by Mark Dawson
“There are rules—you don’t kill the other side.”
“I understand the convention,” Bloom said patiently. “I’ve done my time in places like that—worse than that. But I don’t think that we can complain about it. They know we won’t make a fuss about it given that they caught us with our fingers in the till.”
Mackintosh fidgeted and had to work to keep the angry outburst from his lips.
“My dear chap,” Bloom said. “I am sorry. Foulkes was an excellent agent. His sacrifice cannot be underestimated, and he will be replaced. But what you’re asking for is simply impossible. You understand why, surely?”
Mackintosh felt a bead of sweat on his brow. The fire was warm and his tweed was thick; he regretted wearing the suit, but it was too late for that now. Bloom’s inability, or unwillingness, to see the urgency of his request was something that he was finding difficult to accept.
“Sir—”
“Vivian,” Bloom said. “Please—call me Vivian. No need for formality here.”
“Vivian,” Mackintosh started again, smiling through his impatience. “I know he’ll be replaced, but I don’t need another five men with degrees in modern languages from Cambridge. I’ve still got three of those and they’re useless. Their spelling and handwriting are impeccable, but, with the greatest of respect, I need men who can pull a trigger instead of pulling an oar in a fucking boat race.”
Mackintosh regretted his choice of language at once, but it had been almost automatic. He looked up at Bloom, waiting for a rebuke and got, instead, another throaty chuckle.
“Don’t mind me,” he said, still chuckling. “Please—go on.”
Mackintosh bent down, gathered the files from his satchel and placed them on his knee.
“I need fighting men. Soldiers. Trained to kill. The Stasi is filled with men like that, and we are outmatched. I don’t need translators. I need killers. ”
“Indeed. You’ve made that point.”
Mackintosh’s mouth felt like sandpaper. He might have spoken out of turn, but, in truth, he didn’t care. He knew he was right and Bloom needed to hear it. Something needed to be done; the status quo was not sustainable. He watched Bloom for a reaction, watched as he sat quietly and finished his sherry. He put the glass back on the table and crossed his hands on his lap.
“There’s passion in you, Harry. That’s why you were chosen for this post. The military background, too—that’s another reason. This, though, is not a military operation. Say I gave you your assassins—what would happen if one of them was caught or killed in the East? It wouldn’t take the Stasi long to work out who they really are, and then you have a member of the British armed forces captured or killed in what can only be described as an act of aggression. I understand why you’re asking, but if I give you what you want you could just as easily start a war. And I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”
Mackintosh looked down at the thick Indian rug, letting his eyes trace the patterns. That was it. He had blown it. He couldn’t operate with the staff that he currently had; they might as well fold up the tent and go home. The Stasi had won. British intelligence would cease to function in Berlin in any meaningful capacity. The botched operation to exfiltrate PICASSO would be his epitaph. His tour in Berlin would be curtailed, and even a junior officer knew that a short-of-tour expulsion would be the end of his career. His reputation would suffer, and his future promotions and assignments would be affected. He wondered where the mandarins might send him instead. The Shithole Tour: Third World countries in Africa and Asia.
“Why are you looking so glum?”
Mackintosh looked up. Bloom was smiling at him. “I’m sorry?”
Bloom took one of the files that had been stacked on the table next to his chair. He handed it to Mackintosh.
“Of course,” he said, “if you were to recruit someone from outside the intelligence services and outside the military, and if that person were caught in East Berlin, well, we could say that we knew nothing about them. That might be something that we could get away with.”
Mackintosh took the file, opened it and began to read.
“The man in that file is dangerous,” Bloom said. “He’s intelligent, ruthless, and he’s been on MI5’s watchlist ever since he got off the boat from Ireland. A man like that could cause all sorts of havoc in Berlin. We’d just need a good legend for him, something plausible, and then, if he’s discovered, or captured, or killed, there would be no way to trace him to us. He’s completely expendable.”
Mackintosh scanned the page.
The waiter reappeared and refilled the sherry glasses. Bloom waited until the man had stepped away again before continuing.
Mackintosh closed the file. “He’s a common criminal. A burglar.”
Bloom shook his head. “We’re going to have to disagree there. He’s not common—he’s exceptional. And he finds himself in rather an awkward predicament. He was arrested earlier this morning. The Flying Squad pulled him in for robbing a warehouse at Heathrow. It was a setup, of course. I wanted a reason to take him off the street. He’s Irish and he has experience working with the Provos. Between you and me, I was thinking about putting him to use over there. But then you made your request and I thought that maybe there’s another purpose we could put him to.”
“Sir—”
“This is it, Harry. The best I can do. He’s in a cell in New Scotland Yard. Go and see him.”
“Does he speak German?”
“I’d be very surprised.”
“He’s not trained?”
“Not formally.”
