by Paul Starkey
Now— finally— a reaction. He lurched forwards, fists slamming onto the table. “Low ranking?”
“Temper temper, Ibex. If I were you I’d keep that under control when you’re debriefed at Vauxhall Cross.” He frowned. “Oh that’s right,” continued Chalice. “No point MI5 conducting your debrief when you were in it with a Deputy Director General. We’ll be going straight to SIS when we leave here.”
Ibex’s outburst seemed forgotten now. He was calm once more as he leaned back in his seat, a dry chuckle barely escaping from between his lips. “When we leave here?” He said. “Have you forgotten our situation? The ghosts, the goblins...”
“He has a point,” said Cheung.
Her eyes narrowed, definitely not at the top of my game right now. “I think the house will let us leave. Worse case scenario it’ll want to hang onto this charmer here.” And she gestured dismissively towards Ibex with the gun. “But that likely saves a bullet.”
“Oh you have no idea what’s going on here do you? This house likely has more interest in all of you than me.”
“You’re a traitor,” said Tyrell. “You betrayed your country and you even betrayed the people you betrayed your country to.”
Quintus sneered at him, but quickly returned his gaze to Chalice, and to the gun pointed at him. “Do you know what Kim Philby once said? He said that in order to betray you have to belong, and he’d never belonged. Well, I’m the same. My passport says American, but I’ve never belonged there. Notions of nationhood, of patriotism, are nothing more than hollow facades that keep the world turning.
“Take the place of my birth for example, two hundred million people loosely banded together by a shared arrogance based on nothing more than being richer than everyone else. Now look at you Brits, a tiny island that once punched above its weight and has been living on the memories of that power ever since. You don’t see the Italians banging on about the Romans do you? Of course not, they’ve come to terms with it, not like you.
“Now, who else? Ah yes, the Russians. Timid drunks who toiled for decades under tyranny, yet what do they do when they get a bit of freedom, a touch of,” he paused, snorted. “Democracy? They quickly turn their backs on it and realise they prefer living under the rule of a dictator after all.
“Now the Chinese, I have some respect for, but they’re still as deluded as everyone else, imagining they can balance totalitarianism with capitalism.” Ibex shrugged. ‘The A-rabs at least stick to their beliefs, no matter what, they don’t crack easy. Ain’t that right, John?” and he aimed a crude wink in Tyrell’s direction.
“What are you jabbering on about?” said Tyrell.
Ibex looked at Chalice. “She knows, even if you don’t remember any more, John. She knows.”
“Shut up, Quintus.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so, little lady. John has a right to know what kind of a man he was, has a right to know why this house likely detests him as much as poor sweet Lucy.”
Tyrell was still sat right next to Ibex, but he wasn’t looking at the man, he was staring at her. Chalice winced at the look of fear in his eyes.
“Ignore him,” she said, but it was a hollow instruction. The only way to shut Ibex up was to shoot him, and she wasn’t quite at that point yet. So she’d have to let him blurt it out, have to let him tell Tyrell what she knew but he’d forgotten. Still if nothing else she could offer a platitude at least. “You’re not the same man, John. Remember that.”
Ibex laughed.
“What?” said Tyrell, looking more exasperated by the moment. He turned towards Ibex. “What?” he almost pleaded.
“John Tyrell, one of the most experienced MI5 field operatives, a man who’d spent months, years working with the State Department in Washington, a man who became something of an expert on Islamic terrorism after 9/11, one of the foremost British experts.” Ibex smiled. “Who better to assist some of our less civilised allies in questioning British subjects rounded up in Afghanistan, or Pakistan.” He chuckled. “Or Liverpool.”
That did it. Tyrell moved fast for a man so handicapped by age and illness. His chair shot back, he stood, stepping back with it. “That’s a lie, that’s a fucking lie!” he screamed, but his voice was fragile, broken. Anger had consumed him, but the fire burned itself out quickly. As he slumped back in the chair there were tears in his eyes. He looked at her, a pleading look in his eyes.
