Project Icarus

by R D Shah

  “I’ve heard the food’s good at the Coppa, Captain Munroe. I’m certain this birthday will be one of your more memorable ones.”

  Munroe stood back up straight and slowly turned to face the newcomer. The man standing before him offered a dry smile and Munroe replied with a curt nod. He’d not been greeted by his military rank in some years and it immediately generated a more formal dynamic between the two of them, as Munroe instinctively stiffened in his stance.

  “Memorable, yes. But not for the food.”

  Wearing a tight-fitting black suit and a loose-hanging black, knee-length overcoat the man offered little more than a forced smile before taking a few steps forward and resting one arm on the metal railing next to Munroe. At a guess the man was in his early fifties, with a full head of short, greying hair and deep wrinkle lines extending around his eyes and forehead. Either a sign of bad genes, or a man whose life had been spent under pressure and the weight of responsibility. His appearance was compounded further by a thin scar that ran from just below the man’s left eye all the way across to his sideburn, causing a small indent encroaching into the hairline.

  “I’m not one for food myself. I don’t have an adventurous palate. It’s more of a sustenance kind of thing for me,” the man continued as Munroe eyed him blankly. “My mother couldn’t cook for shit, so growing up I never developed a love of food. Her every-night lasagne was like digging your teeth into wet cardboard.”

  The man now glanced back at the redhead who had driven Munroe here and who was leaning casually against the opposite railing. “How about you. Your mother any good at cooking?”

  The woman barely registered the comment. “I wouldn’t know, sir, my father did all the cooking in our house, and he could screw up a boiled egg.”

  The man turned his attention back to Munroe. “Ah, the modern age.”

  The man was most likely intelligence-connected, and not part of the forces. Military men of all ranks were prone to getting to the point within seconds, whereas intelligence agents had a habit of skirting around a conversation, probing with what seemed like vague banter until they saw an opening to drop some unpleasant truth that would prompt the answer they wanted to hear. It was a tried and tested tactic that left the target feeling off-guard and potentially pliable, but for Munroe it was simply frustrating, and given the current situation he was in no mood to play.

  “So we all had shitty dinners growing up. I’ll store that little nugget of information under the file heading ‘things no one gives a fuck about.’”

  The man’s expression remained unchanged as Munroe threw caution to the wind. “Waterloo Bridge just saw one of the most audacious and brazen military actions on UK soil in recent years, and only metres from the centre of British power. An action that rescued one of the sickest serial killers the UK has ever seen. Seven officers were killed, and I’m responsible for shooting dead one of the attackers, and then you whisk me away without even a word to the authorities. So, how about we put aside the psych 101 bullshit and you tell me what’s on your mind.”

  The man stood silently for a few moments and then a thin smile emerged across his lips. “They were right about you, Captain Munroe. You are obnoxiously direct… for a military man.”

  “I’m not a military man anymore. I’m a superintendent in the Met.”

  “Not that bright though,” the man replied, his smile evaporating. “Just because you play in civilian clothes… Please!”

  The older man motioned to the redhead with a flick of his finger and the woman dutifully stepped forward a few paces, eyeing Munroe contemptuously.

  “Ethan Munroe. Arrived age four at the Strawberry Field children’s home in Liverpool. Age sixteen applied and accepted into the British Army. Royal Marines by seventeen. Age twenty applied and accepted into the Special Boat Service. Served in Iraq and Afghanistan with distinction before being reassigned to the SAS aged twenty-five, which is no mean feat. Four years of special operations, counterterrorism in Iraq and Afghanistan including distinction for operations during the Boko Haram insurgency in Nigeria. I won’t even mention the medals and decorations, because your head’s big enough, Munroe.” The redhead paused to glare at him again before continuing. “Aged twenty-nine, abruptly quit the Special Air Service, rank captain, before entering the Metropolitan police at age thirty, ending up in the hostage division, rank superintendent, where he’s remained for the past three years.” She gave a sarcastic smirk. “If he’s not military through and through, sir, then I don’t know who is.”

  The older man now took over the conversation without even pausing. “And then, aged thirty-five, you met me. That’s quite a winding career path you’ve taken, Ethan, and to throw it all in the crapper to join the police… Now that’s a question.”

  “If you know that much then you know why,” Munroe replied, staying calm. There was nothing in his record to be ashamed about, with the exception of quitting the military. “It’s all in my dossier, which clearly you’ve read.”

  The older man was already nodding. “I have, and I’m not sure whether to applaud you or chastise you.”

  “Neither. You don’t know me,” Munroe replied sharply, and he nodded in the direction of the red-haired woman. “Now, why don’t you and Harley Quinn over there tell me what’s going on. And you can begin with names.”

  The abrupt dig received no reaction, but after a few seconds the man started to nod and a genuine smile erupted across his face. “Boris Humperdinck, and that’s Doris Delaney,” he said, flicking his finger over at the redhead.

  “Doris and Boris? What’re your real names.”

  “Get to know us better and maybe you’ll find out. But for now I’m Boris and she’s Doris.”

