by Paul Starkey
He heard a beep and turned. Fox was running his detector over Chalice whose arms were raised very much as Tyrell’s had been. “What about passive transmitters, or even ones that are switched off until needed?” he asked.
“This will pick them up,” explained Cheung handing the detector to him. “It misses nothing. Tyrell hefted the detector in both hands; it was practically weightless, made of some composite material. Cheung hadn’t finished though. “This sort of technology’s come on in leaps and bounds, just since 9-11.”
Those two numbers still had the ability to shock him. More so, he’d noted, than most other people. He guessed in the years that had passed most people had become inured to it, to the point where the images no longer impacted as they once had. For John Tyrell however… well for him it was like the planes had crashed into the twin towers just a few months ago.
“And before you ask, they’re tamper proof,” said Chalice.
He nodded. “Of course.” He handed it back to Cheung.
“He should be here by now,” said Fox. He’d moved to stand beside Tyrell and was drumming his nicotine stained fingertips on the wall as he looked over. Tyrell almost expected him to spit into the void.
“Quintus Armstrong is renowned for his lack of punctuality,” said Chalice.
“That’s true,” said Tyrell. “At least it used to be,” he added, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the way the three agents looked his way. “Ibex was always late, but he was never late by more than ten minutes. He does it on purpose, it’s about control. When was he due?”
Fox checked his watch. It was bulky, expensive looking. “Five minutes ago.”
Tyrell nodded. “Then he’ll be here within the next five minutes.”
“We’ll see,” said Fox dismissively.
The sound of a door opening prompted them all to turn. The redhead was leaning out of the vehicle. Her blouse was gaping open, and Tyrell saw more than a hint of the secrets beneath- the white lace of a bra, the curve of a breast. He forced himself to look away, to lift his gaze to meet her eyes, hoping not to see disgust there.
She was smiling, no hint that she was bothered by the voyeurs looking down her top. “He’s here,” she said simply.
“Thanks, Zoë,” said Chalice, and the woman ducked back inside. “You two stay here. John, might be an idea if you come with me. Familiar face and all that.”
He nodded, though he wasn’t sure how familiar his face would be to Ibex. So many years had passed, and he’d only ever been the junior agent. He left his bag on the floor and followed Chalice. She stopped and leant against the bonnet of the van. He drew level with her but resisted the urge to mirror her by leaning against the other one. Still he felt the urge to do something so he dug his hands into his jacket pockets.
He spotted Ibex right away, or rather he spotted his car. An old Rover was parked in the row opposite the vans, perhaps half a dozen spaces to the right. Its headlights were on, and Tyrell could hear the engine idling. The American didn’t feel safe, yet.
As they watched the Rover’s headlights flickered twice, then died. Perhaps ten seconds passed, then the lights came back on again, this time on full beam. Tyrell squinted, resisted lifting a hand to shade his eyes. A moment later the lights went dark again, this time they stayed dead.
He felt someone staring at him and turned to find Chalice was looking his way. She nodded curtly, and he realised she was looking past him, into the cab of the centre Transit. An instant later he caught a flicker of light at the periphery of his vision as the driver answered Ibex’s Signal.
Tyrell almost chuckled at the cliché of it. A car park, secret signals. Only his own remembrance of similar situations kept him grounded. He’d seen meetings like this go south a more than once, and given how much of a gap there was in his memories there were probably as many occasions he had no recollection of.
Mostly one of the two parties lost their nerve, leaving before the actual meeting could take place. Sometimes a third party would interject. Often these were innocents— a nosy passer-by, an inquisitive security guard—but not always; he remembered one time when the Czech StB minders assigned to a low level diplomat had exceeded their orders and snatched their charge just before he was about to defect. No shots had been fired, in fact no guns had even been shown, but still, for a few minutes the dingy underground car park had seemed on the verge of chaos and death—violence building in the air like static electricity before a storm. The storm never came, the Czechs managed to whisk their former comrade away without MI5 being able to stop them. They never did find out what happened to the diplomat in question, though they could guess. At best, prison for a long time, at worst a firing squad and an unmarked grave.
