Finding IN3’s labelled locker, Amy inserted the key into the underside of the combination lock and released the mechanism. It opened easily, and Amy stared into IN3’s black-and-white life. Her clothes were neatly hanging from the rail at the top, her bedding absent due to currently being wrapped around its owner. The holdall at the back was empty, the items at the bottom of the locker arranged in labelled plastic tubs – makeup, hair products, snacks.
One tub was unlabelled, and Amy immediately seized on it. There was a diary, written in a language Amy couldn’t read, and a sheaf of papers of various sizes and materials. She opened the first one:
Nothing to report. IN0
IN0. She had been right, there was an undercover agent in the compound and, by his designation, a former member of the night surveillance team. Their supervisor? Owain didn’t have a label though, so perhaps this was just a made-up label to suit the purpose. An agent that only the night Eyes knew about? Perhaps the guard recognising him had been a genuine surprise, agent-to-agent acknowledgement without knowing the whole truth of the matter.
‘What are you doing?’
Amy held herself still. She had been caught rifling through someone’s locker. Or had she? She couldn’t see the person, the locker door between her and the exit. Which meant they couldn’t see her. She carefully dropped the papers back into the box, shutting its lid as she peered around the open door.
‘Oh, hello!’ she said, a little too brightly.
It was ID1, returned from his trip down the corridor, to fetch something from his locker before he resumed his post.
‘Is that what you do, when your master takes you off the leash? Steal people’s secrets?’
‘I’m testing the lock,’ she said, feeling her face redden, as she clumsily gestured towards the master key. ‘IN3 reported a fault.’
‘Where’s your oil then? Your tools? You’re full of shit.’
Amy closed the door and turned the master key to lock it. ‘It was fine,’ she mumbled, tongue tangled up. ‘It must’ve been a mistake.’
‘A mistake. Yeah, a big mistake. Not even Jenkins can save you from this, you little creep. You’re worse than the last loser we had here.’
ID1 marched towards the door, just as Amy’s tongue came loose.
‘How can I be worse than him?’ she squeaked, too high, too faint. ‘I’m here and he’s not.’
ID1 shot her a withering look.
‘Because he got a promotion to the Eyes and you’re going to be busted out of here.’
He was gone in an instant, and Amy knew she had no time to fix this. She opened her laptop and called up the maintenance log. It was impossible to forge properly, not with such short notice, but she could refine it later. She backdated a log with IN3’s designation, requesting maintenance of the lock, and placed it high up her queue. She then saved it, before editing to add a note about how maintenance was not required. The last update would then show the current date and time with her login attached. It was crude and wouldn’t hold up to close scrutiny, but it would buy her time before Owain was forced to throw her out.
Taking a deep breath and then another, Amy slowly made her way back down the corridor towards her small office. She had no time to rest, no time to think about Jason – she had to find out who knew what, and what they were hiding.
She had to find out their secrets, before they discovered hers.
Chapter 39: Soldier, Spy
Standing in front of the Governor’s desk was like being back at school, hauled up in front of the headteacher for a prank or a punch. Jason hadn’t missed that feeling at all.
The Governor looked straight at him. ‘What happened?’
‘I was waiting for the shower. Bo started screaming, covered in all this white foam. The place stank of bleach. I got him under the water, burned my own hands. Then the cavalry arrived.’
‘The shampoo bottle was the delivery method,’ Dreadlock said, holding up a freezer bag containing the offending item.
‘Dispose of it,’ the Governor said.
Dreadlock hesitated.
‘It was in the shower,’ Jason said. ‘You won’t find a print on it.’
‘It is very convenient,’ Nikolai said. ‘That you know this and that you were there. So convenient – for you.’
‘You remember how you were sent down,’ Jason said, and left it at that. He knew no one would ask for more, not in here.
‘I will not work with this man,’ Nikolai said. ‘He is the one who has burned out Bo’s eyes. I will not give him the power to do the same to me. He must be locked up, voted out.’