She could have lied, but what would be the point. “It’s true, John. Nothing was ever proven, and whatever you did wasn’t officially sanctioned, but people knew, to most it was rumour, speculation, but Sir George confided in me, said it was important that I realised you aren’t the same man. Focus on that, John. You aren’t that man.”
“Of course he is,” said Ibex. “But it isn’t like he’s the only guilty party here, is it?” and he smirked her way.
She felt cold. She was pointing a gun at him, and he was unarmed, yet for all the confidence he was showing you’d think their roles were reversed.
“Stop playing games, Ibex.”
He looked offended. “I don’t play games, Ms Knight. John Tyrell isn’t the only fucked up excuse for a human being here. Take Tommy; tell me, who answered the phone when you rang?” Cheung said nothing, but she saw it in his eyes. He was rattled.
“Not saying?” said Ibex. “I’m guessing something to do with an accident…” he placed his fingers to his temple, like a seaside psychic. “A road accident I’m gue…”
“Shut up,” snapped Cheung.
Ibex lowered his hands. “Bingo. Had a bit of a smash didn’t you, but I’m guessing you walked away from it and someone else didn’t”
“Shut up,” said Cheung once more, but like Tyrell his voice lacked conviction.
Ibex smiled sweetly and turned his attention back to her. The way he blithely ignored the gun pointing at him disturbed her more than she’d have cared to admit. “Which brings us back to you. I heard you on the phone, saw the look on your face. You were Israeli Defence Force, yet you said sorry in Arabic.” He sat back, looking smug. “Kill yourself an innocent little Palestinian or two? A child maybe…” he leaned forwards, put both elbows on the table and gestured towards her with his index fingers. “No…not a kid…” he was practically beaming now. “A lover?”
The anger within her had kept rising, and now the pressure gauge had tripped into the red zone. To hell with her career, to hell with morality, she was going to kill him.
She was squeezing the pistol so tightly that she absently wondered if the molecules of her hand might merge with the metal; biology and technology becoming one murderous, symbiotic creature. Still she held her rage in check, allowed herself a moment to adjust her aim. She didn’t need to do it, the gun was pointing squarely at Ibex’s chest, but she wanted to do it, because she wanted him to see it coming.
And there it was, a tiny flicker of something on his face, the smile fading, just a notch as he realised she was about to kill him. Still the tinted glasses hid his eyes, but she knew by now that they really didn’t hide anything.
Well in a second his eyes would be truly lifeless.
Her finger tensed against the trigger.
The lights went out.
Chapter Thirty eight
Even as darkness engulfed the room once more, even as she cursed this bloody house, still she concentrated on the task at hand. She pulled the trigger, hoping Ibex wouldn’t have had the reflexes to move.
She heard the bang, yet felt no recoil. A nanosecond later she realised why as a tornado blew through the room. Another bang, and this time she did feel the recoil, but at the same time the wind wrapped icy tendrils around her hand and jerked her aim.
Chaos, panic and darkness were not well matched playmates. In the blackness she heard the scream of wind and, almost buried within it, a host of other sounds. Furniture toppling—or being blown—over, a grunt as if someone had been hit, and a succession of bangs…
At first she thought someone was shooting, a
nd for a second she actually wondered if it was her, but then she realised it was the noise of a heavy door flapping in the wind, slamming itself against the wall, again and again like the one upstairs.
The wind seemed to want to haul her out of her seat, so she let it, tumbling to the floor, the dining chair falling with her. Close to the ground would be safer; in case Ibex got a gun, hell in case Tom or John decided to take panicked pot shots.
Someone cried out, not the grunt of annoyance this time, this was a cry of true pain. Had there been a gunshot hidden within the door’s never ending drumbeat? She didn’t know, and there was no way to find out. If she shouted to her fellows, then she risked giving away her position, and probably giving away theirs too. If Ibex was still breathing, and if he were now armed, then she wasn’t about to line up her friends like so many fairground ducks…
“Chalice! Tom!”
