by Kim Hughes
Barbara had no need to turn on the listening devices. The screens showed nobody was home. Nobody had been for several days. Her eyes went up to the fixture list pinned on the wall. Kutsik was a keen football fan – it was rumoured he had shares in several Premier League and Championship clubs in London, but nothing close to a controlling interest. He had a box, shared with his expat cronies, at two grounds at least. Kutsik nearly always travelled up to Dunston after a game, throwing a party for his companions and a number of women, who always seemed to be different. Some of the footage they recovered might have made another viewer blush, but Barbara had been in the business too long to be shocked by sex or drugs in any guise. The next fixture Kutsik would be attending, though, wasn’t for a few days, so there was little to see now.
Still, like any good operative, she checked every room anyway. It was hardly arduous work, and the stipend that SIS paid them for this surveillance was a welcome top-up to their pensions. Even at their age, they had bills to pay. Dunston Hall was hardly cheap to heat or maintain and it was true that your children were never really independent until the day you weren’t there. Rachel was a money pit… No, that was unfair. She had Korsakoff’s syndrome, a form of dementia triggered mainly by alcohol abuse, although in her case the doctors added drugs and ‘we’re not really sure’. Never in her wildest days would Rachel have imagined what late middle age had in store for her.
She put her poor daughter out of her mind for the moment and checked the status of each camera. Although it was good to keep her hand in with Kutsik, Barbara did miss the old times, when she felt like a real spy, rather than a voyeur. Missed Moscow, even those bone-shattering winters, the days when she felt like she was making a difference. The dead-letter drops, the cavity in the base of the Harpic bleach container for concealing microfilm, the Minox cameras, the elaborate exfiltration plans. What was she doing now? Making sure that the former Colonel Kutsik – Hero of the Russian Federation, who had fallen foul of a nephew of Vladimir Putin during a business deal in Cyprus – was exactly what he claimed to be. Given that Five estimated that 50 per cent of all Russians in the UK reported back to the Kremlin, there was a good chance he was a bad – or at least, a dubious – actor.
Some might think it was fortuitous that a Russian suspect should move in next to a couple of agents. But it was nothing of the sort. The Service had very good contacts with the handful of top-end estate agents in London that dealt with the rich and ultra-rich. Kutsik had been offered his half of Dunston Hall at what appeared to be a bargain price (the Service always made up any shortfall to the seller). Furthermore, Kutsik had been shown architectural plans drawn up by, it was claimed, no less than Thomas Heatherwick himself, for a spectacular glass atrium that could be built to re-connect the east and west wings. Subject to planning permission. And the vacancy of the west wing. But how long could that old couple go on living in such a place? Surely it wouldn’t be long before they were consigned to a care home and Kutsik could swoop in and have the whole estate to himself.
Such was the sales pitch and legend the Service had created to ensnare him. It was work that, strictly speaking, should have been done by Five, given they were on home soil, but Kutsik was in touch with Russian dissidents in Switzerland, the Netherlands and the US, giving it an international dimension that enabled Six to claim him as their own. After all, Thames House wasn’t up to snuff these days.
Take that girl, the one that they had sent to try to put the frighteners on Henry. There was nothing there but ancient history best forgotten. The modern generation had trouble grasping that you always did what was best for the national interest at the time. Perspectives changed. Both she and Henry had done things that, from this end of the telescope, they regretted. Rory in Finland, the boy in East Berlin. She hadn’t, in retrospect, needed to kill him, but at that moment it seemed likely that he would blow her circuit which had infiltrated the Russian army catering corps (you could always tell when troops were about to be deployed from a sudden increase in the order for rations). Nice lad. The sex was good, too. But once she found out his mother and sister were under the thumb of the Stasi, and he could well be compromised, his time was up.
She sighed at the memory, switched off the cameras that showed only deserted rooms and looked at her watch. Henry would be out for another thirty minutes at least. Ah well, she thought, might as well run a magazine through the Walther, then strip and oil it, just to keep them both in ship-shape.
