by A P Bateman
Bryant shrugged. “Fair enough, I suppose,” he paused. “I’m on a flight from Heathrow tomorrow afternoon, any chance of a drink at the airport?”
Sandy swept a hand through his receding hairline of wispy blond hair. “I’ll have to see what is happening,” he paused. “What time do you have to check in?”
“Three o’clock.”
“All right, I’ll try to meet you at two. Which terminal?”
“Four.”
“Fine, but just so as you know, it’s your round.”
Bryant laughed raucously. “It always is, old friend!”
Sandy smiled. “Listen, I don’t want to seem rude, but I do have a meeting to get to.” He glanced at his watch, then looked back to his old friend. “Sorry to rush you…”
Bryant nodded as he reached down and picked up the plastic carrier bag, then dropped it between them. “Sorry about the bag, but you got to keep the briefcase last time.”
Sandy picked up the supermarket carrier, then peered inside. Hampered by the darkness, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a slim-line pen torch, which he shone into the bag. “Splendid,” he announced with a warm smiled. “I’ll take your advice on investing it. After all, you are the businessman.”
Bryant smiled, but remained seated and watched his old friend as he rose to his feet. “And you are the spy!” he laughed.
MI6 Joint Deputy Director Martin Andrews pulled the silenced Walther PPK out of his inside jacket pocket, aimed quickly and shot the man twice through his forehead. He stared down at the body, which had slumped lifelessly across the park bench. “Very astute of you Charles,” he smiled wryly. “As usual…”
84
He bowed his head, resting his chin in his hands. There was nothing which could have prepared him for this moment. He had hoped, prayed, even deceived in an effort to prevent it from happening, but still he had not been prepared. He felt hot, the perplexity of the moment threatening to sicken him to the stomach. He felt dread, anxiety, and a feeling of woe, not experienced since his days at boarding school. Alone. Abandoned and scared witless of what was to follow. It seemed as if there was no light at the end of this particular tunnel, no horizon for which he could set a course.
He turned back to the stack of newspapers, picked one from the top and then tossed it aside to read the headline of another, which simply read:
MI6 DIRTY TRICKS
He looked at the pile, feeling a deep anger suddenly rise within him. He pushed the entire stack to the floor, then looked at Marcus Arnott, who had tactfully remained silent.
“How the Hell could this have happened?” he asked, perplexed. “I don’t see how they could have got hold of this stuff!”
Arnott bent forwards in his seat and picked up the scattered copy of The Daily Mail. “It says here that their source remains confidential, but is a well-respected retired barrister, now living in the Channel Islands. Apparently, he has been holding, and updating, Alex King’s security blanket for the past eight years.”
McCullum shook his head in bewilderment. “But why should King give the order to release the files? And where the Hell is King at this moment?”
Arnott shrugged. “I made some formal inquiries just over an hour ago and he seems to have disappeared. His flight was confirmed under his legend, but he never checked in. He must still be on Bali, or at least somewhere in Indonesia.”
“But his security blanket would have been set up to be released upon news of his untimely death, that’s the whole point of a bloody security blanket!” McCullum banged his fist down onto the table. “Why the Hell would Alex King give the bloody order! He has cut himself off from the rest of the world! His possessions, his home, his life! Why?” He shook his head in bewilderment. “He completed his mission, ex-filtrated to Bali and should have been home by now. Why did he do this to us, and where the Hell has he gone? All right, I was shafting him, leaving him out to dry. I hoped a bullet in Iraq or Indonesia might even have his name on it, of course I did. But he’s bloody well spun this round on me, hasn’t he…”
Marcus Arnott looked at the Deputy Director General and raised an eyebrow. “You ordered his security blanket be recovered. Perhaps he contacted one of his solicitors? It was always going to be a possibility. He’s a survivor, he wouldn’t have taken the news lying down. As far as he is concerned, someone was out for his blood.”
