by Paul Starkey
Chalice’s stony countenance cracked. She winced, and Tyrell saw in her eyes genuine worry. Even Lucy looked shocked—although she may have still been worrying about what mundane secrets she’d let slip over tiramisu.
“At the risk of sounding like a broken record…”
“She’s the Shadow Foreign Secretary, John.”
“Oh. I see.” He turned to find Fox looking at him. “Fuck indeed.”
* * *
Ibex continued to talk, name after name, potential security breech after potential security breech. After a while Chalice stopped giving him her full attention. It wasn’t because she found what he had to say uninteresting, quite the reverse, but she needed to start thinking through the wider ramifications. What to do about this network of Chinese Nigerian agents? It wouldn’t be her decision of course, but knowing Sir George as well as she did she knew he’d at least ask her appraisal.
Her initial thoughts were that they had two options, though neither of them was perfect.
The first would be to lift the whole damn lot of them. Plug the holes in the dyke and either imprison or deport those involved, probably imprison then deport. On the upside it secured the breaches. It also put paid to any further agents the Chinese planned on funnelling through in that way. Nigerians entering the country would be watched like hawks from then on. The downside was that it would prove embarrassing, to both the Security Services, and to those people involved who’d inadvertently allowed cuckoos into their nests.
The second option was to leave Fēi in place and use the network to pass disinformation back to the Chinese. A variation on the classic Double Agent scenario first used by MI5 during World War 2, when the Security Services captured every German agent parachuted into Britain and turned almost a third of them. Along with agents like Garbo, such turncoats as Zig-Zag , Mutt and Summer provided a steady stream of disinformation back to the Abwehr throughout the war, and were instrumental in Operation Fortitude, fooling the Germans into believing the D-Day landing would happen far away from Normandy. The Double Cross system had been one of the greatest coups of the Security Services, and though she’d never met her, Chalice had read enough reports on Elspeth Timbrell to know she’d be up for some amateur spying. The trouble was, once it became clear that Ibex had dropped off the radar the Chinese might quickly smell the year of the rat.
Unless the Chinese could be convinced that Ibex hadn’t betrayed them. We could fake his death, set up a road accident maybe.
It wouldn’t be the first time; Chalice herself had been involved in a similar operation set up to cover the defection of a Croatian gangster. That time it had involved a particularly nasty house fire at the gangster’s home in Bermondsey. Not to mention the fresh cadavers of a Jane and John Doe—she’d Od’d on heroin and he’d died of exposure—to take the place of the gangster and his wife.
Yes, a car crash she decided. They had access to Ibex’s car. All they’d need would be a convenient body to put in it, and it was surprising—not to mention disturbing—just how many people died each day who no one cared about, who might as well have been invisible for what trace they left on the surface of the world. Already her mind was creating the scenario, like a film director composing a scene. A late night, a drunken driver sideswiping Ibex’s Volvo through a guardrail and down an embankment, a fuel leak, a spark…
I really need a holiday, I spend far too much time planning the deaths of others.
“Something amusing about Alun Beaufort’s nanny being a Chinese spy?”
She looked up to find Ibex had removed his glasses, and was staring at her. She realised then she’d been smiling at her predilection for hypothetical murder. There was nothing remotely humorous about a member of the board at BAe being compromised.
“I was just wondering,” she said, hands flat on the table now. “What corroboration you can offer us?”
“You think I’m lying?”
“I’d be foolish not to consider the possibility.”
He slipped the glasses back on. “Ms Knight, we have a saying in Nebraska, that we don’t lie, we just remember big.” He bared his teeth. “But in this instance I can assure you I’m not even remembering big. I appreciate though, that my word is hardly considered reliable. What I’d do is ask John there what he thinks.”
“Me?” said Tyrell after a moment.
“Yeah, you. How often did I lie to you and Sam?”
“Lie? Well…I mean on occasion your info wasn’t always…” Tyrell was blushing. “Wasn’t always exactly concrete…but on the whole it was good intel.”
