollered in anger, in Russian, as he saw both man and case disappear below the surface of the water. Using his left hand, he opened up the throttles to full. The Soleil 35’ reared up and powered away from the tender. Tate turned and, one-handed, emptied the rest of his magazine above the stern of the tender, to keep their heads down.
He now had to concentrate on his own exfiltration. He passed Salter’s abandoned launch and headed south-west, the speed making the boat buck rhythmically as waves broke against it. He needed to put as much distance between him and the hit as possible. The entire attack had been so swift Tate’s planning had calculated the local authorities would not have started to react yet.
But he was wrong.
A siren sounded behind him and Tate turned his head to see a patrol boat belonging to the Monaco Maritime and Heliport Police Division rounding the stern of the Saudi mega-yacht and ploughing after him. Tate swore again, this time in English. Where the boat had come from he didn’t know, but he knew he had to get it to focus on him. Tate tapped his earpiece in the forlorn hope of speaking to Salter but when the call wasn’t answered, it confirmed what he already knew: the SBS man was still underwater. He needed to buy Salter time to get back on his boat and away with his cargo. The cargo was the most important part of the mission; even Tate himself was expendable.
Tate could outrun the patrol boat, but much like a car chase it was what was further down the road he may run into that worried him. He assessed his options. If need be, he’d use the pair of grenades in his bag to scuttle the boat, and then he’d swim ashore – but he didn’t want to risk being hunted like a drowned rat. Tate let the patrol boat inch closer, then he throttled back and came to an almost standstill, reached into his bag, and then in his best hackneyed acting gesticulated with his right arm to show his frustration with the engines. All the while, however, the engines were still running and his H&K was ready on his seat.
The larger vessel approached him, riding high on a bow wave. He could make out a man at the helm and a further two with automatic weapons slung across their chests. The military of Monaco was the third smallest in the world after those of Antigua and Barbuda, and Iceland, but that did not mean its men and women were untrained. Nevertheless, he imagined this was the most excitement they’d had for years, and he didn’t trust their trigger fingers. A loudhailer blasted orders at him in clipped French: ‘Turn off your engine! Raise your arms above your head!’
Tate had run out of time. He brought his two hands together, transferred what he was holding in his left to his right and pulled the pin. He counted, one … two … and then he hurled the grenade at the bow of the oncoming patrol boat.
As he’d expected, the boat and its crew were too slow to react, and as he’d calculated, the grenade didn’t reach the vessel but exploded ten feet ahead of it, showering the rising bow with shrapnel. Immediately after the explosion he whipped up his H&K and poured rounds at the vessel.
Tate turned, grabbed hold of the wheel and pushed the throttle full ahead. The bow of the Soleil 35’ shot skywards as it lurched forward. At the same time the police patrol boat veered to port. The two vessels shot away from each other, as though Poseidon himself was separating them. There was a moment of silence, a moment of indecision from the police and then a barrage of shots rang out. Tate ducked, knowing that a lucky shot was all that was needed, but also knowing that the shots were being fired in an attempt to keep face rather than with any hope of stopping the fast-retreating target. Tate kept his focus forward as he ran parallel to the coast in a straight line. At maximum speed, within a minute he had left the police launch behind and a minute later had left Monaco and was off the coast of France.
He passed Cap d’Ail and headed directly for the marina at Beaulieu-sur-Mer. To the west the coastline alternated between jagged cliffs and sandy beaches. With the exception of a high-powered motorbike, which could cut through the traffic on the undulating, winding coast road, the Soleil 35’ would beat any land-based vehicle to their destination, police included. Tate just hoped that there wasn’t already a reception waiting for him.
Over the roar of the engine and the cadenced crashing of the waves against the hull, Tate now heard another pulsing sound, one that he didn’t want to hear. He had company, uninvited company.
He looked back and studied the sky. A smudge of colour, coming from the direction of Monaco. A helicopter was on his tail. Tate couldn’t yet make out what type it was, but he was no stranger to either abseiling out of one or being hunted by the same. His mind flicked back to the events of a year before in the US, when a Spetsnaz team in a modified GlobalRanger had forced him out of the sky. He slammed a fresh mag in the H&K, but defending himself on a bucking boat from a swooping chopper would be no easy thing; spray and pray would be the order of the day and he could not and would not lose any more time by slowing down to engage. He just hoped that if it came to it the pilot would care more about losing his life than losing his target.
Tate held the short assault rifle against his right leg to minimise its profile, and continued to motor. The helo was moving fast; it grew larger and then Tate relaxed. It was a civilian Eurocopter EC130. It swished past the boat, just above the height of the cliffs. His iPhone rang.