‘If Nikolai won’t work with Jay, then he has to be the one to go.’ Stoker spoke softly, but his words were strong and filled with conviction.
‘You will not do that.’ Nikolai’s eyes bored into the Governor’s. ‘I have been with you since the beginning.’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Dreadlock said. ‘Who else is there?’
‘There’s Lulu,’ Stoker said.
‘Oh, your piece of ass,’ Nikolai said, sneering. ‘Of course you want him, cosy-cosy together. It makes me sick to my stomach.’
‘What about Gareth?’ Jason said. ‘I think he'd be handy in a fight.’
‘I have hit him,’ Nikolai said, grinning. ‘And I hit the Lulu boy. They cannot be respected.’
In a flash, Stoker turned just before Jason could, and punched Nikolai in the nose. He crumpled to the floor, clutching at his face, as blood streamed from his nostrils.
‘Kolya’s not fit for work,’ Stoker said, still perfectly calm.
‘Yes, I can see that,’ the Governor said. ‘Please promote the one with the first aid training – Anchor, is it? He has proven himself useful and will be respected because of it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Dreadlock said, though he didn’t look happy about it.
None of them really knew Anchor. He kept himself to himself and, while he'd been helpful with Jason’s ankle and responding to Bo’s bleaching, he was also unknown. Could he handle himself in a fight? It looked like it, but looks weren’t everything. Jason had been caught out by blokes half his size, and seen big men toppled by a glancing blow. If he was truly a navy boy, then he at least had some discipline – not that it seemed to matter much here. For all the look of military efficiency, it was still managed by whoever had the fastest fists.
Nikolai was still kneeling on the floor, blood dripping from between his fingers.
The Governor looked to Stoker. ‘Tell Anchor the happy news, and then ask him to see to… this.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Stoker gestured to Jason and, together, they hauled the unresisting Nikolai to his feet and out the door. He shook them off in the corridor, splattering red as he went, swaying down the corridor towards the bathroom and the relief of cold water.
Taking pity on him, Jason headed for the kitchen to retrieve an ice pack. While he was there, he ducked his head into the cupboard – and found that the plate was stuck fast, blocking any access. Someone had received his message.
As he stood up, he heard the kitchen door close. Anchor was standing there, looking at him with a perfectly neutral expression.
‘I’m just fetching an ice pack for Nikolai,’ Jason said, crossing quickly to the freezer.
‘You’re Frieda’s man, aren’t you?’
Jason stopped, looking at Anchor with new eyes, and trying to think of the right thing to say. ‘That’s Agent Haas to you.’
Anchor nodded and offered a brief smile. He had passed the test.
‘You weren’t briefed about me,’ Anchor said. ‘I was an emergency deployment, after the death of P8. The former P8. It was a local decision.’
Which meant that Frieda Haas and the NCA higher-ups knew nothing about it. Jason just nodded at the agent-speak, retrieved the ice pack, and handed it over.
‘I asked for the hatch to be closed,’ Jason said. ‘I thought it was compromised.’
‘It’s all right. They’re always watching.’ Anchor waved his hand in the air. ‘Not down here though. These have been out of action for weeks.’
It seemed Anchor knew about this place long before he'd arrived here. Was he originally part of the monitoring team? Jason had so many questions, and no way to answer them without looking entirely ignorant.
‘The report about the murder was…brief.’
‘Murder? It was an accident.’
Jason saw something flicker in Anchor’s eyes, before he got his expression locked down again. Was it surprise? Anger? What was he hiding from Jason?
‘Suspicious death, then,’ Jason said. ‘How’d he lose track of time like that?’
‘It’s easily done,’ Anchor said, quickly. ‘Look, we can’t talk long. Someone will come looking. But let’s keep close on this, yeah? Keep each other updated.’
‘Updated. Sure.’ Jason had a sudden thought. ‘All of us?’
‘I’ll pass on anything relevant,’ Anchor said, his voice brooking no argument. ‘You haven’t…made yourself known?’