Quintus took his eyes off Tyrell. John for his part looked relived at this. “I think what John is trying to say is that, on occasion, I have been known to bend the truth, but I never break it.” Another cheesy grin that she knew wouldn’t have reached his eyes, even if she could see them.
She wasn’t sure the word of a man with the fragile mental state of John Tyrell was as cast iron as Ibex thought, but she didn’t voice this, instead she said, “What else do you have?”
He shrugged. “Lots. The names of other agents for starters, another dozen. After that I have the identities of their contacts in the UK, the people they funnel their information via. Most of them are low level pond life, Nigerians on the fringes of legality, some Chinese who came over pre ‘97 via Hong Kong, you know the kind I mean; pimps and takeaway chefs.”
Had it been her imagination, or had he looked at Cheung when he mentioned Hong Kong?
“Ok. We’ll start with the names of the final twelve agents, then we’ll move on to the…”
She paused. Ibex was leaning back again in his seat now, the act accompanied by yet more creaking wood. He’d folded his arms, and he was no longer smiling. “It’s past nine, Ms Knight, and I don’t know about anyone else, but I can’t remember the last time I ate, the last time I rested, and I would very much like to do both before I continue.”
She was about to argue, but annoyingly Ibex had a point. Coffee with two sugars had staved off hunger pangs for a while, relegated tiredness to its room, but both were edging back. Add to this John Tyrell looked like he might collapse at any moment and…
The sudden grumble echoing from Fox’s stomach settled the matter. “Ok.”
Chapter twenty one
The Carmichaels’ kitchen was fully stocked as it turned out, and so Lucy’s carefully assembled box of goodies sat unopened on a worktop. As she nibbled at a slice of pizza she tried not to be too annoyed at this.
She couldn’t help but be impressed at how quickly the AGA heated up, how fast it cooked the pizzas they’d discovered in the fridge; two margaritas, two pepperonis. Cheung had insisted on playing mother and doing the cooking. She recalled from his file that, though his parents had followed more professional careers, his grandparents still owned a Chinese restaurant in Sheffield and she wondered if it was genetic.
She hadn’t even been able to make the drinks, John Tyrell insisting on doing so because, as he admitted, he hadn’t been much help to Brendan earlier. Fox had grunted something that sounded like a confirmation of this.
Lucy supposed she should be grateful they let her take dictation, although for all she knew Brendan Fox was going to suddenly reveal a penchant for shorthand. Glancing over she was just in time to see him stuff almost an entire slice of pizza into his mouth, melted cheese dribbling out over his lips.
Maybe not.
They’d found pitta bread and humus too, and Cheung had found ingredients to make a salad as well. Despite the fact that she was comfortable with her size, not falling into the trap of so many woman of her generation in perceiving herself as fatter than she was, she nonetheless took care with what she ate. She had never known her mother, but she had seen pictures, her dad had shown her plenty, and they showed a woman who’d once been as sylph like as Lucy was now, but who had ballooned over time, even before she’d fallen pregnant.
No point taking chances, she thought as she scooped another spoonful of salad onto her plate. She
tore the corner of one pitta and dipped it into the humus. The pizza smelt good, but she’d had one slice, that would be enough. It wasn’t just the calorie content that she feared, but it might be a long night and she’d need her wits about her, a full stomach always made her sluggish.
They’d talked as they’d eaten, clustered around the small pine table in the cooler kitchen, each of them putting their jackets back on despite the warmth from the AGA, with the exception of Quintus Armstrong, who seemed comfortable no matter the temperature. There were only four chairs, but Chalice and Thomas had found a pair of stools to perch on, looking incongruous a foot higher off the ground than everyone else.
They didn’t talk about anything of great import, each of them smart enough not to talk shop, to save that until they were back in the drawing room.
Fox spoke now, though it was an unintelligible mumble.
“Excuse me?” said Chalice.