Tyrell’s cries were almost lost within the storm that whipped around the room. She didn’t reply, instead, sticking as close to the carpet as she could, she re-orientated herself so that she was pointing towards the direction of Tyrell’s voice. It wasn’t easy. Even with her hugging the floor the wind tugged and snapped at her like a pack of dogs, and with each passing second she expected the storm to snatch her up and hurl her across the room.
Somehow she stayed flat. She raised the Beretta. Twelve rounds left but she only needed one…only one. She tried to make out any sound beyond the wind or the slamming door, her hope was that Tyrell would yell again, and when he did that Ibex—if he were armed—would chance a shot.
It was a shitty tactic, because it might cost Tyrell his life, but Quintus Armstrong would be aiming in the vague direction of a sound, so John would be hard to hit. She, on the other hand, would have Ibex’s muzzle flash to aim for, giving her the advantage.
Eventually he did yell again, just for her this time. She tensed, eyes shifting left and right within the darkness, waiting, hoping, for a spark…
None came.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath.
The storm was showing no sign of abating, and despite the fact that Tyrell kept shouting, there was no sign that Ibex was still alive, let alone had a gun. It was time to change tactics.
“I’m here, John,” she yelled into the storm, wincing as she expected bullets to start flying.
Nothing.
“Are you ok? Where…where are you!” Again he sounded like nothing less than a lost child.
“I’m close by, John. Listen; get down on the floor, close to the ground as you can.”
“Already there!”
She smiled. “I’m going to crawl over to you, just keep shouting my name every few seconds.” She paused. “Tom, are you there too?” No answer. “Tom, if you can hear me sing out.” Nothing. She sighed. “Felix?”
This time there was a response, but all it amounted to was a strangled mumble that made her heart sink because she guessed what that meant. “Quintus!”
“Yes?” He sounded amused. Despite the fact he hadn’t really shouted, still his voice seemed to carry, the frequency just right to cut through the wind. Not quite clear enough to get a fix on his location though…
While she was pondering this, Ibex continued. “I know what you’re thinking, thinking you can aim for my voice, well I’m sure you realise by now that that would be a very bad idea.” He added a chuckle as punctuation.
He had Felix, and was using him as a shield. Or else he wanted her to think he did. She could shoot anyway. She was alive, and John was still alive. For all she knew Ibex might be hiding behind Tom’s corpse.
If it had just been down to ethical constraints, she might have fired, taken Ibex down and dealt with the guilt later; but it wasn’t just about ethics. It was about logic too. If he did have a shield, then by firing she ran the risk of not even scratching him, whilst giving her own position away more specifically than her shouts had.
“I can almost hear the cogs whirring, Ms Knight.”
“It’s Miss, arsehole,” she muttered under her breath. Then, louder, “What do you want?”
Laughter echoed from the darkness; seeming to rise in pitch with each passing second until it died. Or was it that the wind dying down?
“We don’t have time for games, Ibex!”
“Oh there’s always time for games…all I wanted was to stop you firing blindly into the night. And the same goes for you, Tyrell.”
The other man didn’t answer back. Chalice frowned. Would Tyrell be smart enough to do what she’d be doing in his situation?
Ibex seemed unperturbed by the lack of response. “You always did know when to keep your mouth shut, John. Back in the day, you let Sam Harris do all the talking, and now you defer to Chalice. Ironic isn’t it, that the only time you had any balls, any real authority, is just a memory now.” Another chuckle. “Not even a memory, the ghost of a memory.”
She had to turn his attention away from Tyrell, had to hope John was doing what she’d want him to do, had to give him the space if he was. “You know you’re not getting out of here, Quintus.”
“So you say, but you’ll find I’ve gotten myself out of worse situations.”
Had he revealed a chink in his armour? The wind was definitely dying down, Ibex’s voice was louder, and the door slams were coming less frequently. Would the lights come back up when the storm had ended? She had to be ready. Even if he was hiding behind Tom or Felix, she was a good shot, especially at close range, so there was a chance at least to take him down.
“More cogs. You can’t kill me.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but trust me, I can.” And I will, she added silently.
