by Angus McLean
Sarah’s eyes were amused. ‘Really, Rob?’
He moved on to his own cup, being careful not spill the tea and mess up the linen. Sarah finished her cupcake and selected a fruit pastry.
‘Apparently the lady herself is quite careless with who she mentions her activities too,’ she said, a hint of seriousness entering her voice. ‘I’d suggest that whoever was playing in that sandpit would do well to be very careful.’
Moore glanced at her as he put the pot down. Her face gave nothing away but her meaning was clear. He took the small milk jug and added a dash to each of their cups.
‘I see,’ he said finally, putting the jug down and looking at her. ‘Is this an official message?’
‘It’s an official message between friends,’ Sarah said quietly. She took a sip of her tea.
Moore did likewise. It was hot and strong. ‘Common knowledge?’ he asked.
Sarah gave a slight head shake. ‘Reasonably,’ she said. ‘But I’ve connected dots that others probably wouldn’t.’
Moore nodded. ‘Point taken.’
There was silence between them while Moore chewed that over. He didn’t want to ask the crucial question, and Sarah sensed it.
‘As far as I’m aware he doesn’t know the full details,’ she said. ‘I think it’s just her boasting to a girlfriend, but the conversation was overheard by someone else. No names were mentioned.’
Moore selected a scone and spread it with jam and cream. ‘Thanks for the info,’ he said, and took a bite. ‘I’ll make sure that fire is put out.’
Sarah nodded and sipped her tea. She took a bite of the pastry and gestured at him with it. ‘I do like these,’ she said. ‘Second only to The Ritz.’
Moore smiled, grateful that part of the meeting was over. They made small talk about her kids for a bit and she brought him up to date on their activities and sporting endeavours. She finished the pastry and watched him while he devoured another sandwich.
‘Have you heard from Danni?’ Sarah asked. Danni was his daughter, and lived with his ex-wife in Brisbane. At best Moore saw her a couple of times a year; as often as The Dragon would allow it. It was a constant sore point with him. Not that Danni seemed terribly bothered.
Moore nodded. ‘Got a phone call a couple of days ago and a card for my birthday.’
‘That’s nice. Oh, and sorry I forgot as usual.’
Moore chuckled. ‘You mean it’s not on your calendar? I’m hurt.’
She gave a wry smile. ‘Callum doesn’t even know you exist. I don’t think that would go down too well.’ She reached down to her handbag and took out a white envelope. She handed it across the table to him. ‘Compliments of HM,’ she said as he tucked it into his jacket pocket. ‘I expect it to be returned afterwards, of course.’ She crooked a smile at him. ‘No jetting off to Rio with your fancy woman or some other bint.’
Moore had the grace to blush and helped himself to a second scone to cover his embarrassment. ‘Thanks,’ he murmured.
‘Any update then?’ Sarah asked, draining her cup and taking the pot to pour another.
‘Na.’ Moore wiped cream from his lip. ‘I’m just going to have to go over and see what I find. Bit of a needle in a haystack, I suspect.’
‘What’s your gut feeling on it?’ Sarah watched him over the rim of her cup. ‘Anything to be concerned about?’
‘Aside from a naïve young chick travelling on her own in a country where people are blowing themselves up? Nothing to say it’s anything but that.’ He wiped his hands on a linen napkin. ‘But who knows. At the end of the day it’s a politician’s daughter and the big boss wants me to look into it.’
Sarah nodded and finished her cup. ‘Just be careful. I take it you’re going on your own?’
He nodded. ‘Yes Mum.’
‘Don’t “yes mum” me,’ she scolded, pushing her chair back. ‘Just do it.’
Moore grinned to himself and also stood, putting his jacket on. They made their way out to Regent Street again and paused on the footpath.
‘Thanks for the cuppa,’ Moore said.
Sarah leaned in and he kissed her cheek. She smelled like fresh vanilla and something else he couldn’t put his finger on.
‘Be safe,’ she murmured in his ear.