“He’s…he’s completely unsuited for what I’d need him to do.”
“If you want someone who speaks German, I’ve got a number of Cambridge candidates, but you’ve already told me what you think about that. This man is never going to be an oarsman. He’s never going to speak Latin. He doesn’t know his Cicero from his Seneca. On the other hand, he has a history as a street fighter. He put three nasty local scumbags in hospital after they tried to extort a friend of his. Dropped a car on one of them and broke his legs. It took four officers to subdue him last night. Four. And two of them have been signed off duty for a week after what he did to them. And if you’re concerned about fallout, then please let me be plain. You will not be held responsible for his actions.”
Mackintosh got to his feet.
“One more thing,” Bloom said. “PICASSO—do you know where he is?”
“I’m asking around,” Mackintosh said. “But I can guess.”
“Having his fingernails extracted at Hohenschönhausen?”
Mackintosh nodded.
“Shame. You were unfortunate, Harry. Bringing him out would have been a feather in your cap. But he’s gone now—let it go. Use the Irishman to give the Stasi something else to think about.”
“And if he dies in the process?”
“Then he dies. Men like him are ten a penny. There’s plenty more where he came from.”
16
Jimmy woke up in a room he didn’t recognise. The walls and floor were bare concrete. There was a single metal door with no window. There was a bucket in the corner—Jimmy guessed it was the toilet—and a camera had been fixed up in the corner, next to the ceiling. A red light shone from the body of the camera, suggesting that it was recording and that he was being watched. He was lying on a thin mattress. His muscles ached and his head felt as if it was about to split. He put his fingers to his sc
alp and felt scabs of dried blood.
He remembered what had happened and groaned.
Fabian had set them up. Jimmy couldn’t get his head around the thought of it. The old man was a pillar of the criminal community; to conspire with the police to have two men arrested would be the end of his reputation. No one would ever trust him again.
He sat up, and immediately wished that he hadn’t. The headache throbbed and he remembered the man with the cosh. God knows how many times he had struck him while he was on the floor. He pulled up his shirt and looked down; there were black welts on his torso and on his arms, and, from the ache in his legs, he guessed that he had been beaten there, too.
He heard footsteps outside. They stopped outside the door to his cell. Jimmy glanced up at the camera and saw that the red light had blinked off. The door was unlocked and opened. A man stood in the doorway, looking in at him. He didn’t look like a policeman: early forties; wearing a tweed suit that was patently more expensive than any policeman could afford; ditto on the handmade shoes; a white shirt and an old school tie. He had a leather briefcase and looked down at Jimmy through a pair of large, black-rimmed glasses.
“Mr. Walker.”
“That’s right. Who are you?”
“I’d like to speak to you.”
“Be my guest. I’m not going anywhere.”
“No. Very true.”
“Who are you?”
The man pointed up to the camera. “I’m not here,” he said.
“Are you police?”
“No.”
“So where am I?”
“New Scotland Yard.”
“So if you’re not a copper—”
The man interrupted him. “I’m here to make you an offer. Given your present circumstances, you should give it careful consideration.”
“I should?”
He smiled. “If you take it, you can walk out of here with me as soon as we’re done.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
The man stepped into the cell and an officer closed the door behind him. He put down his briefcase and held out a hand. Jimmy took his wrist and turned the hand over, making sure that it was empty. He had heard of police coming into the cells with evidence in their hands; they palmed it, got your dabs on it, used it to fit you up. This man’s hand was empty. Jimmy released his wrist.
“You still haven’t told me who you are.”
Still the man did not answer. He reached down and opened his satchel, removing a manila file.
“James Sean Walker,” he said, reading from the file. “Born in the Royal Victoria Hospital, Belfast. Raised by Barney Walker after both parents were killed in a pub bombing in seventy-two. Studied—or not, as the case may be—at Saint Francis of Assisi School. Left with no qualifications, so I’m guessing it was the latter.” He palmed through the pages. “Boring, boring, boring. Let’s jump ahead. Went off the rails a little, got into breaking and entering. Worked with the IRA team that turned over the Allied Irish Bank five years ago.”
Jimmy almost told him that he hadn’t known the Provos were involved in that job, but shut his mouth just in time. He was in a police cell, and no one had ever been convicted for that heist; the last thing he needed to do was to give them something to suggest that he had been in on it.
The man turned more pages. “Left Belfast soon after with the IRA and the RUC on your tail. Don’t need to go into your résumé in London. In a relationship; Isabel, isn’t it? One child—Sean. Decent boxer. No gainful employment and yet a house in Hackney. The police know about your nocturnal business, although you’ve been clever enough not to give them anything to go on. Until now, of course. Arrested for suspicion of a diamond heist in Heathrow last night.”
