It would be good to see the man when he came: they would be partners. He would need her for the negotiations.
The restaurant served only Russian food: the waiters were immigrants. He had enjoyed his morning walk and now Timofey Simonov was with those who thought they were his friends.
A table had been booked at the back of the restaurant. Across the room, plate-glass picture windows gave a view onto the street, the river esplanade and the tall spa villas from the end of the nineteenth century and churches, the whole topped with the trees changing colour and clear blue skies. He had ordered golubtsi to start: cabbage stuffed with millet. He would follow with kurniki: chicken pie with rice, hard-boiled egg and mushrooms. He would drink mineral water bottled in the north Caucasus, and would talk in Russian. The conversation would be about grandchildren, though he did not have any, the price of property, political developments at home and the influence of the siloviki. He would neither contribute nor share opinions. He would laugh when others laughed. He told them about his dogs and when they had last put up a deer in the woods behind his home. He was different from all of the four men around the table.
He couldn’t see the window: his back was to the door. The other four had jockeyed for positions where they could observe who entered the restaurant. He thought that, still, they kept to the habits of the Motherland. One had successfully founded a bank in Cypriot Limassol; one had sold a Siberian oil well to the state – the money transfer had been honoured; the third had been a KGB officer of the old regime and now did cyber work from abroad for the SVR, his former employer’s successor. The last had owned a group in St Petersburg. It had been taken over, he had been rewarded and had escaped with his life. All four wished to face the door. Each had two bodyguards, one on the street, the other at a nearby table. They would be armed: arrangements made with officials in the town for the issue of legal permits. He had left the brigadier behind. There were firearms in a floor safe in the basement office at the villa, and ammunition, but they were seldom taken out. He did not regard his life, security or freedom to be threatened.
They knew little of him. They knew something of his wealth but not its extent.
They would have realised he had a solid ‘roof’ in place, but did not know whether it came from government, intelligence or organised crime. They might have wondered if their conversation bored him because there were moments when he seemed distant from them.
He had a keen imagination and good insight.
He saw the lock-up garage near the Iset river. A young man, no more than a youth, sat on a hard chair, his arms tied behind his back. He was stripped to the waist and his body showed the tattoos that came from gaol: he would have been under the needle to demonstrate his importance as a criminal, a badge of honour. His shoes were off, his socks beside them, and his jeans had been cut with a knife at the knees. It had drawn blood there. His struggles were lessening, and he made shrill grunting noises through the tightly tied gag. His feet were in an oil drum of which half of the sides had been taken off, leaving a ragged edge. A man now emptied a sack of cement into the drum, covering his legs. A second man filled a bucket with water from a tap against the garage’s back wall. He would tip it onto the cement. They would not need to stir it into the cement as the leg movements would thicken it. The young man was asked no questions. He could not save his life though confession. His death was assured, authorised by the former intelligence officer, now eating chicken pie, whom he had crossed without knowing it.
Timofey Simonov drank only water. He could count the years since he had last been rendered incapable of coherent thought by alcohol. He had been with Ralph Exton – a true friend. Another thought. It was less clear in his mind because he didn’t know London.
He had seen a passport photograph of the Serbian but – of course – had not met him. A slim man, tall, with a crop of close-cut greying hair, a master of his trade, which did not come cheaply. An arrangement had been agreed. From the embassy there had been an envoy, a meeting, a budget, and what intelligence had been gathered was handed to him. There was neither a paper nor an electronic trail connecting the diplomats to him. He thought the marksman would now be driving an airport car far out from the British capital. There were supposed to be wildernesses in Wales and the remote moors in the extreme west. The rifle would be in the hatchback, stored in a case with polystyrene shapes to hold it secure on the journey. He thought the Serb might fire four shots to satisfy himself of the calibration of the telescopic sight. His own share, after payment to the marksman and the purchase of the weapon, was a hundred thousand American dollars – and he would also win gratitude.
He sipped his imported water. When Ralph Exton came, he might drink alcohol. The deal was ridiculous, as the brigadier had said, and he had accepted it only because Ralph Exton was a true friend.
