The traffic is heavy leaving London, but Eve is able to make up time on the motorway, and it’s just after quarter to nine when she takes the slip road signposted ‘Works Access Only’. The road leads through sparse woodland to a steel gateway set into a high chain-link fence topped with razor-wire. In front of the gate is a guardhouse, where an armed military police corporal checks Eve’s security pass before nodding her through the gate towards the cluster of low, weather-stained brick buildings that comprise the former government research station. As Eve drives into the car park, she sees half a dozen tracksuited figures running laps of the fenced perimeter. Others, carrying automatic weapons, saunter between the dilapidated buildings.
At the reception block, Eve and Cradle are met by a trooper from E Squadron, the Special Forces unit based at the camp. Casting an eye at Eve’s pass, he beckons them to follow him. The interview room is at the end of a strip-lit underground corridor. It’s minimally furnished and there are no CCTV cameras in evidence. A trestle table holds an electric kettle, a half-full bottle of mineral water, two stained mugs, a packet of biscuits and a box holding tea bags and sachets of sugar and powdered milk. The room is colder than Eve would have liked, and the air-conditioning gives off a faint, shuddering whirr.
‘Shall I be mother?’ asks Cradle drily, approaching the trestle table.
‘Whatever,’ says Eve, seating herself in a dusty plastic chair. ‘I haven’t got time to waste here, and neither have you.’
‘Are we observed? Overheard? Recorded?’
‘I’m assured not.’
‘I suppose that will have to do . . . Christ, these biscuits must be six months old.’
‘Ground rules,’ says Eve. ‘You lie, prevaricate or bugger me around, the deal’s off.’
‘Fair enough.’ He pours the mineral water into the kettle. ‘Milk, one sugar?’
‘Do you understand what I just told you?’
‘Mrs Polastri. Eve. I’ve been conducting tactical questioning sessions for over a decade. I know the rules.’
‘Good. Let’s start at the beginning, then. How were you approached?’
Cradle yawns, unhurriedly covering his mouth. ‘We were on holiday, about three years ago. A tennis camp, near Málaga. There was another couple there from Holland, and Penny and I started playing regularly with them. They told us that their names were Rem and Gaite Bakker, and that they came from Delft, where he was an IT consultant and she was a radiographer. In retrospect I doubt that any of that was the case, but I had no reason not to believe it at the time, and we became quasi-friends, in the way that you do on holiday. Going out for meals together, and so on. Anyway, one evening Penny and Gaite went with some of the other wives on a girls’ night out – flamenco, sangria, all that – and Rem and I went to a bar in the town. We talked about sport for a bit, he was a big Federer fan, and then we got onto politics.’
‘So what did you tell this man Rem that you did for a living?’
‘I gave him the standard, non-specific Home Office line. And inevitably, for a time, we got stuck into the immigration question. He didn’t push the politics, though. I think we ended the evening talking about wine, which he knew a lot about, and as far as I was concerned it was just one of those pleasant, setting-the-world-to-rights-type evenings that happen on holiday.’
‘And then?’
‘And then, a month after we went back home, Rem emailed me. He was over in London for a couple of days, and he wanted me to meet a friend of his. The idea was that the three of us would go to a wine club in Pall Mall, where the friend was a member, and try out a couple of rare vintages. He mentioned, I recall, Richebourg and Echezeaux, which were quite some distance out of my orbit on a Thames House salary, even as a deputy head of section. Did you say you wanted milk and sugar?’
‘Black’s fine. So how did you feel about him getting back in contact like this?’
‘I remember thinking, in an English kind of way, that it was slightly overstepping the mark. That going out for a drink on holiday was one thing, but pursuing the acquaintanceship afterwards quite another, even though we’d gone through the motions of swapping email addresses. At the same time I have to admit that the thought of drinking truly great Burgundy just once in my life was too good a chance to pass up, so I said I’d go.’
‘In other words, they played you perfectly.’
‘Pretty much,’ says Cradle, handing her one of the mugs. ‘And when I got there, I can tell you, I was glad I went.’
