by Matthew Dunn
SCO19 waited. Knutsen and Pope would be in hoodies. No way of identifying them and the men around them. All SCO19 could rely on was Pope’s signal to assault. The firearms officers were poised, breathing fast, their van filled with the musky scent of testosterone, their fingers on the triggers of their submachineguns.
Fifteen yards from the bank’s entrance, Pope pulled out her mobile, desperate to inform SWAT of the change of plan. But the team leader spotted her action, slammed his hand on hers, and stamped on the phone after it hit the ground. He barked, “No calls now!”
Knutsen moved to her side and whispered, “Run. I’ll go in with them.”
Pope replied, “I’m going in.”
“I thought you’d say that.” They were by the front door of the bank as Knutsen pulled out his sidearm and pointed it at the criminals. “Police! Drop your weapons! You’re under arrest!”
The team leader grabbed Pope, spun her around so that he and her were facing Knutsen, held a gun to her head, and shouted to his men, “Get out of here! I’ll find my own way back.”
His men sprinted to their vans. People in the street were screaming, some of them running, others ducking behind whatever cover they could find. Within seconds, the place had become chaos.
Knutsen was motionless as he kept his gun trained on the few inches that were visible of the team leader’s head. “Attempted robbery is one thing. But if shots are fired, that puts you into a different league. Don’t be stupid!”
The team leader laughed and walked back with Pope. “You set us up.”
Knutsen was silent.
“That means you’ve got boys with big guns somewhere nearby. But I’m betting they’re not near enough. The boss saw through you, I reckon.”
No way could Knutsen take a shot at the criminal’s head. The team leader’s finger was on his pistol’s trigger. A bullet entering his brain would most likely cause his finger to tighten and blow out Pope’s brains. Knutsen lowered his gun and said, “Let her go and I’ll let you go. I can’t promise you that you, your men, and your boss will get away with this, but at least I can give you a breathing space.”
“A breathing space. I like the sound of that.” He shot Knutsen in the shoulder, causing the undercover cop to crash to the pavement and release his firearm.
Pope screamed and kicked her captor with her heels against his shins.
But the criminal held her firm. “Not my lucky day. Not your lucky day.”
Police sirens were drawing close. And the van containing SCO19 was hurtling toward Old Brompton Road. They’d realised what was going on.
The robber said to Knutsen, “Time for me to go.” He shot Pope in the head, killing her instantly. He spun around and ran.
Knutsen shouted, “No.” He staggered to his feet and collected his sidearm. The criminal was twenty yards away, then thirty. Knutsen was right handed, but it was his right shoulder that had been hit and was now useless. He put his gun in his left hand and raised his arm. The action was excruciating. The criminal was now forty yards away, his head moving left and right as he was looking for side alleys to dash down and vanish. Knutsen wasn’t going to let that happen. He took aim at the criminal’s head, pulled the trigger, and hit him in the back. The team leader hit the ground and started crawling. Knutsen walked up to him, blood pouring down his chest, his breathing erratic. He pointed his gun at the robber’s head and put two bullets in his skull.
He walked as quickly as he could back to Pope, knelt down, and cradled her head. It was a mess – nothing like the beautiful visage he’d admired since he’d worked with her. He doubted they’d have got divorced after this job. They were meant for each other, not just as cops, but also as civilians. He kissed her forehead, not caring that her blood was on his lips. He gently lowered her head and started sobbing.
CHAPTER 3
Two days’ later, Ben Sign was in MI6 headquarters, Vauxhall Cross, London. He’d been summoned to one of the Babylonian–style building’s conference rooms on the ground floor. The Chief of MI6, Head of Security, Head of the Russia department, and the service’s senior legal counsel were facing him across an oak table. Sign felt like he was on trial by a kangaroo court.
All were silent throughout the meeting, save for the Head of Security; a man called Jeffery who alongside Sign was in the running to be the next chief of the service. Jeffery was a ruthless officer whose stint in operational security as a board director was merely a stepping stone up his career ladder.