The engine seemed to be misfiring, and was spewing dark fumes. Ralph Exton intended to drive to Heathrow. The size of the last taxi bill, coming home, had frightened him. Most of his accounts were overdrawn, most of his bills outstanding, and what was due to him from the Irish, when the deal went through, would be more than welcome. He needed a new car. Trouble was, what with the bills, he could have spent the Irish money three times over. The car sounded sick.
He drove away from home.
His wife, extraordinary, was out. She’d come back briefly, changed and gone again. They’d exchanged pleasantries: her appearance, the weather. Tomorrow, or the day after, was their wedding anniversary. He hadn’t bought anything. Would she have something for him? Would her parents have remembered and put a card in the post? It was unlikely.
He might have let slip to some that he was a central part of the community from which the duchess came. He would not have said he knew her well, but had implied they were on nodding terms. It had helped with a deal for Bulgarian furniture that should have done better, except the shifty bastards had skimped on the glue, and the out-of-sight joints were the worst fitted he’d ever seen. There were people down on the Costa who put stuff his way and liked him.
He drove towards Reading. Ralph Exton thought he might phone home the next evening and hope to speak to her. He would wish her a happy anniversary, and hope she’d had a good day . . . It hurt. He pretended it didn’t – put on a brave face.
There was a pub off to the left, fronting onto a village green and a duck pond. They’d had a meet there. Him, Gaby and Hugo. It had been important enough for them to hang on what he’d said. He passed it and saw that the car park was full. There were the golfers, the guys who’d sold their Ford dealership franchise, others who ran property portfolios, and they’d been nattering. In the corner, under some horse brasses, Ralph had told his handlers what was now asked of him. He was still in shock. He’d come off the first plane of the day from Málaga. The proposition had been put late the previous night. He’d spluttered, ‘You are joking?’ The three men had said, their voices covered by the folklorique musicians, ‘Never been more serious, Ralph. Right thing for you, and you’re a man who can deliver. Not something we’d joke about.’ They didn’t want Marlboro cartons by the crate. They were looking at assault rifles, grenade-launchers, big machine-guns, military explosive and detonators. It was all written out – atrocious handwriting. Trouble was, he hadn’t said, it was beyond him. His reply: ‘Might be able to do something. Might have a man who could fix that sort of business for me. Give me a moment.’ He had gone outside, into the gardens, and rung the villa. He had talked to Timofey Simonov. For you, friend, for you, Ralph. Should have kept his mouth shut.
Could he pull out? He remembered asking it, his nerves frayed.
Hugo had said, ‘Hardly the right time, Ralph.’
Gaby had said, ‘We really value you, Ralph. You’re special to us. What you do saves lives. Ralph, we’re here to look after you. We take your safety very seriously.’
They’d treated his anxiety as if it were a joke, dismissed it. When would have been the right time to demand to quit? But he had no cards in h
is hand: they had the power to lock him up. Might as well have had a ball and chain attached to his ankle. Later the envelope had arrived with the postman: the photograph of his front gate and house. He’d told them, but they hadn’t seemed to register it. Five had him, and the Irish had him. Timofey Simonov was his friend, and that was another matter. He reflected that it was a small miracle he didn’t run into a lamppost. He was on a treadmill, it was speeding up, and he didn’t know how to get off. Ralph, we’re here to look after you. He had to believe her.
A young woman came in, caught his eye, then ordered at the counter. He had sat for more than twenty minutes, staring at his empty glass. Around him people were eating. Danny Curnow was tired and grubby. He thought he probably stank. Every other table was taken but at his there were two empty chairs. She had two cardboard beakers, paid, stared at him, decided the link was made and jerked her head for him to follow her out.
She went through the door, held it open with her hip. He sat in his chair and had his elbows on the table, with the empty glass. She made the contact again, but he stayed in his seat. Others were now looking at her, wondering how long she intended to hold the door open, letting in the draught. She was short with dark hair, jeans, a sweater and an anorak. Danny assumed she thought that a suitable uniform to demonstrate she was not an analyst at a desk, but actually at the business end. Bentinick had said only that Danny would work with her.