‘So who was the friend?’
‘A Russian, Sergei. A young guy, about thirty, incredibly polished. Brioni suit, flawless English, perfectly accented French to the sommelier, charming as the day is long. And on the table, unbelievably, three glasses and a bottle of DRC.’
‘And what’s that, when it’s at home?’
‘Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. The finest, rarest and without question the most expensive red Burgundy in the world. This was a 1988, with a list price of around twelve K. I practically fainted.’
‘That was your price? The chance to drink some expensive wine?’
‘Don’t be judgemental, Eve, it doesn’t suit you. And no, that wasn’t my price. That was just the handshake. And good though the wine was, and when I say good I mean sublime, I didn’t feel myself compromised in the slightest, and in the normal course of events I would’ve happily thanked Rem and Sergei, shaken hands and never seen either of them again.’
‘So what was abnormal about that evening?’
‘The conversation. Sergei, if that was really his name, had a grasp of global strategy that you rarely encounter outside the better think-tanks and the higher echelons of government. When someone like that dissects and lays out the issues, you listen.’
‘It sounds as if he knew exactly who you were.’
‘After listening to him for a few minutes I had no doubt of that. Or that he and Rem were important players in the intelligence world. The whole thing was very fluent, and I was curious to see what the offer would be.’
‘You knew there’d be an offer?’
‘Of some kind. But they didn’t lead with the money, and . . . well, you can choose to believe this or not, but it wasn’t about that. The money, I mean. It was about the idea.’
‘The idea,’ says Eve flatly. ‘You’re telling me that this was nothing to do with apartments in the south of France, or twenty-something Serbian gym instructors sunning themselves on yachts, or anything like that. You’re saying that this was about conviction.’
‘Like I said, you can choose to believe me or not.’
‘So who’s Tony Kent?’
‘No idea.’
‘He was the fixer behind the scenes. He paid you, basically, though he tried very hard to cover his tracks.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘Are you sure? Tony Kent. Think.’
‘I’m completely sure. I was told nothing I didn’t need to know. No one was giving out names, I promise you.’
‘And you’re telling me that you believed in this cause of theirs? Seriously?’
‘Eve, listen. Please. You know, and I know, that the world’s going to hell. Europe’s imploding, the United States is led by an imbecile, and the Islamic south is moving north, dressed in a suicide vest. The centre cannot hold. As things stand, we’re fucked.’
‘That’s how it looks to you, is it?’
‘That’s how it is, period. Now you might say that the West’s loss is the East’s gain, and that while we tear ourselves apart they make hay. But long-term, that’s not how it works. Sooner or later, our problems become their problems. The only way that we retain any kind of stability, the only way that we all survive, is if the major powers co-operate. I don’t just mean through trade agreements or political alliances, I mean actively working as one to impose and protect our values.’
‘These values being, specifically?’
He leans forward on his chair. His eyes meet and hold hers. ‘Look, Eve. We’re alone here. No one’s w
atching, no one’s listening, no one knows or gives a shit what we’re talking about. So I’m asking you to see sense. You can be on the side of the future, or you can lock yourself into the burned-out wreck of the past.’
‘You were going to tell me about those values.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s been proven not to work. Multiculturalism, and lowest-common-denominator democracy. That’s had its day. It’s over.’
‘And in its place?’
‘A new world order.’
‘Engineered by traitors and assassins?’
‘I don’t consider myself a traitor. And as for assassins, what do you think E Squadron’s for? Every system needs its armed wing, and yes, we have ours.’
‘So why did you kill Viktor Kedrin? I’d have thought his political philosophy was right up your street.’
‘It was. But Viktor was also a drunk with a taste for very young girls. Which would have got out, sooner or later, and tainted the message. This way he’s a martyr, tragically slain for his beliefs. I don’t know if you’ve been to Russia lately, but Viktor Kedrin is everywhere. Posters, newspapers, blogs . . . Dead, he’s far more popular than he ever was when he was alive.’
‘Tell me the name of the woman.’
‘Which woman?’