Nothing was happening, but Tyrell knew this was often the way of it. Ibex had been in danger from the moment he’d sent that email, and he’d remained in danger ever since, his position becoming more precarious with each communication that followed. Each one a new chance to slip up, be found out—the situation made worse by the fact he already served two masters; the Americans and the Chinese.
Despite that, the danger here, today, was infinitely more palpable. Talking was one thing, doing was something else entirely. When it was still hypothetical there was always a way out, even the Russians hadn’t been beyond forgiveness if a wayward soul confessed his sins early enough. This though, this was final. When—if—Ibex got out of the car and walked their way, he would be committing himself irrevocably to MI5’s tender mercies. From that point on his own country would only take him back in chains, and his Eastern paymasters would only want him dead.
“If he’s going to bolt it’ll be now,” he whispered.
“I know,” replied Chalice in kind, her words somewhat tart. He looked at her, noting the tiny twitch beneath her left eye.
The woman was more on edge than her demeanour suggested. Not that Tyrell had a right to judge, if anything he was more on edge than he looked, and he imagined he must look nervous as hell.
Several minutes passed. Tyrell’s legs began to ache; he felt the tiny birth of a headache above the bridge of his nose. He knew the symptoms well. Pretty soon the pain would grow worse, then it would move to the base of his skull. He cursed himself for not throwing painkillers into his bag. He’d been so eager though, even though he hadn’t quite realised it at the time, so eager to claw back something of his old life, no matter how thin a veneer that was.
He took a deep breath. One side had to make a move, he knew, and theoretically since they had the stronger hand, it should be them.
Chalice beat him to it. “We should meet him halfway.”
It had been exactly the thought he’d been contemplating, but he didn’t tell her. Fearful she’d have just thought he was trying to steal her thunder. Instead he said, “Good idea.”
Without hesitation she took three long strides out onto the roadway between the vehicles. She moved slowly, deliberately, and she kept her hands by her sides, palms facing outwards the whole time.
After a moment’s indecision Tyrell shuffled after her, only thinking to take his hands out of his pockets when he was by her side once more. What am I doing here, he thought I’m so far out of my depth it’s untrue. All he could think about was that this was a perfect spot for an ambush.
Ten seconds passed, twenty. The Rover’s engine still murmured. Chalice tensed, ready to move again, to step closer.
Tyrell reached out and gently grabbed her arm, the speed of his reflexes surprising him. She stopped and looked at him. There weren’t quite daggers in her eyes but it was clear she expected answers.
“No,” he said simply.
“No?” She kept her voice low but snapped the word.
He took his hand from her arm. “Don’t…” he heart began to pound, the headache was growing inside his head like an oil spill. “Don’t take another step, don’t give him the satisfaction. He likes games.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded anyway and she didn’t take anothe
r step. “How long do we give him?” she asked, not troubling to look at him again, keeping her focus on the Rover.
“A minute,” he said with assurance he didn’t feel. In truth he’d plucked the figure out of thin air. In truth he didn’t have a clue. He hoped she wouldn’t ask the obvious follow up question.
“Then what do we do?”
He could feel his hands sweating, an army of tiny arctic spiders skittering down his back. What do we do indeed, what do we do…what do I do…what…
The Rover’s engine died.
“Thank God,” muttered Tyrell.
Chalice cast a raised eyebrow in his direction but said nothing. Within seconds the Rover’s driver’s side door opened, and Ibex stepped out. All hesitation was gone now. He closed the door then, without even locking it, strolled quickly towards them, empty hands swinging by his sides. As he neared Tyrell heard several discordant notes, Ibex was whistling.
He stopped perhaps half a yard in front of them, an amused smile on his lips. When he spoke the accent took Tyrell by surprise. Gone was his American cadence, replaced by a badly realised Eastern European tone.
“I vant to defect,” said Ibex. And then he laughed.
Chapter eight
Quintus Armstrong had changed, like everyone else John Tyrell had ever known, but in Ibex’s case it wasn’t so much a case of him aging, so much as evolving.
He’d always been somewhat unconventional, and that was one reason he hadn’t climbed the career ladder as fast or as high as he would have liked, although Quintus would never have admitted as much, failure was always someone else’s problem.