She had just risen from her chair when the telephone rang. She picked it up with a feeling of trepidation. It would be her daughter Rachel, making trouble again. But it wasn’t Rachel. It was trouble of a different sort, however, in the form of that Muraski woman.
SEVENTEEN
When the look-how-clever-and-cultured-we-have-made-your-children concert had finished, the parents milled around waiting for their offspring. Riley could hear a few grumblings about the concert being on a Saturday morning, meaning they had missed a whole day of late-season skiing. Others were praising various players, admiring their tone, attack or their precise and rapid technique. ‘I mean, she’s no Buniatishvili…’ one father kept saying, as if hoping someone would contradict him.
When Ruby appeared from backstage, she wasn’t in school uniform, as the performers had been, but in blue elasticated trousers decorated with large, bright orange flowers and a cropped black top. The short T-shirt had a slogan on it: If Abattoirs Had Windows, We’d All Be Vegetarians. Riley sensed a new passion in the making. Although he was buggered if he was going to eat nut roast at the hotel that night. She was carrying the holdall she had asked him to buy her for Christmas, stuffed to bursting by the look of it.
Ruby’s hair was pulled back into a ponytail and he marvelled once more at how they could have produced such a poised beauty. He felt a phantom elbow in his ribs from his daughter at his crassness. Yes, and smart, too. There was talk of Oxbridge, which made him feel even prouder of his contribution, even if it was mainly in the past.
Riley leaned in and kissed her forehead. He no longer had to stoop to do that. She would overtake him in height soon. Clever, beautiful and willowy. A dangerous combo. He wasn’t looking forward to the Dating Years. Perhaps Izzy’s insistence on an all-female school had been a wise move. He felt a fierce flush of love towards Ruby. Hell, nut roast was a small price to pay for having her in his life. He gave her a hug and felt a little resistance, a stiffness to his embrace. Adolescent embarrassment, he assumed. He unwrapped his arms and stepped away.
‘You look smart, Dad,’ Ruby said, flicking his tie.
‘I reckon I can lose this now.’ Riley reached up, loosened the knot at his throat and undid the top button of his shirt. He let out a sigh of relief.
’You all right?’ There was concern in her voice, so he assumed she meant after Nottingham, rather than his close encounter with collar and tie. The army had enough occasions where they were required to have to put up with wearing one off duty. But Izzy had insisted on ‘smart’, not casual for the concert.
‘Yeah, fine. No drama.’
‘You always say that.’
‘Always has,’ added Izzy, who had taken a step back to let Riley glory in his daughter. ‘It usually means something different.’
Ruby’s fingers fluttered up and across his cheek. ‘Really?’
‘Not this time,’ he assured her. He glanced over at Izzy, intending to admonish her for frightening their daughter, but he could tell she had meant nothing by it. Izzy had just been remembering a time when it was her who had to listen to his platitudes. He flashed his ex-wife a smile and got one back, a smile that was over a decade old and put a narrow blade through his heart.
‘What did you think of the show?’ asked Ruby, dragging him back.
‘I thought the hair was the best part. Followed by make-up in close second.’
‘Oh, Dad. I meant the music. Wasn’t Harriet brilliant?’
He had no idea which one Harriet was. The pianist who was no Buniatishvili, p
erhaps. ‘You know I’m more of a Kendrick Lamar guy.’
‘You?’ she sounded appalled. ‘Since when have you heard of Kendrick Lamar?’
Since some of the younger members of his team had started playing him was the answer. Kendrick and someone called Anderson Paak or similar were big in the back of the response vehicles. ‘Oh, I’ve been into him for years now.’
Ruby gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘Rubbish. Name a song, then.’
The word ‘pimp’ popped into his head, but he couldn’t recall the context. ‘Er… “I’m Gonna Slap That Bitch”?’
‘Dom!’ chided Izzy.
‘You liar.’ Ruby punched him on the arm to let him know he probably had the wrong sort of rapper. ‘Right, I’ll just grab my stuff, say goodbye and we’ll go hotel.’