‘Those weren’t my instructions.’
Seriously, how many undercovers were there in here? How many were actually supposed to be in the place at all? Jason began to wonder if this was all a farce, with twelve agents locked in a compound together, all spying on each other. If it weren’t for Lewis and the Governor, he would be putting money on it.
‘Right, of course. I’ll keep the lines of communications open. Who, uh, who are you reporting to?’
‘Classified,’ Jason said, with a little apologetic shrug of his shoulders.
‘Right, right.’ Anchor waved the ice pack. ‘I’ll get back to my new duties then.’
He waited for Jason to walk with him, and they left together. Stoker and Lewis were standing in the corridor, and Stoker gave them both a suspicious look.
‘Ice pack was hiding down the back of the freezer,’ Jason said by way of explanation. ‘What’s up with you two?’
Anchor carried on down the corridor to his patient, whose swearing was echoing in the confined space. Stoker placed a hand on Jason’s shoulder to stop him following.
‘I didn’t know you and Anchor were mates.’
‘We’re not.’
Jason didn’t try to shake off his hand, mostly because he wasn’t sure he could.
‘Spending an awful long time in there for men who aren’t friends.’
‘Chatting shit about Nikolai.’
‘Fucking Kolya,’ Stoker said, immediately and vehemently, and Jason knew he had found the thing that would bind them together: uniting against a common enemy.
‘How’s your mouth?’ Jason asked Lewis.
‘I’ll live,’ Lewis said, sucking the injured lip into his mouth. ‘I hear Stoker did a number on Nikolai’s nose.’
‘Nothing less than he deserved.’
The even, reasonable voice was somehow more frightening than any fit of temper. Jason imagined that Stoker could kill a man without thinking twice, if it made sense to him. No emotions, no regrets. Just death.
‘Do you think Anchor can do the job?’ Lewis asked Jason.
Nostalgia struck him, and he was suddenly hurtled back to four years earlier, with the two of them huddled close in the dark making plans. Stupid, childish plans, to rob that shop with some makeshift weapons that Alby had scared up from somewhere. But it was Alby that gave them cause for doubt. Could they really trust him? Was he going to bottle it at the last minute? Can he do the job?
‘He’s quiet, level-headed.’ Jason looked to Stoker. ‘Just gets on with business.’
Stoker looked away, seeming uncomfortable. ‘Yeah, don’t trust those blokes,’ he mumbled.
Judging by Lewis’ frown, the reaction was out of character, but Jason didn’t have time to dwell on it. Midday was approaching and they hadn’t found anyone as good as him in the kitchen.
If he wanted to communicate with the ‘higher-ups’, this was his chance.
Chapter 40: Come Into My Parlour
Cerys had been confined to her bedroom by her mother, like a child sent home from school with a stomach bug. At least she'd brought her hot buttered welsh cakes and tea, with the promise they'd order in pizza as a ‘special treat’.
Her phone buzzed with a message. It was probably Catriona checking up on her – again. It didn’t matter how often Cerys told her that it wasn’t her fault, Catriona still seemed determined to feel guilty about it.
She reached for the phone, wincing as she turned her head and aggravated her bruised neck. The message was from Catriona, but it wasn’t asking her if she'd taken ibuprofen or if she could breathe. Instead, her breath caught in her throat, though it had nothing to do with the pain:
Meeting with Frieda 5pm Amy’s flat. Could use some backup.
Cerys had never met Frieda Haas, not really. She had heard a lot about her – her manipulation, her use of power, her need for control. The closest she had come was seeing her in an upstairs window when she'd gone to confront Owain about spying on her. That’s when she'd known it was completely over between them. Except for falling into a bed of regret every now and then.
She didn’t really want to meet with Frieda now. Firstly, despite her protests to her mam, she felt absolutely shocking. The fight with Alby had taken it out of her and her sleep had been uneasy and broken. Secondly – closely related to firstly – she looked shocking too, and she didn’t want to face the current ‘love interest’ of her ex on such a bad skin day.