Jeffery said, “At what stage did you suspect Peter was a double agent?”
Sign smiled. “From the outset.”
“And yet you ran him against the Russians for five years.”
“I ran him at the Russians. Your terminology needs to be more precise, Jeffery.”
Jeffery flicked through a file on the table. “You had no proof he was a double, but you went on your gut instinct.”
“Don’t be crass. Gut instinct? Dear me. No – when I inherited him from my predecessor, I felt he was too good to be true. Plus, there was tangible evidence that the crap I fed him was being actioned on by the Russians. Everything I said to him was being passed by him to the FSB.”
“And yet you failed to tell us about your suspicions.”
Sign could see where this was headed. “It’s always difficult to know who to trust at our level.”
“Meaning?!”
“It’s a statement, not an accusation.” Sign smiled. “Sometimes senior MI6 officers use operational successes or failures to further their careers.”
“You’re suggesting I would have capitalised from the fact you were running a double agent?”
With sarcasm in his voice, Sign replied, “Heaven forbid, no. It had never occurred to me that you’d see this as an opportunity to better me in the application to be the next chief. You wouldn’t stoop that low, Jeffery.” Sign’s tone hardened as he added, “I knew there was a mole in MI6. I thought it unlikely that the mole was cadre MI6. Most likely I thought it was Peter. But then again, it’s always difficult to be certain. For all I knew, the mole could have been you, Jeffery.”
The fury in Jeffery’s face was obvious. “I have a distinguished…”
“Yes, we all have distinguished careers, blah blah. But some of us are not back–stabbing shits.” Sign looked at the others, before returning his attention to Jeffery. “I’m not accusing you of anything untoward. But do I trust you? Not a fucking chance.”
Jeffery composed himself. “Do you know what’s happened to Peter?”
Sign shrugged. “I’ve been held in lockdown since I got to Finland. Most likely the FSB has promoted Peter and given him a medal.”
Jeffery closed the file in front of him. “One day ago, a cardboard box was delivered to the British embassy in Moscow. Inside was Peter’s head.”
Sign digested the news, though showed no sign of emotion, even the he was shocked by the development. For all of Peter’s treachery, Sign had liked him. “Peter’s use to the FSB came to an end when he set up my Moscow meeting. But there was one more thing Peter could do – send a message to us that we must not spy on the motherland. Peter’s head was that message.”
Everyone before him nodded.
Jeffery smirked as he said, “Your actions got an agent killed.”
It was time to take the gloves off. With an angry and strident tone, Sign said, “Jeffery – God knows how you’ve made it to the board of directors. You were never a good operator and your intellect is somewhat wanting. So too your compassion. Peter was deployed against us. I knew that and played along. No doubt, Peter hoped to receive Russian praise for what he’d done. He was many things, including being brave. Let’s not be hypocritical. We deploy our agents against the Russians. And some of them are double agents. It’s the endless game. I corrupted Russian Intelligence by using Peter. Read the Ukraine and Crimea files. What the Russians did there would have been one hundred times worse had I not planted the idea in Peter’s head that NATO was about to strike.” Sig
n stood and looked at the chief of MI6. “Your successor will be chosen by you and the Joint Intelligence Committee. I realize that this witch hunt today has smeared my name. Unfairly, I should add. But that matters not. May I suggest to you sir, that you choose your successor very carefully. Don’t pick anyone in this room. And that includes me. Because as of now, you have my resignation.”
“You executed a criminal!” The commissioner of the Met Police was sitting behind his desk. Standing to attention in front of him was Knutsen, wearing a police uniform that hadn’t seen the light of day in years.
Knutsen said, “He killed my wife.”
“Your fake wife.”
“She was still my wife. Plus a fellow officer. What would you have done, Paddy?”
“You’ll call me sir!”
“Okay Paddy sir.”
“You’re one of the best shots in the Met. You had a clean line of sight. Why didn’t you shoot him before Pope died?”
Knutsen moved his legs apart.
“Remain at attention!”