There was little more than a breeze now, and at least thirty seconds had passed since the last slam of the door. If the lights were going back up it would be soon.
“No, no, no, little lady. Kill me and you’ll never know for sure whose idea Bottlewood was. Never be able to pin it on Sir George.”
“I’ll pin it on him. Witnesses here have heard you, and if we dig around in Lucy’s history I’m guessing all sorts of things will come to light. Mellanby will have slipped up, his sort always do.”
“Maybe, but without me it’s all so circumstantial. Worst case scenario; he’ll be retired, nice pension and all the time in the world to play around with that Cessna he has at Cranfield, or with that little slut he keeps squirreled away in the Channel Islands.”
No attempt at dissembling now, no more pretending this was all just a big mistake. She should have found comfort in this, instead it worried her. Maybe she should take the shot now, fire four or five rounds the next time he spoke and to hell with the conce…
The lights burned back into being whilst she was thinking. Too damn slow, Chalice, she thought even as she squinted. The darkness had lasted just long enough for her eyes to have adapted. She was a sitting duck, a sitting and squinting duck. She lifted her gun arm anyway; if she was going to die maybe she’d get a few shots off.
“That’s better,” said Ibex. “Now we can all see what’s what.”
Her eyesight returned quickly, the room coming back into focus a bit at a time whilst she looked around. The first thing she noticed was that Ibex was no longer on the other side of the table where he’d been sat. There was just an empty seat now. The table was still covered with their paraphernalia, notebooks, pens, poisoned coffee mugs…it was all still there; despite the storm nothing seemed to have moved so much as a millimetre. She glanced back at the door. It was shut, and she might have believed she’d imagined the whole thing, were it not for the scratches on the surface of the wall, and gouged into the mahogany door; not to mention the deep hole that had been punched in the wall by the repeated impact of the door handle.
As her gaze swung back the way it’d come she realised that Ibex had somehow gotten behind her. She rose up on her haunches and turned around. The guy was a magician, or at the very least a ventriloquist, she’d been sure his voice had been coming from the other side of the ta
ble.
But no, there he was, standing just a few feet away, left arm looped around Felix’s throat, the youngster almost dangling there, his face pale, almost blue because Ibex was lifting him fractionally off the floor. She wanted to tell him to put the boy down, but her attention was distracted by the dark muzzle of a SIG Sauer pointed at her. Tom’s gun, she knew. She wanted to continue her sweep, for Tom, for Tyrell, but all she could do was stare at the man who had her dead to rights, and was probably about to kill her.
Chapter Thirty nine
So why wasn’t he shooting?
The answer to that question came a second later. “Clever, John, but I know you won’t shoot.”
Now she did look for Tyrell. He was crouched behind the other side of the table; somehow her gaze had slid over him the first time she’d looked. She understood why, he was down low, his arms resting on the table, her SIG clutched tight in his hands. Despite the tremors she’d seen before, this time he looked rock steady. And he hadn’t done what she’d expected, she’d hoped he’d move towards Ibex’s voice, but he hadn’t, he’d stayed pretty much where he was and bided his time, gambled that Quintus would have to get out from behind the table, so he was safer where he was.
And he’d been right.
“Believe me, I’ll shoot. You said it yourself; I’m a murderer, a torturer, a bastard. So give me an excuse. Shoot Chalice and I shoot you, turn the gun away from her towards me and we both shoot you.” The steel in Tyrell’s voice was reassuring and disquieting in equal measure. She hadn’t lied, she’d heard a lot of things about John Tyrell, and if she was honest liked the man he was now more than the memory of the man that had been handed down to her by others. She wasn’t sure she wanted that John Tyrell back right now.
“Even back at your best you’d have trouble with the shot,” said Ibex now. “And we both know you’re pretty far from your best.”
She turned back, and as she did so she spotted Thomas Cheung. He was slumped up against the leg of the table, his own legs splayed out, one hand dangling by his side, the other clutching at the plastic haft of a knife—a kitchen knife—that was embedded in his shoulder. His eyes were closed but she saw the eyelids flicker. He was still alive.