“But how was this ‘retired barrister’ overlooked?” McCullum pulled out a drawer, then reached towards the back and retrieved a half bottle of Bells whisky and a glass. He raised an eyebrow expectantly to Arnott, who shook his head.
“It was always going to be a long shot, Donald. Stewart’s team located all the components of his security blanket, but realistically there was always going to be the chance of more files stashed away somewhere,” Arnott paused. “King just happened to hedge his bets, that’s all. Maybe he chose the three offices near places he was either stationed for training, or near where he lived because it was obvious…”
“Obvious? Obvious! Do me a favour, old boy… Write that little observation down and drop it in the internal mail on your way out, will you? Make sure you send it to two weeks ago when it would have bloody well meant something!” McCullum slammed his fist on the desk. “I’m bloody well finished! I have just received a telephone call from the Prime Minister’s personal assistant ordering me to meet him at Number Ten at midday. Ordering me! I always speak to the Prime Minister personally, now, the bastard’s sending messages through his damned secretary!” McCullum picked up the whisky, then swiped the empty glass away with the back of his hand, unscrewed the cap and took a huge gulp from the bottle. “I’m out of the game for the Director’s chair. If I’m lucky I’ll be sorting files and writing action plans in an embassy, in some fly-bitten, sun-scorched country, in a town in the middle of nowhere that’s the next fucking target for Islamic State! That, of course, is if Alex King isn’t alive. If he is and he finds out that it was me who pulled the plug on him and took away his security blanket, I’m a dead man. How in God’s name will I sleep at night knowing that?”
“Come on Donald, you don’t know that.” Arnott shifted awkwardly in his chair as he watched the Deputy Director take another drink, almost finishing the bottle. “The Prime Minister has to cover his back, he wants to speak to you before he has to face the opposition in the House of Commons. He knows your job is tough, he will understand. As for King, if he is alive, then he’ll lie low, he certainly won’t chance coming after you. Besides, explain the situation to the Prime Minister, and he’ll probably grant you diplomatic protection. This time tomorrow, you will have a team of the best bodyguards in the country.”
“The Prime Minister understand? Many of the things described in the papers dates from when the opposition was in power. The Government will have a bloody field day with some of those details! No, my head is on the chopping block. I’m finished, plain and simple…” He shook his head as he stared distantly towards the pile of newspapers on the floor. “It isn’t just a question of newspaper headlines. It was on the morning news, on all channels. And they reported that the files are already circulating on the Internet. Well, you know as well as I, if it goes on the Internet, it stays. If we can get it off, it will simply crop up on another site. You can’t just remove it overnight. It’s been downloaded by now, saved and stored and ready to be channeled through God knows how many anorak spy and conspiracy theory websites.”
“What does the boss say about it?” Arnott asked. “Surely he can back you up?”
McCullum scoffed, then took another mouthful of whisky. “I can’t get hold of him,” he paused. “Nor for that matter, can I locate Martin Andrews. His voicemail informs me that he isin meetings all day, and will call me back later. But it’s me who has been signing off on these ops for the past decade. I’m operations, and the director gave me a free rein years ago when it looked like we were getting nowhere with Al Qaeda. We’ve had many triumphs over the years, but they’ll all count for shit
now…”
Marcus Arnott shifted awkwardly again. He recognised the signs, McCullum was the hot potato and everyone was trying to avoid getting their fingers burnt. He glanced at his watch, suddenly overtaken with an urgent desire to look to his own survival. If McCullum was going down, he was not going to be around when it happened. He rose casually to his feet, then frowned. “I’m sorry, Donald. I truly am. But it has to be business as usual, I’m afraid. We’ll talk later, I have a meeting in Procurement, vitally important…”
McCullum looked up at him dubiously, then sneered. “I understand, don’t worry about it.” He picked up the bottle, then swiveled the chair, turning his back to Arnott and facing him towards the murky waters of the Thames. “Close the door on your way out, there’s a good chap…” He smiled to himself cynically, then raised the bottle to his lips and started to drink, not pausing until he had drained it.