Thirdly, she would have to somehow get past Gwen Carr.
Just as she was pondering climbing out of the window, her bedroom door opened, revealing both her mother and Catriona.
‘Your friend’s come to see how you are. She wondered if you might want to go for ice cream down the Bay, but I thought it was a little too far.’
‘Taxi door-to-door, I promise,’ Catriona said, meeting Cerys’ gaze, then looking down at the phone on the bed. Cerys resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
‘She said.’ Cerys picked up her phone and waved it. It had been barely thirty seconds since that message had come through. Had Catriona sent it from outside her house? ‘I think I might fancy an ice cream, mam.’
‘Only if you go careful,’ Gwen said, though she had obviously pegged Catriona as a sensible young woman, in her sturdy boots, jeans, and knitwear. ‘Come straight back home after.’
‘We won’t be more than an hour,’ Catriona said.
‘Let’s make it two. Ice cream and then coffee.’
Gwen pursed her lips and said nothing, her trademark expression of disapproval. Still, she escorted Catriona downstairs to wait, while Cerys found something to wear that wasn’t a onesie. She had one faded polo-neck jumper in navy blue that covered the worst of the bruises, with the slight red mark protruding above easily passing for a love bite. She styled her hair with product and put on enough makeup for the ‘minimalistic’ look, with a swipe of lip gloss at the end.
Admiring herself in the mirror, she now looked less like a walking corpse and more like a woman who could say ‘my ex used to have me, so he can do way better than you’. It was petty, but it was important to go into these critical meetings with the right attitude.
Coming down the stairs, she realised the polo neck was going to irritate the shit out of her injured neck, but it was an inconvenience she could bear. Catriona stood up from the table as she entered the kitchen, shoving the last morsel of welsh cake in her mouth. Gwen could never resist feeding any person who passed through the door.
‘The cab’s waiting,’ she said.
With a quick goodbye to her mam, Cerys was free – and stepping out into the unseasonable warmth of a Cardiff March. They ducked into the cab, which would be down into the Bay withi
n minutes, but Catriona was smart to suggest it. Cerys wasn’t sure she could manage much walking right now.
‘Where to, love?’
Catriona gave the address of Amy’s flat, then leaned close to Cerys so they couldn’t be overheard and handed over her phone. ‘This is the message I had from Amy.’
After an exchange about the technicalities of map locations, the most recent message read:
Send a message to Frieda Haas: P6 is an agent and your staff are faking records.
‘Why are we sending a message in person?’ Cerys said.
‘It puts her on our territory. Or, at least, Amy’s territory. We might learn something from how she responds.’
‘Or she might get more from us than we want to give.’
Catriona shrugged. ‘We don’t know an awful lot, do we?’
At Amy’s flat, Cerys realised she'd left her wallet at home, but Catriona paid without asking. She'd also forgotten to pick up her mam’s key to the building, but Catriona had that too, letting them in the front door.
‘I didn’t know you had a key.’
‘It’s Bryn’s. I said I needed something from Amy’s.’
‘Who knows we’re doing this, exactly?’
‘Just us.’
Catriona opened Amy’s flat door and gestured for Cerys to go in first. It was coming up to half-four, which gave them time to have a cup of tea before Frieda—
‘I wondered when you were going to show up.’
Frieda Haas was sitting on Amy’s sofa, a steaming cup of black coffee in front of her. By the window, a woman in a black suit was lurking, her face inscrutable.
‘You’re early,’ Catriona said.
‘I arrive exactly when I intend to,’ Frieda countered.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ Cerys said.
‘My time is precious, girls. Shall we get on with this?’
Cerys ignored her and topped up the kettle. Catriona sat on the futon, a lower and lumpier seat, immediately putting her at a disadvantage to Frieda. However, Cerys was able to use the tea to keep Frieda waiting, checking the milk hadn’t expired and digging through the cupboards for sugar.
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