Moore squeezed her arm and gave her a smile. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘We’ll catch up when I get back. My shout.’
He turned away and headed for Haymarket.
Chapter Ten
Not only did the Brits not like foreign agents running round carrying guns, it was also bad practice.
A diplomatic passport wouldn’t stop an officer from getting a bullet in the head if things went awry, which was a good reason for weapons to be kept under lock and key.
Moore kept a secure cabinet in his own office for some of his gear, but the rest was stored in the SCIF – a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility – down the hall from his office.
This was an ultra-secure room, known as the “skiff room,” where a handful of select personnel would retreat should the world ever implode and necessitate using the standalone comms facility.
He swiped his card and punched in two PINs before the door unlocked. He closed it behind him and went to the heavy steel gun locker in one corner, unlocking it with another PIN. A small number of firearms were kept there for defensive purposes, available to all trained embassy staff should the need arise. Of course, being a bureaucracy, not all those actually had access to the safe.
On the top shelf was a long narrow lock box, which Moore removed and placed on one of the worktops, being careful not to bump any of the sensitive comms gear there. He unlocked the box with his own small key and removed one of two Kevlar pouches, zipped closed and secured with a PIN-locked padlock. No need to check it – both pouches were identical. He locked the box again, secured the cabinet and let himself out.
As he turned away he noticed McGregor standing outside his own office, watching him. His expression gave nothing away. Moore ignored him and took the stairs two flights up to the High Commissioner’s level.
The wide reception area was bright and cheery, with the original wall coverings from various Kiwi artists lending it a unique flavour. Moore liked the current High Commissioner – far from being a stuffy politico, he was a former surf lifesaver with a passion for skydiving. Whenever Moore was required to provide personal protection services for the boss, as he was known, they had got on well.
The High Commissioner’s Executive Assistant was equally affable, but with the steely edge required in her position.
‘Afternoon Gabby,’ Moore smiled, crossing the foyer towards her desk.
Gabrielle Stone looked up, her brow furrowed. She was in her late thirties with stylish shoulder length blonde hair and light green eyes behind her glasses. Moore knew she was a lawyer by trade, and suspected she had quietly been placed in her position by the Service.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said.
Moore casually leaned a hip against the corner of her desk. ‘Sorry to disappoint,’ he said, hoping his smile was engaging.
Gabby remained remarkably unaffected. A sign of a good EA, he decided. She wore a dark skirt suit with a sharp white blouse, unbuttoned just low enough to show the barest hint of cleavage. Moore appreciated the effort – the hint was more enticing than a blatant display.
‘Bet I’m not the first girl you’ve ever said that to,’ she returned crisply, and Moore recoiled with a grimace.
‘Ouch,’ he said, ‘cutting. Wake up on the side of the wrong bed this morning, Gabs?’
She gave him stern. He gave her cheeky schoolboy, and she relented.
‘No, but the boss is in a bit of a tizz, that’s all. We do actually do a lot of work up here, you know.’
‘I never doubted it,’ Moore said. He passed the Kevlar pouch to her. ‘Any chance you could flick this over to Ankara for me?’
She took it and weighed it in her hand.
‘Is this what I think it is?’ she asked.
‘Probably.’
‘When d’you need it there?’
‘I’m going tomorrow.’
‘No probs.’ Gabby put it aside. ‘It’ll be there. I’ll let them know. You going to pick it up?’
‘Yeah, I’ll be in touch with JJ once I’m over there.’
Gabby nodded efficiently. They still used a diplomatic bag facility, allowing them to send freight across borders purportedly without interference from the host nation’s intelligence service. She turned back and looked at him, still leaning casually against her desk.
‘Was there something else?’ she asked pointedly. ‘Or are you just lounging around now?’
Moore pushed up and straightened his pants. ‘You old flirt,’ he said with an easy grin and a wink, ‘I haven’t got time for your shenanigans.’
Gabby stifled a smile but her eyes twinkled. ‘I haven’t shenanigised since the eighties, Rob,’ she said. ‘In fact, I don’t think anyone has but you.’