‘The assassin who killed Kedrin on my watch, and killed Simon Mortimer, and God knows how many others besides.’
‘I have no idea. You’ll have to speak to someone from Housekeeping.’
A second later, without conscious thought, Eve has unholstered her automatic pistol and is pointing it at Cradle’s face. ‘I said don’t fuck with me. What’s her name?’
‘And I told you I don’t know.’ He regards her steadily. ‘I also suggest you put that thing away before you cause an accident. I’m worth a great deal more to you alive than dead. Imagine the explaining you’d have to do.’
She lowers her arm, furious at herself. ‘And you’d do well to remember the conditions under which you’re sitting here talking to me, rather than under arrest for treason. You’re going to tell me the names of all your contacts, and how and when you communicated with them. You’re going to tell me what services you performed for them, and what information you passed them. You’re going to describe who paid you, and how. And you’re going to give me the names of every single member of the Security Services, and indeed anyone else, who has betrayed his or her country to this organisation.’
‘The Twelve.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what it’s called. The Twelve. Le Douze. Dvenadtsat.’
There’s a peremptory knock at the door and the trooper who brought them to the interview room leans in. ‘Boss has a message for you, ma’am. Can you come up?’
‘Wait here,’ she tells Cradle, and follows the trooper up to ground level, where a compact, moustached officer is waiting for her.
‘Your husband called,’ he tells her. ‘Says you need to get back home, there’s been a break-in.’
Eve stares at him. ‘Did he say anything else? Is he OK?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have that information. Sorry.’
She nods, and fumbles for her phone. The call goes straight to Niko’s message service, but moments later he calls her back. ‘I’m at the flat. The police are here.’
‘So what happened?’
‘All pretty strange. Mrs Khan, over the road, saw a woman climbing out of our front room window – completely brazen, apparently, not trying to hide what she was doing at all – and dialled 999. First I knew of it was when a couple of uniformed cops came to the school and picked me up. Nothing’s missing, as far as I can tell, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘Just get back here, OK?’
‘I’m assuming the woman got away?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any description?’
‘Young, slim . . .’
Eve knows. She just knows. Minutes later, she’s driving southwards on the A303, with Cradle in the passenger seat. She dislikes the physical closeness, and the faint but cloying smell of his aftershave, but she definitely doesn’t want him lurking behind her.
‘I’m empowered to make you an offer,’ he says, as they pass Micheldever service station.
‘You make me an offer? Are you fucking kidding me?’
‘Look, Eve. I’m not sure what your present status is, or exactly which department you now work for, but I do know that it wasn’t very long ago that you were in a junior liaison post at Thames House, earning chicken-feed. Public service its own reward, and all that bollocks. And I’m betting things haven’t greatly changed. Financially, at least.’
‘Shit!’ Eve brakes hard to avoid a Porsche that has swerved into the slow lane to overtake her on the inside. ‘Nice driving, arsehole!’
‘Imagine, though. Suppose you had a few million banked, so that when the time was right, you and your husband could give up work and slip away to the sunshine. Spend the rest of your life travelling first class. No more cramped flats or crowded tubes. No more endless winters.’
‘Worked brilliantly for you, didn’t it?’
‘It will do, in the end. Because I know that you’re smart enough to realise that you need me. That the ship of state isn’t sinking, it’s sunk.’
‘You seriously believe that?’
‘Eve, what I’m suggesting isn’t treasonable, it’s common sense. If you really want to serve your country, join us and help create a new world. We’re everywhere. We’re legion. And we will reward you . . .’
‘Oh God, I don’t believe this.’ A police motorcycle, blue lights flashing, is growing larger and larger in her rear-view mirror. Eve slows down, hoping that the motorcycle will race past, but it swings in front of her, and the uniformed officer indicates with a waving arm that she pull in on the hard shoulder.
As Eve does so the officer halts in front of her, pulls the powerful BMW bike onto its stand, saunters over, and peers through the driver-side window.
Eve lowers the window. ‘Is there some problem?’