Annoyance in her face. She let the door swing back and walked over to him. He looked up at her. In Caen, at the house, it was almost impossible to anger Lisette or Christine. Neither had tantrums, and neither wanted authority.
‘You’re Danny?’
‘Are you Miss Davies?’
She said, grudgingly, ‘Can we go outside?’
He had had no allies at Gough. He could remain inside the family and still have no friendships. He had accepted Matthew Bentinick’s leadership, and Dusty Miller as his sidekick. He stared back at her, then stood, hitched his rucksack over one shoulder and chicaned between the tables. She led. At the end of the street there was a park, prettily kept, with benches around an outer path and old gravestones. She sat and passed him a coffee. He could have said he didn’t drink coffee, but saw no point. She had a north-east accent and told him the garden had been used by one of the acknowledged stellar personalities of the Service for meetings, that she’d smoke incessantly and curse but was gone now. There were two gardeners on the far side, clearing beds of summer flowers, raking and filling a barrow. One had a wan complexion and a limp.
She told him that she was Gabrielle, usually Gaby. She said she had been yesterday in the Province and that she handled an agent. She expanded on him, as if he was her property: cheerful, probably one of life’s losers, a minor crook and a major dealer in anything that showed a profit percentage, light on his tax and VAT if he qualified, heavy in dealings with the new Irish. He had started with cigarettes coming in off trawlers to the south-west, a Kerry port, or containers into Cork harbour. He was trusted . . . trusted enough to be asked – as a dealer in about anything – if his contact book went as far as a weapon supplier’s name.
He sat and listened, holding the beaker in both hands and gazing at the man with the limp, whose back was straight enough for him to be ex-army: another damaged and discarded guy who now gardened for a living. He listened. She had been there the day before, with a guy who was on a higher grade. The agent had gone forward in fog and had had fuck-all back-up. Her boss – ‘wanker’ – had given a demonstration of post-traumatic stress disorder, and was now on sick leave. She was to lead; they were going that evening. It would be an exodus. The Joe was flying out and would do the business with a Russian from far back in his life, the vendor. The purchaser was in County Tyrone.
Danny Curnow did not say where he had been, or why.
She would manage the operation from the ground, would have control. Danny – for reasons not explained to her – was going on a separate Prague flight with Matthew Bentinick. Did he go back with Bentinick? He saw no need to answer. She drained her coffee. He declined to pass judgement yet on whether she was good, bad or indifferent. There had been women in the Force Recce Unit, good and not pushy. Also – he had never met her, but stories were legion – there had been a Five girl who worked out of Belfast and ran a Joe called Mossie Nugent on the mountain. They’d taken down a big man, and he was in one of the graveyards. Mossie Nugent was in the same one but his plot was on the far side; the Nugent widow still lived there, shunned. He had not met the Five girl, but had been with Special Forces and they would have gone through fire for her. He had also heard that she was a shell of what she had been. That was what the Province and the job did to the handlers.
Had he any questions? None. Her coffee was finished, and she stood. ‘Sorry and all that, but I can’t bring you inside. Security protocol, you understand.’
‘Of course.’
‘I think Mr Bentinick will come and pick you up from here when he’s ready to leave. Anything you’d like to say, Danny?’
They probably taught that approach – bank manager to a client – to the young people coming into the building. ‘Only one thing.’
‘Please, go ahead.’
‘You seemed to imply I’d be behind you, that you’d lead.’
‘I did, and I will. What’s the one thing.’
‘Miss Davies, if I’m behind you then the temptation to kick you hard in the butt and out of my way – no offence – might be irresistible.’
He assumed there would be a look that might have killed, but his back was to her. He went to the bin and dropped the coffee beaker into it. He thought of where he should have been, pictured it, and the safety of the place.