He backed towards the door to the stairs. ‘Play your cards right, Gabby…’
‘Bugger off,’ she said, ‘I’m busy.’
She watched him disappear through the door, and shook her head, a smile playing on her lips.
Chapter Eleven
Istanbul was one of the many continental cities Rob Moore had never been to. The closest he’d got was fighting insurgents over the border in Iraq, but that was a lifetime ago.
He caught a cab to Heathrow for an early departure, ate a bland and expensive breakfast in the departure lounge and ended up sitting beside an overweight young woman in a Greenpeace T shirt who was in need of a good waxing. He ignored her and buried his nose alternately in a guide book and a well-thumbed paperback copy of Alistair MacLean’s Where Eagles Dare, finishing with a solid hour’s sleep before lunch. The flight landed at Ataturk Airport at 1245pm and by 2pm Moore was hunting for a cab.
The current tensions were evident in the faces of the people hurrying by without making eye contact, and in the numbers of armed soldiers and Police at the airport and on patrol. There was a definite edge in the air, something almost palpable, as if everyone was just waiting for something to kick off.
The taxi driver who delivered him to his hotel drove a battered grey Mercedes 280 like it was a dodgem at a fairground, heavy on the pedals and horn and jerky on the wheel, ear-rupturing Turkish pop music blasting all the while from the cassette deck.
Moore settled into the back seat and silently willed the ride to end. They pulled into a cobbled lane in the centre of the city, manoeuvring around other taxis and tourist buses until the driver pulled up outside the Altan Hotel and jabbered something at Moore.
He got out and grabbed Moore’s bags from the boot, dropping them at the feet of his passenger with one hand and holding the other out for his fee.
Moore shoved cash into his paw and grabbed his bags, making his way to the front door of the hotel. He stood outside while a gaggle of young tourist girls – Scandinavian, by the looks, with their blonde hair and universal beauty – came through, chattering excitedly over each other as one of them read aloud from a Lonely Planet. He ran an eye over them as they headed off to explore. If they were typical clientele of the hotel, then he was certainly going to stand out, regardless of his cover.
Moore crossed the foyer to the desk and presented his passport with a smile to the young clerk.
The clerk booked him in without fuss and with minimal conversation, taking payment off Moore’s credit card and copying his passport before handing him a key and a brochure.
‘Upstairs to the second floor,’ he said in flawless English, indicating the stairs off the foyer. ‘Room 212. Okay?’
‘Sweet as mate, cheers.’ Moore gave him another grin and grabbed his bags. As he reached the stairs a girl came down and he automatically moved aside, glancing up as she came abreast of him. She was young, maybe mid-twenties, with long black hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore the standard tourist uniform of hiking shoes, cargo pants and a polar fleece, with a daypack over one shoulder. She was slim and slightly taller than average.
She cast a quick look at him as she went past, and he immediately noticed two things about her eyes. Firstly they were bright blue, the sharpest, clearest blue he had ever seen. Secondly, they were watchful. Not the normal watchfulness of a tourist in a foreign city, of a girl alone assessing a bloke approaching her. No, these eyes were wary, calculating.
In a second she was past him without a second look and making for the front doors. Moore paused to watch her go, unable to shake the tiny alarm bell going off in his subconscious, before continuing up to his room. Years in the game had ingrained strong instincts in him, and he had learned to trust these instincts implicitly, to literally trust them with his life. There was nothing he could do with that right now, so he filed it away and got on with the task at hand.
His room was half way along a corridor and faced out over the lane at the front of the hotel. The Altan clearly had a low budget for furnishings, which explained the backpacker rates. The room was basic but serviceable, with a double bed and a tiny kitchenette, and a separate bathroom.
Moore locked the door behind him and tossed his bags on the bed. He crossed to the front windows and pulled back the net curtains, opening the windows to let in some fresh air. On the road below a new tourist bus arrived and disgorged passengers. A small restaurant was across the road and, according to the guide book he’d read on the flight over, it offered mid-priced good local cuisine.