‘Can I see your licence please?’ A woman’s voice. The visor of her white helmet reflecting the sunlight.
Eve hands her the licence, along with her Security Services pass.
‘Out of the car, please. Both of you.’
‘Seriously? I’m travelling to London because there’s been a break-in at my house. You’re welcome to check with the Met. And I strongly suggest you take another look at that pass.’
‘Right away, please.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Slowly, not attempting to disguise her frustration, Eve climbs out of the car. Traffic races past, terrifyingly close.
‘Hands on the bonnet. Legs apart.’
That not-quite-identifiable accent, unusual in a police officer. Doubt is beginning to enter Eve’s mind now. Expert hands pat her down, take her phone, and unholster the Glock. She hears the faint click of the magazine release, and then feels the pistol replaced. This, Eve knows with sick certainty, is no police officer.
‘Turn round.’
Eve does so. Notes the lean female form in the high-visibility jacket, leather trousers and boots. Watches as the woman’s hands lift her visor to reveal a flat, ice-grey gaze. A gaze that she has encountered once before. On a busy street in Shanghai, the night that Simon Mortimer was found with his head all but hacked from his body.
‘You,’ Eve says. She can hardly breathe. Her heart is slamming in her chest.
‘Me.’ She removes her helmet. Underneath it she’s wearing a Lycra face-mask that conceals all her features except those frozen grey eyes. Lowering the helmet to the ground she beckons to Cradle, who walks over. ‘Let the VW’s tyres down, Dennis, and put the car key in your pocket. Then wait over by the motorcycle.’
Cradle looks at Eve, smiles, and shrugs. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid you lose this round. We look after our own, you see.’
‘I see,’ says Eve, trying to steady herself.
The woman takes her by the up
per arm, leads her away a few paces, and examines her features as if trying to commit them to memory. ‘I’ve missed you, Eve. Missed your face.’
‘I wish I could say the same.’
‘Don’t be like that, Eve. Don’t be bitter.’
‘Are you going to kill Cradle?’
‘Why? Do you think I should?’
‘It is what you do, isn’t it?’
‘Please. Let’s not talk about that. We meet so rarely.’ She raises her hand and touches a finger to Eve’s face, and as she does so Eve is dumbfounded to see that she is wearing the bracelet that she lost in Shanghai.
‘That’s . . . that’s mine. Where did you get it?’
‘From your room at the Sea Bird Hotel. I climbed in one night to watch you sleep, and I just couldn’t resist it.’
Eve stares at her, blank-faced. ‘You . . . watched me sleep?’
‘You looked so adorable, with your hair all over the pillow. So vulnerable.’ She loops an errant tress behind Eve’s ear. ‘You should take more care of yourself, though. You remind me of someone I used to know. The same pretty eyes, the same sad smile.’
‘What was her name? What’s your name?’
‘Oh, Eve. I have so many names.’
‘You know my name but you’re not going to tell me yours?’
‘It would spoil things.’
‘Spoil things? You broke into my fucking house this morning, and you’re worried that you’ll spoil things?’
‘I wanted to leave you something. A surprise.’ She shakes the bracelet on her wrist. ‘In return for this. But now, although I’m really loving our chat, I have to go.’
‘You’re taking him?’ Eve nods at Cradle, who is loitering by the motorcycle, twenty paces away.
‘I have to. But we must do this again, there’s so much I want to ask you. So much I have to tell you. So à bientôt, Eve. See you soon.’
As they fly along the country roads, the trees and hedgerows still vivid in the early autumn sunlight, Cradle feels a profound lightening of spirit. They’ve come for him, as they always promised they would if he was blown, and now they’re going to take him somewhere safe. Somewhere the Twelve’s word is the rule of law. It will mean never seeing his family again, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices. In the case of Penny, that sacrifice is not so arduous. And the kids, well, he’s given them a first-class start in life. Fee-paying north London schools, skiing holidays in the Trois Vallées, godparents well-placed in the City.
No Tomorrow: The basis for Killing Eve, now a major BBC TV series (Killing Eve series Book 2) Page 4