Fox swallowed, twice, but still seemed to have a mouthful when he spoke. He was understandable now at least. “I said, did anyone want that last slice?” And he gestured to the lone cheese and tomato covered segment on the willow patterned plate
Spite almost overrode her good sense, and she almost said she did. It did look nice, and she knew Brendan would let her have it. No, let him enjoy his meal she thought, besides, if he gets so full he’s sluggish, then I might have an easier time of it.
Nobody else wanted the slice either, so with a wolfish grin Fox nabbed it and began eating.
“Where does he put it all?” said Cheung shaking his head.
Chalice shrugged.
“Hollow legs,” said Tyrell. “That’s what my mum used to say about me.”
Judging by his paunch his legs weren’t so hollow anymore, but Lucy knew that was unfair. He’d been through a lot.
“You can finish mine if you want?” said Quintus Armstrong pushing his plate away. The point of a pizza slice all that remained, a lonely looking circle of pepperoni balanced precariously on it.
Even Fox had reached his limit however.
Chalice was examining her watch. “Ok, it’s just about ten. I appreciate everyone is probably starting to feel a bit sleepy after the food and I do realise that people might need a rest.” She glanced at Ibex. “However we all need to be fully aware that we only have tonight.” Now her gaze tracked them all in turn. “The remainder of the briefing, I imagine, is not something we can complete very quickly.” Another look at Ibex.
“That would be correct,” said the American, a lazy smile on his lips. “In order to fill in all the blanks you no doubt will need filling in might take several hours. Longer if you feel the need to ask questions.”
Chalice nodded. “Very well then. I’m allowing an hour for rest, get some sleep if you can because once we restart the process it won’t be suspended again until we have everything that we need.”
She scraped her chair back against the stone floor and stood up. “Quintus, Lucy, Thomas and John will take a rest now.”
Lucy couldn’t help but see relief in Tyrell’s eyes.
Chalice continued. “Brendan and myself will stay on watch. When you’ve had your hour Thomas will take over the debriefing while we get our heads down for an hour.”
Lucy began to ponder why Chalice wouldn’t simply take a rest period at the same time as Quintus Armstrong, but she didn’t get long to ruminate upon this issue.
“You know,” said Cheung, looking slightly embarrassed. “I’m not really feeling that tired, so if you like I can stay awake and Brendan can take my hour?”
Chalice regarded him for a moment, but said nothing. As if on cue Fox yawned. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Ok,” said Chalice. “Brendan, you’ll restart the debriefing.”
Fox gave a mock salute.
“There are five bedrooms upstairs so take your pick but please, don’t make a mess.”
“Would we,” said Fox.
Brendan led the way out of the kitchen, Tyrell following like a puppy, then Quintus. Lucy went last, now wondering why both Chalice and Cheung had made an effort to stay awake.
Chapter twenty two
“Load the dishwasher will you, Tom,” said Chalice after they’d gone.
“Yes ma’am,” said Cheung. “Where will you be?” he asked, feeling more than a little self-conscious.
She smiled. “I thought I’d begin jotting down some questions for…” she paused. “Brendan to ask Ibex once we restart.”
Cheung winced inside. Why was I such an idiot, why’d I turn my back on this chance, he thought.
“When you’ve finished with the dishes, do me a favour and check all the downstairs rooms, just in case. I’ll be in the drawing room when you’re done.”
Within moments Cheung was alone. With a sigh he opened the rustically camouflaged dishwasher and slid the basket out. As he began to load it he wondered again why he’d turned down a golden opportunity to forward his own career. Handling even a portion of such an important debriefing would be a feather in anyone’s cap. It would have seen him in Chalice Knight’s good books and, more importantly, he might have learned valuable information that his future employers would find of interest. In particular he was intrigued to know more about the Chinese contacts in Nigeria.
Instead he’d made himself seem too cowardly to take the opportunity, Chalice wasn’t the sort to offer chances twice, and his future employers would likely be disappointed with him as well.
And for what reason?