“I’d like to speak to my lawyer about that,” Jimmy said.
“I’m sure you would, James.”
“It’s Jimmy,” he said, leaning back on his bed.
“James,” the man said. “You’re in a spot, aren’t you?”
“Been in worse.”
“Really? The police found a bag full of equipment in the back of your car. I’m not an expert, of course, but I’m told it’s a homemade torch for cutting into safes. A bag of clothes, too. Balaclava. Gloves. All very suspicious.”
Jimmy shrugged.
“I’m your best friend right now, James.”
“And yet you still haven’t told me who you are.”
“I work for the government—”
“Then you can fuck right off.”
The man shook his head. “James—really. Please. Just listen. We have a position open that would suit a man with your talents.”
Jimmy put his head back slowly and rubbed his eyes. “No thanks, mate. I’m all right here.”
“Really? You want to stay in prison for the next ten years?”
Jimmy sat up. “Ten years?”
“The police say they can tie you to a string of jobs across London and the southeast. Armed robbery, James. What do you expect?”
“Wait a minute,” Jimmy said. “Who said anything about guns?”
“The police found an unregistered shotgun in the back of your Capri. They say it looks like the same shotgun used to threaten the driver of an armoured car last month.”
Jimmy groaned. “I’ve never done an armoured car.”
“You would say that, James.”
“They’re fitting me up.”
“Armed robbery is a serious offence. The minimum you’re looking at is ten. The minimum. You could get more.”
“All this to get me to work for you?”
“It happened that I was looking for some help and I was given the chance to look at your file. I have, and I think you could help me out. You scratch my back, James, I scratch yours.”
Jimmy was ready with another protest, but he stifled it. They had him with his back against the wall, out of options, and he hated it. He hated the fact that he had been deceived, hated the fact that it had taken him too long to see through it, and hated the fact that his options had all been taken away.
“You still haven’t told me who you are.”
“I’m a second chance. I’m your get-out-of-jail card. And your new boss. If you do as you’re told, you won’t serve any time. You have my word.”
“Is this some kind of trick?”
“It’s an offer. And it’s walking out the door in ten seconds. Up to you, James. Make up your mind.”
Jimmy stared at the floor, his mind spinning. He thought of Isabel and his son.
“How long before I could see my girlfriend and my boy?”
The man smiled. “You can go and see them now.” The man looked at his watch. “It’s ten o’clock. Traffic should be acceptable. We could probably be there in half an hour.”
“Really?”
“We have a flight to catch this afternoon—if you say yes, of course. You can see them until we need to go. If you don’t say yes, you’ll be staying here. I suppose you’ll see them when they come to visit. Won’t be easy to cuddle your boy through a screen, though. I think my way is best.”
Jimmy stood up, wincing from the aches down his back and legs.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Mackintosh,” he said. “Are you saying yes?”
“What choice do I have?”
The man put out his hand again and, this time, Jimmy took it.
He smiled. “Welcome to the secret service.”
17
It took ten minutes for Mackintosh to take care of the formalities of arranging Jimmy’s release. His coat, shoelaces and car keys were returned to him by the officer whom he had butted in the fac
e; the man’s nose was held together by a piece of tape.
“Sorry about that,” Jimmy said, pointing to his nose while delivering a wide grin.
“Piss off.”
Mackintosh led him out of the back of the building to a car park and took him over to a brand-new Jaguar. He told Jimmy to get in and, without needing to ask for the address, drove them both to the house in Hackney.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” he said.
“Ten minutes?”
“The flight leaves at one. We need to be on it.”
Jimmy put his hand on the door handle, then paused. “What do I say?”
“Tell them you’re going away on business for a week or two.”
“You haven’t told me where.”
“You’ll find that out when we’re on the plane.”
“So what do I say now?”
“I don’t know, James. She’s your girlfriend. Think of something suitable.”
“Lie to her, you mean.”
“I’m sure it won’t be the first time.”
Jimmy opened the door and stepped out. It was cold, his breath fogging in front of his face. He looked at the downstairs window and saw Isabel’s face. Jimmy found that his mouth was dry and his stomach was unsettled. He zipped the jacket up, went through the gate and across the small garden, and opened the door.
Isabel was waiting for him in the hall. She seemed paler than usual, and her eyes were red, just as they always looked when she hadn’t had enough sleep. Jimmy opened his arms and embraced her. He held her for a long moment until he knew that he wasn’t going to cry.
“I’m sorry,” he said, a catch in his throat.
“Where have you been?”
“I had a bit of trouble last night.”
“I waited up. All night, Jimmy—I haven’t been to bed. Sean was beside himself when he woke up. You were supposed to be playing football with him this morning.”
“I know I was, darling. I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him—where is he?”
“He’s not here, Jimmy. He’s gone over to Sonya’s house.”