  Surreal? Sure, but Munroe glossed over it, not wanting to waste any more time. “OK… Boris. So now the little sideshow is behind us, why don’t you tell me why I’m on the deck of HMS Belfast instead of being debriefed back at Waterloo Bridge.”

  For the first time since arriving Boris looked serious. “I’m assuming you know the name David Breams.”

  Munroe was almost insulted. “Who doesn’t. The British ambassador who had a psychotic breakdown. Murdered the German Chancellor before turning the gun on himself two months ago.”

  “And?”

  “And, if the papers are to be believed, Breams had an inoperable brain tumour he told no one about. It’s widely accepted that the condition destroyed his faculties, which resulted in a psychotic episode that almost destroyed Anglo-German relations in one short moment of insanity.”

  Boris’s eyes narrowed. “Detailed like a historian, but what if I told you that the brain tumour was only a cover story, something to blame his actions on? What if I told you we have no idea why the man did what he did?”

  Munroe pondered the information for a moment, “Then I’d say you’d better get to work.”

  “We are,” Doris interrupted, reaching into her coat to retrieve a small photograph which she passed over to Munroe. “Because the last call David Breams received, just before his inauguration, was from an unknown mobile phone, a phone that was discovered in this house less than forty-five minutes ago.”

  Munroe held up the picture in front of him and he finally began to understand what was going on. It was a picture of same house he had visited just hours earlier. The house of a serial killer.

  Munroe blew a long breath as Doris took back the photograph and slipped it inside her coat pocket.

  “Only one call was made from it before the battery was taken out,” Doris informed him, now looking at Munroe with genuine concern, “and that same person appears to have an infatuation with you, Captain Munroe. Or should I say, with your dead wife and child.”

  The careless mention of Munroe’s family caused him to glare at the redhead. “Easy, Doris,” he growled. “Show some respect.”

  Doris looked unperturbed and shrugged. “You have to admit, it’s odd, is it not?”

  They locked eyes with one another in an unyieldi
ng stare. It was Boris who sought to referee. “I think what my colleague means is that there are things going on here which we are in the dark about, and you appear to be in a position, especially given your history, to help us as well as yourself.”

  “And how would I be helping myself, Boris?”

  “You can’t expect me to believe you don’t want to know why this maniac has an infatuation with you and your family?”

  Of course Munroe wanted to know, but there was too much about these people he didn’t trust. And more than that, he had made a promise to himself that he would never go back into military life in any capacity. It was a promise he wanted to keep. “And what if I say no?”

  Boris smiled, one of his eyebrows slightly raised. “You won’t… but we can always drop you back at Waterloo Bridge to go through your debrief, followed by months of hearings. And how you will emerge from that is in the hands of the gods.”

  It was a thinly veiled threat, but it wasn’t because of this that Munroe had already made up his mind. Like Boris had said, why the infatuation? And that he did need to know.

  “If I say yes then there are some ground rules. If you can’t get past them then forget it, I walk.”

  The obstinate look now plastered across Boris’s face told Munroe that this was a man who didn’t care for deals. It was a one-way street only for him, but regardless, he did nod lightly.

  “Depends what they are. Try me.”

  Munroe’s shoulders loosened and he folded his arms boldly to show there would be no leeway given on his part. “Firstly, I want to know who you are, what division? Secondly, I’m not military anymore, I work autonomously. And thirdly, I want to know everything you and the redhead over there aren’t telling me. They’ve only just begun trawling through Icarus’s house and there’s no way in that short time you could have recovered and analysed his mobile phone. You already knew about him and what you were looking for.”

  Although Boris was still expressionless, he did let slip the beginnings of a smile as Munroe continued.

  “And don’t play me as naïve, because if you are what I think you are then honesty isn’t a natural part of your trade. Be honest with me and I’ll be honest with you.”

  “And what trade would that be?”

  “Not trade, but tradecraft… you’re a spook.”

  “We prefer the term ‘intelligence officers’,” Doris replied, “but you’re not far off.”

  Munroe returned a knowing smile of his own. “Then you’d better bring it into focus for me.”

  Boris remained motionless, but behind those dark brown eyes he was calculating a response, and after a few seconds he reached up and gently pulled at his left earlobe. “Very well, Ethan. That seems reasonable, but only if you commit right now.”

  Munroe said nothing for a moment as he looked back and forth between the pair, sizing them up. Eventually he gave a slow nod. “Consider me committed.”

  “Good,” Boris replied and his whole body jerked upright like a burst of electricity had just rippled right through him. “Let’s take your second one first, shall we? We are not military, as you’ve already alluded to, so there’s no problem there, and although you’ll have no leash as such you will report to me.”

  Munroe’s eyes tightened and Boris noted it straight away.

  “Temporarily, until we part ways.”

  With no complaint from Munroe, Boris continued. “As for how much we know, yes, you’re correct. Icarus has been on our radar for some time, but not because of his killings.” Boris reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a small photo which he displayed in front of Munroe. It was in high resolution and it showed the man known as Icarus in a smart grey suit making his way down the steps of a building Munroe knew well.

  “The Ministry of Defence.”

  “It was taken over a year ago, and it wasn’t the first time he was seen entering and leaving either, although despite our best efforts we haven’t been able to ascertain who he was meeting with.”