They always formed a little cluster close to the guide. Such a vast place, from the harbour jutting into the sea to their left and the expanse of the dunes to the right. In front of them was the beach, and the tide was out. The guide would try to convey the noise and crisis of those days when 400,000 British and French soldiers had been there without any vestige of cover. He would speak of the small mercy of low cloud cover on some of the ten days of the evacuation, a hindrance to the dive bombers. The tourists would look towards the sea and conjure images of burning or listing ships and of the lines of soldiers stretched towards and into the water. They might imagine how many had drowned when the tide had ebbed in. Always a guide mentioned how close Great Britain and Northern Ireland had been to the catastrophe of defeat in total war, and how the King had led prayers for the nation. Big ships and little boats had come in, through the inferno, and had taken off around thirty-five thousand men each day for ten days. The tourists were always quietest when told of the sacrifice. Whole units had fought with their backs to the beach, had resisted the panzer forces and held a blood-soaked perimeter line. They had done it so that others might get home – might fight again. A third of the 350,000 were French, and they had sailed for the Kentish ports. They had gone back to France from Portsmouth, in time to re-enlist, then crumbled again and surrendered. Men had died to give them that chance. Little gasps came from the tourists when they heard that.
A young couple jogged near the water line and three men were in the low surf, riding two-wheeled carts drawn by frisky horses, and far out to sea, halfway to England, container ships and tankers edged north and south, to and from Rotterdam. So little to see and so much to imagine. The tourists would struggle to compose pictures for their little cameras that did justice to the events of the place. The chaos and suffering would have been so great.
Dusty watched them, and the guide’s reedy voice was carried to him over the wind. He thought he might have lost a limb.
Bad to be without Danny Curnow and not to know where he was. Danny would have been at the edge of the group, not interrupting or interfering. A wise guide would catch his eye and Danny would inject a little dose of truth, perhaps about the French who had gone back, resisting the chance to stay in England. They had returned to their own military, then spent the rest
of the war in prison camps or as forced labour in factories. Dusty listened to the guide and remembered the day when playing God had led to success, and others when it had left the handler scarred. He remembered what Desperate had done.
An active-service unit had planned to hit a bar in loyalist Bangor, where the Union Flags flew and the kerbstones were red, white and blue. The tout was on the team that was going to drive out from west Belfast, well armed. The bar would be full and they’d spray the bullets around. If they put a ring of steel and road blocks round the bar then it would be obvious to the ASU’s people that there had been a leak – the tout would be fingered, break under torture and end up dead in a ditch. All the handler’s time spent on him, and the money, would have gone to waste. Desperate had come up with a counter-plan, and Captain Bentinick had sanctioned it. They knew what car the active-service unit were using to come into Bangor, and the action would take place when it passed through Crawfordsburn. Time would be tight – a road accident. Two undercover police cars had a shunt outside the bar, glass in the road, wings and sides dented. The blue lights were there fast, sirens and an ambulance. The boys of the ASU, with the tout on the back seat, gripping his AK, came up the street, saw the lights, the chaos and the watching crowd. They did a three-point and got the hell out. The best result. A new lease on life for the tout, and God wasn’t bothered.
Dusty saw the tourists start to meander up the beach. A few took a last photograph, and all were subdued.
‘It’s intolerable. He’s rude, boorish, and probably a dinosaur.’
‘An interesting evaluation, Gaby.’
‘It’s a delicate mission, high stakes to play for.’
‘Quite.’
He let her speak. An infuriating tactic Matthew Bentinick employed was to continue to work at his screen, seeming to listen but apparently paying little attention to what he was told. The outsider was left to stand. Perhaps she was amused that an old hand would play games of precedence. It was a dreary room, but Gaby Davies, from a north-east city where money was tight and interior décor minimal, was no expert in wallpaper designs and lampshades. She wondered why any vestige of humanity in the man was so artfully hidden: no family photographs, no pot plant on the windowsill, no painting of a rural scene. His jacket hung from a hook behind the door, with his raincoat and a trilby; his waistcoat was unbuttoned and his tie loosened. There was a floor safe and two padlocked shoulder-high filing cabinets. The leave chart was stuck to the wall: the last time she had been in the room she had checked her name and seen the dates entered for a break she planned in northern Spain at the end of October; and his column was bare for the year. His wife must have been a saint, or detached, and she’d never heard of children. It was the indifference he showed, and the failure to respond to her accusation of rudeness – then the temptation to kick you hard in the butt and out of my way – no offence – might be irresistible – that riled her most. A direct threat of physical violence. She pushed on.
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