‘Go to the hotel,’ Izzy corrected.
‘Let’s go hotel,’ said Riley, and Ruby slipped her arm through his.
They walked outside with Izzy following and had taken a few steps on the gravel when Ruby stopped. ‘You didn’t bring The Heap, did you?’
‘Don’t worry, you can lie in the back with a blanket over your head.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said, putting on a brave face. ‘We’ll see you at the hotel, eh, Mum?’
‘I’ll be in the spa,’ replied Izzy, swerving off towards her Merc. Riley could well believe she wasn’t kidding. She had always loved a sauna.
‘Bye, Ruby!’ another girl shouted, climbing into a giant SUV.
‘Bye. Have a good time in St Lucia.’ Then, under her breath. ‘What a flex. Everyone in the village knows they’ve bought a villa in St Lucia. It overlooks Marigot Bay. Apparently.’
‘Sorry, love, I think our villa got lost in the post. Anyway, you wouldn’t like it there. They love country music in St Lucia. It’s true. Someone called Kenny Rogers is a god there. Come on.’
They resumed walking and he fished in his jacket pocket for the keys.
Andy the Tank was to his left, weeding part of the car parking area. He looked up and raised a hand. ‘Take it easy. Hope it’s okay now.’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ he replied.
Riley’s phone buzzed. Probably Dobbo and the Irish details. He raised the key fob and pressed, but the VW, partially obscured by the saplings, didn’t wake up.
And then, what in Afghan they used to call the atmospherics changed completely. He sensed a sliver of what felt like ice slide down his back, so real he touched his spine to make sure someone hadn’t put icicles down his shirt.
‘Hold on.’ Riley put Ruby’s bag down.
‘What?’
‘Wait here. I’ve just got to check something.’
‘Can you open the car?’
‘No. Stay where you are.’
Riley tabbed back to where Andy was stretching an aching back. ‘What did you mean just now?’ he asked the groundsman.
‘What?’
‘You said you hoped it was okay. What was okay?’
‘Oh, your motor.’ Andy pointed towards the VW. ‘I hope the AA or whoever they were fixed it, like.’
Riley spun on his heel to see Ruby walking towards the Passat, bag in one hand, pushing her earbuds into place with the other. ‘Ruby!’
She didn’t break stride.
‘Fuck.’ He launched into a run, feet pounding on the gravel, trying to sprint and shout at the same time. ‘Ruby! Stop! Ruby!’
She didn’t.
Ruby was just about level with the rear of the car when he reached her. Or almost reached her. He was still a good few metres short, so he launched himself into the air, grabbing her shoulders as he passed to one side of her, twisting and dragging her down on top of him so he could break her fall.
She screamed loud enough to scare the birds from the trees as he crashed onto the gravel and he felt something pop in his ribs as the air exploded from him. She began to wriggle. ‘Get off me.’
A sharp pain flashed up his left side as he filled his lungs. ‘God’s sake, keep still.’
Riley wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug. Eventually he felt the fight go out of her. He didn’t let go, though. He wanted to hold her even tighter, to stay with her forever, to protect her from this fucked-up world. ‘Dad, what are you doing? You’re scaring me.’
Without shifting his body from where he lay, he turned his head and stared underneath the Passat. ‘Jesus.’
‘What is it?’
‘Ruby, I want you to get up very slowly and move away. Very slowly. As I say, gently does it. Eggshells. Imagine you are walking on eggshells. Back to the school. Find Mum. Use another way out if there is one, don’t use the Merc. Go now.’
‘What is it?’ she repeated, her voice fragile with fright.
He was lost for words. How do you tell your daughter you’ve just seen a bomb attached to the underside of the car she had been about to get in to?
* * *
The bomb-maker levered the top off the wooden case that his associate had delivered. ‘Handle with great care,’ he had warned him. No need. All his adult life the bomb-maker had been handling dangerous components with care. When the Russians came, his job was to plant the bombs rather than build them. Eventually, he became an apprentice to the legendary Abu al-Sayid Umar and quickly progressed to making his own IEDs, ones he took great pride in.