85
The last glimmer of sun had just edged its way selfishly over the horizon, bringing the day to a reluctant close. Unwelcome night fell abruptly. He watched the shades of blue gradually turn to black, then closed the curtain, bidding farewell to what had been a beautiful late summer day.
Peter Stewart looked back to his wife, who was busy knitting their neighbour’s daughter a yellow blanket to match her growing collection of baby clothes. Her hands worked quickly, bringing the wool around the point of the needle, then pushing it through with the other. Clickety click, clickety click, all night long...
That had been the only noise above the television. No conversation, not tonight, nor for the past few nights. Or weeks. The more he thought of it, the longer it now seemed.
His ejection from work had been sudden. Little warning, no talking, merely a dismissal which had come as a complete shock. No blame, nor explanation, simply a memo in his internal mail, which curtly explained the circumstances. Of course, there had been a golden handshake in the form of full pension; the service rarely let anyone go without seeing that their immediate financial future was moderately secure. However, one was never truly ready for redundancy.
His wife had taken the news worse than he had. The sudden and dramatic change in routine had come as a shock. They would both need to find separate hobbies and interests, or the future looked bleak. Perhaps they would adjust, but Stewart doubted it more and more each day. Some couples seemed to get on better with periods apart. His time in the service had given them just that.
Stewart sat back down in his seat and switched channels with the remote control.
“I was watching that!” Margaret protested without looking at him. “Why don’t you ever ask?”
Stewart flicked back onto the channel and attempted to find interest in the mating habits of Emperor Penguins. He glanced across at the woman and frowned. How the hell can you watch anything whilst concentrating on knitting that bloody blanket? He thought, but wisely resisted saying anything. He rested his feet on the coffee table, then glanced up and encountered her horrified stare.
“Do you mind? You’re not in some grubby barracks now!” she blurted. “I don’t know what’s happened to you since you retired from the army.” She dropped the knitting into her bag, then stood up suddenly. “I’m going to bed. Let Mindy out for a run, she’s been corking it up all night. Why don’t you stay down here and watch a film?”
Peter Stewart watched her as she turned and walked up the stairs. He had served in both the Parachute Regiment and the SAS. He had never told his previous wives of the switch to military intelligence, and then to MI6. The legend he had created held up well with unsociable hours, periods of training and stationing abroad. He had kept the legend going with Margaret. There seemed little benefit in ever telling her now.
He looked at the Golden Retriever who was whining quietly and wagging her tail as she looked expectantly towards the door. Here, at least he had a friend. He smiled at the neurotic dog, then stood up and walked to the door.
“Come on girl, come on, walkies!” He placed a hand on the door handle, and was almost knocked off his feet as the dog bounded across the floor and started to scratch at the glass panel in the lower half of the door.
He opened the door, then stepped outside and waited for the animal to do all those things which animals do. Scratch, sniff, dig, eat something discarded on the lawn, then start to look for a private place in which to conclude its principal business uninterrupted.
He watched the dog, distantly wishing that his life were nearly as simple. How world weary, how pitiful, yet how true? He stepped onto the gravel pathway, crunching the loose stones under his hard soled shoes. He called the dog and walked out of the gate. Their house was the last at the end of the cul-de-sac and he walked through an open gateway which led down a narrow grass and mud pathway to the canal. The canal had been drained, cleaned and refilled and was soon to be an expensive mooring place for both narrow boats and river cruisers. Stewart walked out on to the canal bank and looked at the calm, dark water. He fancied a boat. Perhaps that could be his new hobby. Gently cruising the rivers and waterways, a Scotch in one hand, the rudder in the other.
The metal was cold, as it pressed hard against the nape of his neck. He almost jumped with surprise, but his years of training had taught him better. He tensed, knowing the scenario, and what would likely ensue if he reacted to the threat.