He had already decided to eat there tonight before getting his head down and aiming for an early start in the morning.
He turned back to the bed and began to unpack the Berghaus backpack. The late notice of the mission had meant a quick trip to a camping store to kit himself out for the trip. Most of the gear he kept in his small Camden flat was either ex-military or bought in New Zealand, neither of which was suitable for the task.
He had bought a new pack, hiking gear and travel kit. He paused as he uncovered the small electronic device buried in with his tablet and iPhone. No need to check for listening devices just yet, so he put it aside. In theory, nobody from the Turkish National Intelligence Service should know he was there, having travelled on a clean passport and having never operated in the country before.
Unless they’d been given a heads-up from somewhere.
Moore double checked the door and wedged a door stopper under it before stripping out of his jeans and shirt and stepping into the shower. The water pressure was low and he had to crank it up to get some decent heat, but it washed away the stickiness of travel and in five minutes he was washed and dried.
He flopped onto the bed with the intention of getting his head down for an hour. He could still feel the knots and aches from the training exercise, and it was another reminder that he was getting older. Two decades of soldiering had brought with it plenty of aches and injuries, some of which still lingered.
Within a minute he was out for the count and when he woke it was to the sound of the evening prayer call. Speakers in the minarets of a mosque nearby – probably the big Blue Mosque, he guessed – called the faithful to prayer as the sun dropped in the sky and the temperature cooled.
He rolled off onto the floor and did a short series of stretches to loosen up before downing half a bottle of water. The thin carpet smelt funky and obviously hadn’t seen a cleaner in some time.
Feeling rejuvenated he dressed in clean khaki cargo pants, an old black Rolling Stones T-shirt, and comfortable Merrell walking shoes. He checked his G-Shock; 5.30pm.
Moore tucked his passport and wallet into his pockets with his iPhone, secured the windows and locked the door behind him. He stepped out of the hotel into the cobbled street and paused beside a potted tree for a minute, absorbing his surroundings and letting his mental antenna scan the environment.
There were plenty of people around, movement and noise, but no alarm bells went off. He scouted the neighbourhood, doing a full circle around the block and
sussing out what was there – shops, hotels, apartments, eateries, parking areas. He had no reason to suspect any trouble, but if things went belly up he needed to have some familiarity with his surroundings and possible escape routes in mind.
That done, he widened his circle and threw in a couple of counter surveillance measures without detecting any watchers. Satisfied, he stopped to buy bottled water then made his way back to the restaurant across from the hotel.
It was only moderately busy at 6.30pm and he took a table in a corner of the outdoor eating area with a good view of the comings and goings. He ordered a Efes Pilsen and supped it while he mulled over the menu and unobtrusively observed his fellow diners; mostly small groups of excited tourists.
The waitress returned for his order and within minutes he was enjoying a mezze of fried mussels on a skewer. That was quickly followed by grilled chicken kebabs with rice and salad, and he got the distinct impression that as the tables filled up so the waitress’ desire to get him moving also increased.
He took his time finishing the kebabs and ordered a second beer, feeling himself unwinding nicely as the food settled and the evening livened up. Coloured lights were strung along the adobe style walls of the restaurant and background music came from somewhere inside.
Moore was almost ready to go when he spied a new arrival taking a seat at a long table nearby. The rest of the table was occupied by what appeared to be a tour party of twenty-somethings who were settling in for a long night with flowing beer and loud chatter. The same grumpy waitress who had served Moore found a space at the end of the table and brought a chair over for her.
Moore recognised the newcomer as the girl he had spotted earlier at the hotel, the one with the clear blue eyes and watchful look. She was clearly not part of the tour group and seemed anxious, unsmiling and keeping her head down as she quickly scanned the menu.
Moore sat back and watched as she waved the waitress back over and gave her order. While the waitress hurried off and the tour party raised a loud toast to something of importance only to them, the girl checked her surroundings and Moore felt her eyes flick over him as he took a sip from his bottle.