This, he admitted to himself, was different to the kind of bombs that had made his reputation back home. In the box, protected by a nest of polystyrene, were two silver-grey metal cylinders, each blank apart from a red skull and crossbones stencil.
He left them where they were for the moment, moved to the kitchen, made himself some coffee and fetched an apple juice for his son. He sat down next to the boy and gently lifted off the headphones that had been clamped onto his ears. He was listening to a football match from a smartphone, face furrowed in concentration. He slapped at his father’s arms as he removed the headphones, spilling some of the juice.
His father spoke softly, without anger. ‘Now, now, you can listen. Take this. Leave one ear on. I want to talk to you.’
The boy took the drink in his right hand and pressed one cup to his left ear. The bomb-maker could hear tinny, over-excited voices coming from the other speaker.
‘You know not to touch anything unless I say so, yes?’
The lad nodded.
‘Especially not that.’ He pointed to the wooden box. ‘Understand? If you see it, do not go near it.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Good.’ He looked up at the clock. ‘Well, it should be all set by now. The best that the British Army has, eh? We’ll see.’
The boy looked at him blankly. It didn’t matter. Talking to the boy was better than a lonely silence. Besides, he had no way of knowing just how much he absorbed.
‘It’s like a little test, son. If he passes, he lives. If he doesn’t…’ He mimed an explosion with his hands. ‘Then he didn’t deserve any further attention anyway. Go back to your football,’ he said, and slipped the headphones back into place. He took a sip of coffee then switched on the TV, selecting a news channel, but turning the volume down. Then he opened up the laptop and selected the live stream from the drone. Pass or fail, he would no doubt know soon enough.
EIGHTEEN
Jamal called Muraski back as the techs were putting the final touches to the video link from a conference room at Thames House to Nottingham’s City Hospital. Thanks to a lot of badgering she was going to remotely sit in on the second interview of Janet Webb, a survivor of the bomb blast at Sillitoe Circus, who might have information on the bombers. She would not be alone in listening in, as analysts of the Counter Terrorist Command and members of the Intelligence and Security Committee would also be eavesdropping. However, they were also remote observers, so she had the meeting room to herself, apart from two technicians who were setting up the monitor and video link.
‘Jamal? You got another cracker for me?’
‘Maybe. We’ve recovered part of a circuit board. The ID was intact. It was
part of a computer circuit, made in China, sold in Dubai.’
‘Dubai?’
‘Yup. Halo Trading. Halo is suspected of being an Iranian front company, to beat any embargoes.’
‘And Iran supplied and still supplies bomb-making parts to the Taliban.’
‘It did. And it does.’
‘Which could link us to Bravo-900.’
‘It puts us in the vicinity. We’re still investigating Halo’s trading history.’ That meant a bunch of white-hat hackers were probably rummaging through Halo’s virtual underwear drawer as they spoke.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said to Jamal. ‘It’s not a complete surprise this Riley’s DNA was on some components. He was the ATO who went in and checked for a tertiary.’
‘They are supposed to wear forensic gloves when handling components,’ said Jamal.
‘Did he?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. That’s your department, Kate. But it was where we found the DNA that interested me, impregnated on cloth inside the detonator of the primary device. Not an item he personally bagged, according to the labelling.’
‘As if it had been used to wipe away fingerprints after assembly. Is that what you’re saying?’
She heard Jamal take a sip of tea or coffee. ‘Again, that’s your job. I’m just telling you the science.’
In other words, on your head be it. So far, she had no more than a stray bit of genetic material and the name of a possibly dodgy company in the Middle East. Was that enough to take to Oakham? Probably not. ‘Can you get me contact details for Riley? Just to eliminate him?’
‘Sure. There’ll be an email or a number on the file. I can send it over.’
‘Great, thanks.’ That would save her from trying to wheedle information out of the army. After all, they invented the concept of closing ranks.
‘Listen, Jamal, just changing the subject for a second, you don’t know anyone with a spare room going, do you?’