  Curiosity now gripped Munroe and his eyebrow raised slightly at the unpalatable suggestion being offered. “You think he’s one of ours!”

  Boris’s expressionless stare answered the question and Munroe’s head tilted back slightly in surprise. He knew damn well how the government worked. The different layers of reality that existed. On its surface the rule of law was absolute and rigid when dealing with society. It created certainty and stability for the citizens who lived in it, and rightly so. But there was a deeper layer, unspoken, unacknowledged, where ‘nothing was ever off the table’. What needed to be done would be done when protecting a nation, just as long as it remained in the deepest crevices of the intelligence world. But the use of a serial killer! Their mindset was usually chaotic, unpredictable and always self-serving. You’d have to be crazy to place any kind of trust or responsibility in a person like that… unless…

  “Icarus isn’t a serial killer, is he?” Munroe stated coldly, as Boris continued to stare, clearly wanting to see how much Munroe could discern with this fresh information. “Who were his victims?”

  “You know who his victims were,” Boris replied casually, “they’ve been on the front pages of the newspapers for months.”

  “I mean… who were they really?”

  “Three of them were just regular people, simply going about their daily lives.”

  “And the other two?”

  “That’s the problem, Ethan. The other two were MI6 agents.”

  Munroe rubbed his chin thoughtfully before settling upon the obvious conclusion. “You think the other three were just a distraction, like chaff in the wind.”

  “Maybe,” Doris chimed in, taking a step closer. “The targeted assassination of two MI6 agents, lost in the media frenzy around a serial killer’s victims.”

  Munroe was already doubtful and he shook his head, unconvinced. “But MI6 would know, two of their agents murdered. GCHQ would be all over it.”

  “One would think so,” Boris replied, his voice strained, “but there’s been no investigation. No one has even flagged it.”

  Boris and Doris’s assessment seemed improbable but certainly not illogical, and it in turn led to a far more disturbing problem. “You think someone in MI6 is targeting its own agents? Why?”

  “We don’t know,” Boris replied bluntly, “but we need to find out. There was also another contact on the mobile we found at Icarus’s house. A Mr Tobias Kessler, home address in France, near Bordeaux. Usually I would have one of our own take a look, but seeing as you’ve been pulled into this investigation unwittingly, and given the bizarre connection with the passing of your family, I suspect you would cause more problems being on the outside of this than you will be on the inside. And I know you can keep things hush-hush. So, with that in mind, I would like you to pay Mr Kessler a visit, see what you can dig up. He may be no one but, then again, maybe not. We don’t know. You can contact me here.” Boris passed over a handwritten number on a scrap of paper. “I’ll have a package waiting for you on your arrival, and as of this moment you have licence to kill status reinstated. Given your extensive background it won’t have been the first time, but don’t abuse it. You will be held responsible for your actions.”

  Licence to kill was nothing new to Munroe, but allowing it on Western soil was a rarity. Whoever Boris was he had a lot of pull, or at least was pretending to.

  “Seeing what happened here tonight, and the helicopter equipped with silent technology that we don’t even possess, I would say it goes a hell of a lot deeper than just one rogue MI6 agent,” Boris said sternly. “This Kessler chap is probably a dead end, but given how little we know I want all the boxes ticked.”

  In Munroe’s experience the eating of one of your own within the intelligence community was rare. It did happen from time to time, but only after serious consideration and never without the go-ahead from the top brass. Add the helicopter, and such an audacious breakout back on Waterloo Bridge, and this amounted to something else entirely. S
omething professional, something specialised, operating within the top tier of military capabilities. For the moment he was at a loss, but there was a question that could and needed to be answered. “So Boris, who are you exactly? MI5, MI6?”

  Whether it was because Munroe looked so curious, or just that he enjoyed playing the mystery man, Boris gave a grin and glanced over at Doris. “Neither. We work for a different department. One that keeps us off the usual books… DS5. And just so we’re clear from the outset, that designation is never to be repeated outside of us three. I’m placing a lot of faith in you, Ethan. I don’t just approach anyone with such information or tasks, but given your background, and your involvement, I’m prepared to trust you and give you a shot. Just remember, mentioning it to anyone outside of DS5 will get you a military court hearing. And that’s a promise.”

  “DS5?” Munroe was racking his brain, but it didn’t sound familiar. “Never heard of it.”

  “Not a bad thing either,” Boris replied gingerly. “Our scope deals in the areas of certain international affairs on behalf of the UK government.”

  There is no more pungent smell than that of bullshit, and Munroe’s nose was now filled with it. “That’s as vague as a fart in the wind,” Munroe said, now more concerned about who these people were rather than the tale they’d been spinning him. “Have an ID or credentials?”

  Boris said nothing, but Doris handed him an iPhone, whereupon he tapped in a number and placed it to his ear, waiting for an answer which was quickly forthcoming. “I’m here with Ethan Munroe, sir.”

  The other side of the conversation was inaudible to Munroe but after a few moments the mobile was passed over to him. “Hello.”

  “Captain Munroe?”

  The voice was familiar, although Munroe couldn’t quite place it. “Speaking.”