Still he’d kept his eccentricities controlled—hadn’t flaunted them. With time however, it seemed he had become less and less concerned with how others perceived him. Tyrell wondered when the change had begun. After the Cold War ended, and Ibex lost his usefulness— or later, in the dry heat of Nigeria?
Whatever had precipitated it, the change was noticeable. His hair had always been salt and pepper coloured, and he’d always worn it longer than was perhaps wise, though never long enough to get a rebuke. There was more salt than pepper these days, and now it was long enough to tie back in a loose ponytail that danced between his shoulder blades.
Tyrell recalled that he’d never liked ties, and now he wore a pale blue shirt beneath his slightly darker blue sports jacket, the top three buttons of the shirt undone revealing wiry chest hairs that were predominantly still pepper and, hanging just above the forest of hair, was a necklace; black leather suspending bleached white bone and turquoise stones in a native American style. A large silver ring on his left ring finger was mounted with a matching turquoise stone. His right hand was adored with two rings, on his little and index fingers. They too had an ethnic origin, but it was far to the east—both were made of the bright gold beloved on the Indian subcontinent. A somewhat subtler circlet of gold had been pierced through his right ear.
His trousers were another shade of blue, darker than the shirt and the jacket, and made from lightweight cotton, given it was the end of September Tyrell was amazed he wasn’t shivering especially given that he was still as tall and scrawny as he recalled, not an ounce of excess fat on his body—Quintus Armstrong had always had supernatural willpower when it came to things, be it diet or betrayal. Despite the hippyish look Tyrell was surprised to find conservative brown oxfords on his feet…he’d half expected Jesus sandals.
His skin looked more weathered, and he had a healthy soaked in tan of the sort people who spent long periods in sunnier climes tended to acquire
He was still smiling at his own joke, thick wet lips still the only thing marring what was a relatively handsome face. He still wore glasses, huge round spectacles that had probably been out of style for decades, which meant they were probably back in again. The lenses were tinted, so Tyrell couldn’t see the familiar dark green eyes that never gave anything away. Whether he was angry, sad or deliriously happy they never altered, like the eyes of a statue they were always blank.
“John Tyrell,” he said now, extending his left hand.
Tyrell had forgotten Ibex was left handed, and this coupled with the fact that he had difficulty with left and right at the best of times these days meant that he reflexively replied with his right hand.
Before he had a chance to correct his mistake Quintus merely swapped hands. Tyrell was deliriously grateful.
“It’s been a long time, John,” he said now as they shook. “You look well.”
No I don’t, he thought, but thanks anyway.
“Mr Armstrong,” said Chalice with perhaps more force than she might have done. Ever so slightly she nudged her shoulder against Tyrell, extending her own hand towards Ibex now even as she gently pushed him aside. “My name is Chalice Knight.”
“Ah,” he replied as he took her hand now. “An exquisite name for an exquisite beauty.”
He smiled as he said it, but his tone remained flat. Tyrell remembered his accent being pure mid-Atlantic, with occasional soft Midwestern overtones, and it hadn’t changed a bit. He’d delivered a compliment, but there was no feeling behind the words. He also seemed to recall that Quintus had never seemed to show much interest in the opposite sex. Originally Sam Harris had suspected he was a homosexual, but they’d never gotten any proof of this, and in truth the longer they ran Quintus the more they got the impression that he found sex a tedious and unwelcome distraction. Then again maybe the ring on his wedding finger suggested times had changed? Without thinking he rubbed at his own bare ring finger.
Chalice smiled tightly. “Thank you, Mr Armstrong…”
“Quintus, please.”
She nodded. “Quintus. I’m the agent in charge of this operation.” Tyrell couldn’t blame her for making her position clear at the outset; especially given the way Quintus’s eyes flickered his way, as if curious as to why he wasn’t in charge. He was smart enough to say nothing and let Chalice continue.
“It’s fifteen forty now, as you can see we have several decoy vans as well as the one we’ll take.”
He gave a dismissive wave. “Not necessary, trust me I wasn’t followed, and I’m not under surveillance.”
“With all due respect, Quintus, you can’t be certain of that.”