Because Brendan Bloody Fox had rolled his eyes in a “help me out buddy” fashion and he’d instinctively deferred to him, putting his foot right in it as he did so.
The basket loaded now, Cheung shoved it back inside the appliance then slammed the door. Crockery and glassware rattled but he didn’t care.
Reaching under his jacket he gave the butt of his Sig 9mm a gentle tug to ensure it would move if needs be, then he headed for the door to the utility room, half hoping someone untoward was inside the house.
He really felt like shooting someone right now.
* * *
Tyrell had almost sighed out loud when Chalice had recommended a rest. Since leaving hospital tiredness had been something he’d grown to live with, to cope with, but to do so he had set routines. Like a small child he napped frequently and went to bed early. On those rare occasions when he’d forced himself to stay up later he had invariably paid for it the next day.
He knew that tomorrow he’d feel like shit, but the chance of a sleep now, even if only for an hour, was worth taking. It might at least extend the time he’d stay conscious before he finally had to give in, leaving the adults to play their grown up games while he went to bed like a pensioner.
The hall seemed cooler, but as they climbed the main staircase he noted that the chill intensified. They walked up the wide stairs two by two, he and Ibex walking side by side in silence behind Lucy and Brendan. At the midlevel landing Fox ushered Lucy up the left hand side staircase, this one too narrow for more than one person at once to climb.
Fox went next, then Tyrell, then Ibex. He had to admit to himself that he didn’t feel entirely comfortable with Quintus Armstrong behind him. Old habits died hard, especially for broken old spies.
He was surmising that there was something going on between Fox and Lucy. He spotted several signs. The tell-tale nervous smiles she cast over her shoulder, the way he could barely take his eyes off her backside. It was none of his business he knew, but during the meal downstairs it had become clear that Fox was still married, happily so by all accounts. He didn’t like to think he was cheating on his wife with Lucy, although she didn’t seem the sort, even if he was. Tyrell had been a womaniser, and would never deny that, but some lines you didn’t cross. Marriage was one of them. Marriage was an inviolable bond—his parents were still proving that to him, even now.
Absently the fingers of his left hand flexed. He fought back unwelcome thoughts; fake remembrances of real memories he no longer had. Instead he focused
on the house.
The first floor landing was almost as spartanly appointed as the downstairs’ entrance hall. An ornate, cherry wood banister overlooked the lower flight of stairs as they led down. There was a deep pile beige carpet covering the floor, and his feet seemed to sink into it as he walked. They only had the light that filtered up from below, and Tyrell tried not to be too obvious about looking for light switches.
“Nice view,” said Lucy. She’d dashed over to the central window—the one above the front door he realised.
Of course Fox followed, sidling up behind her and placing a hand on her shoulder. It made her yelp in surprise but Tyrell noted she didn’t tell him to move it.
“I’ll think leave the sightseeing to you youngsters,” said Ibex. “And I’ll leave the master bedroom for Miss Parrish. I’ll take the first other room I come to so please avoid that one, I tend to nod off at the drop of a hat.”
“Whatever,” mumbled Fox, but Ibex was already on the move, heading towards the door that led towards the rest of the house.
Tyrell considered following. He really was shattered, but he was also curious. There wasn’t room to stare out of the same window as Lucy and Fox, so he took the one to their right.
Lucy was right, it was spectacular, and given he’d been asleep on the way in it gave him an insight into the scale of the grounds. With no light inside, and little outside, he could see clearly the road that wound back from the gravelled parking area and between rows of trees. He couldn’t see the gate, but through gaps in the treeline he made out sections of the wall. It was so serene, so peaceful. In the far distance there was a cluster of lights, a village or the edge of a town perhaps. They looked so pretty twinkling in the darkness, and yet he found them unsettling as well. He recalled a mission to one of the North Sea rigs, an op that predated even his first experiences with Ibex, and remembered how isolated he’d felt. In the distance there’d been the lights of another rig, the occasional gout of flame leaping into the night, but it had seemed so very far away.