The voice was calm, commanding, and eerily familiar. So familiar, for it had featured in his waking dreams over the past ten months.
“Turn around.” The cold metal was gone, and instantly replaced by a crunch of footsteps as the man stepped back three professional paces. “Slowly, Peter, don’t rush!”
Stewart turned around slowly, then stared into the man’s familiar face. “Hello, Alex,” he paused, eyes on the silenced Beretta .380. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”
King stared at him coldly, then forced a cynical smile. “Fate, I guess.”
“Yours or mine?”
“Both.” King levelled the weapon to the man’s forehead. “Decided by you, when you led a team to take away my security. My bargaining chip.” The retriever came over to King, wagging its tail. King reached down and patted its head without taking his eyes off Stewart. The dog sniffed and wagged its tail between the two men, then mooched off to sniff something in the hedgerow. He smirked, then commented, “She’s no fucking Lassie is she?”
Stewart looked at the dog and shrugged. “Maybe she’s hatching a plan…” He looked back at King and the thick end of the silencer. “What did you need the bargaining power for? It’s not how it’s done,” Stewart sighed. “I’ve been to the same places and done the same things as you Alex. I don’t have details of assignments spread all over the place. I wasn’t going to write a book.”
“McCullum was going for the top job. He’s the one who signed the orders. It was obvious he would start cleaning house,” King stated flatly. “And the writing was therapy. It helped me deal with some of the things I’ve seen, put it into context. The world has changed over the years since I joined the service. Those extremist bastards aren’t human. The atrocities… Their actions burn deep in your brain. You can’t just take the edge off with drinking like in your day…”
“It’s always been tough, Son.”
King shook his head. “I needed that security. I needed a safety net.”
“Just following orders, Alex. You know how it’s done.”
King smiled. “Friends know when to toe the line, and when to step back from it,” he paused. “You were my friend.”
“Don’t be a prick, Son. There are no friends in the espionage game, you should know that…” Stewart stared at him, returning the assassin’s stare for icy stare.
“No, only enemies it would seem,” King paused. “And you taught me never to leave an enemy alive…” He stepped back another pace, keeping the pistol aimed steadily at the man’s forehead. “Cover your tracks and snip the loose ends. Isn’t that what you used to say?” King shrugged. “So how was I going to get it in Iraq?”<
br />
Stewart took a step forward, stopped when King moved the pistol and took a step backwards. There was nothing the man could do. “The CIA was going to shut it all down. Insisted on it, actually. They’re pissed they lost their agent. What happened to Juliet Kalver?”
“I gave her an out. She didn’t take it,” King looked at him closely. The light was almost gone, he couldn’t see Stewart’s features anymore. “Did you know?”
Stewart shook his head. “Not at the time. It came up later. I think McCullum thought it a convenient end to things.”
“What about Indonesia?”
“The thinking was the job was so improbable, had so little chance of you getting out if you actually managed to kill General Soto in the first place, that the mission would do it for them.”
“For you.”
“Not for me. For MI6.”
“Well it didn’t.”
Stewart kept his eyes on the pistol. “I can see that…”
“What about the hit team? Who signed off on that?”
“What hit team?”
“The one in Bali,” King paused. “They had my service file photo.”
“First I’ve heard.”
“Bollocks!”
Stewart shook his head. “We heard about Soto. We got a detailed report from Abdul Tembarak, just before it was breaking news on the television networks. The next thing your security blanket is in the papers, sent by that retired barrister in the Channel Islands. There was no attempt to rub you out from MI6… Not directly, anyway.”
King looked thoughtful. “Andrews,” he said. “His old school and university friend was killed in a park here in London while I was in Indonesia.”
“So?”
“The man was called Charles Bryant. His Indonesian business associate was killed in those same few days while I was in Indonesia also. I did some checking and both had money moved about during that time. Andrews must have had a deal going with Bryant. They’d done business before, intelligence reports in return for cash. I traced it. I’ve had plenty of time on my hands…”