“Yes I can,” he said. “The Chinese are extremely adept in many aspects of our…profession,” he smiled. “But the Second Bureau are hopeless when it comes to running a tail. As for the Americans…” he shrugged. “They have no reason to suspect me. If they did frankly I wouldn’t be standing here, I’d be in an orange jumpsuit somewhere.”
After his initial confusion over Tyrell’s role, Ibex had quickly reasserted himself, directing every word to Chalice now, not even looking his way. Tyrell didn’t mind. He’d had people he actually cared about ignore him since the illness, the snub of a traitor didn’t bother him. Plus it gave him freedom to observe.
Take the shoes. Given the rest of the outfit something less conservative might have been in order, but sandals would prove a problem if Ibex had to bolt. Plus with a sturdier shoe came the possibility of secret compartments. It showed Quintus still planned things in detail.
Then there was the way he’d said “The Americans”, not “my people” or something similar; divorcing himself from his homeland as well as from the Chinese. For the next day he would work for the British, but after that Quintus Armstrong no longer had ties to any country. Tyrell found the idea frankly terrifying, but he imagined for Quintus it promised great freedom. He might, with whatever fake ID he had in place, set up home back in the States once his deal with the Service was done, but somehow Tyrell doubted it.
He suddenly realised Chalice was talking. He used to be better at multitasking, as it was all he caught were a few words. “…safe than sorry.”
Quintus held his palms out in acquiescence. “Very well Ms Knight, if it makes you feel happier we can do things your way.” There was nothing condescending in his tone, but the implication was clear enough.
For her part Chalice Knight maintained her professional cool. “Excellent. Do you have any baggage?”
Ibex chuckled. “Plenty, but I’m assuming you mean luggage, in which case, no I don’t.”
Chalice raised an eyebrow at this.
“Ain’t necessary. This is a clean break for me; I’ve left everything behind, except for the clothes I’m standing in of course.” His accent had gotten more Nebraskan as he spoke. He might as well have added, ‘Don’t mind me, pretty lady, I’m just a simple country boy.’ Tyrell sincerely hoped Chalice Knight was smarter than to fall for it. He knew the talk of having no luggage was a lie. Quintus would have a bag somewhere, fake passport—or two—and money of course, or at least clean credit cards. Likely they were stashed for pickup after the MI5 team dropped him off in the morning. Tyrell suddenly frowned. He couldn’t remember where Sir George had said the drop off was going to be. Idiot, he chided himself. Have to take more care, repeat information over and over in my head so some of it sticks.
“…is it clean?”
He’d missed Chalice start speaking again.
Ibex nodded. “Don’t worry, the car’s registered under a false name. Should the police try and determine the owner they’ll discover a dingy little flat in Notting Hill that was rented two months ago and hasn’t been lived in since.” He shrugged. “Besides, it will be days before the parking garage owners even realise it’s been abandoned here.”
“Ok then. In that case let’s not waste any more time.” Chalice stepped to one side and gestured towards the vans like a waiter directing a diner to his table.
After a moment Quintus began walking towards the waiting vehicles, the hesitation had been minimal, but there all the same. Tyrell had seen it before, the final step in the journey of betrayal was often the hardest.
They followed in his wake, neither speaking, both of them scanning the cavernous parking space as they walked, on guard for any surprises, though what an unarmed and decrepit John Tyrell would do if there were was anyone’s guess. Thankfully there were none, not even an innocent civilian looking to park. When they reached the vans Chalice instructed Quintus to walk between the left and centre vans, as she had with Tyrell, and as with him Messrs Fox and Cheung were waiting to search him, both manually and with their gadgets. Chalice didn’t even bother introducing the two young agents until they’d given Ibex a clean bill of health—quite telling that. Fox asked him about a mobile and Ibex responded that he’d left his cell phone at home. Absently Tyrell noted that his bag was gone. More pertinently he wondered what Quintus would have done if they hadn’t been here waiting for him? Like a guy stood up on a date would he have waited around until his humiliation was complete, would he have bolted like a scared cat, running off with a fake identity, only to a slightly more poverty stricken new life than he’d planned? Or would he have calmly returned to his old life and carried on as normal? Tyrell suspected the third option was the most likely. Ibex had always been brazen.