“I can’t. It’s the shoulder. It hurts. Standing makes it worse for some reason. I’d like it on record whether you’d like me to stand to attention. I’m not saying it’s torture by you or anything but I would like to hear your views on interrogations under duress… Paddy.”
The commissioner sighed. “Sit. How is the wound?”
“They got the bullet out. Bit of reconstructive surgery and physio over the next few weeks. After that, I’ll be punching above my weight.”
“And how is your mental health?”
“Like most people, I get up in the morning and think, Not this shit again. What about you?”
The commissioner ignored the comment. “Why didn’t you take the shot?”
Knutsen shrugged. “You give us elephant–stopper side arms. That’s good if you’re in an isolated field and chasing a guy with a bullet–proof vest. Bad if you’re in Old Brompton Road with hundreds of people around you. If I took the shot, I’d have hit his head. He’d have involuntarily squeezed the trigger. Pope would have died. But it may not have ended there. The bullet could have exited his head, ricocheted off a wall or the street, and thumped into an innocent bystander. In fact, the power of these bullets is such that my shot could have gone through three or four bodies. Would you have liked that on your conscience?”
The Met chief hesitated. “No.”
“I thought not. My wife’s dead as a result of my calculated decision.”
“Fake wife…” The commissioner held up his hand. “No need to correct me. I’m sorry.”
Knutsen touched the arm of Britain’s most senior cop. “Put me back in jail again if you want. I’ll handle that. Put me in a noose if you want. I’ll handle that, too.” He bowed his head. “Helen Pope was more than a colleague. Least ways, I hoped it would pan out that way. I wanted to cook for her and take her to see me practise kendo.”
The commissioner frowned. “That would have been an odd but endearing date.”
“Yes, it would sir.”
The chief drummed fingers on his desk and muttered, “What to do, what to do?” He looked at Knutsen. “CCTV has got you. Witnesses have got you. Point blank, you killed him.”
Knutsen smiled, though his look was one of resignation. “In kendo, or at least the British version of it, we call it a death strike. When the opponent’s on the ground, don’t assume he won’t get up. He will and he’ll hit you with his bamboo stick bloody hard. Then you’re down and he’ll finish you off. I finished him off. I’ll pay the consequences.”
The commissioner walked to the office window and looked over the magnificent vista of London. With his back to Knutsen he said, “It is a shame. You were my finest undercover office.”
“People come and go.”
“They do.” The commissioner swivelled. “But I don’t want your life defined by this event. You deserve far better.” He patted Knutsen on the shoulder. “I’ll sweep this under the carpet. In return, you’ll need to leave. I can’t avoid that. My sincere apologies. You will be a serious loss to my team.”
Knutsen rose and nodded. He held out his hand. “Thank you Paddy.”
Paddy shook his hand. “Thank you Tom. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
Knutsen smiled and walked out of the room. This was the end of his career as a police officer.
CHAPTER 4
Two weeks later, Sign entered a small house in Mayfair that had been converted into a place of business. It belonged to a former MI6 officer turned head hunter. Sign had an appointment with the recruiter. The receptionist asked Sign to take a seat, phoned her boss and told him that his guest had arrived. She instructed Sign to proceed to the lower floor for his appointment.
The head hunter was Robert Lask. When in MI6, he’d been an expert on China, and spoke fluent Cantonese and Mandarin. Prior to joining the service, he’d been an inspector in the Royal Hong Kong Police. He was a bit of a throwback to colonial days, plus had been a fairly average MI6 officer, but he was a decent bloke. Sign trusted him, though did think that Lask thought he was more important than he actually was. It was his job that had made him that way. Lask specialised in finding jobs for former MI6 officers and other members of the British special operations community. That included interviewing former chiefs of MI6. It gave him power and a sense of self–importance, wherein the reality was that Lask would never have made senior management.
Sign shook the fifty five year old’s hand and took a seat on the solitary sofa within the ornate room. Lask remained behind his desk, looking like a judge at the bench.
“How can I help you?” asked Lask.
“I’m on the rock and roll.”
Lask laughed. “Of course. What other reason would you have for being here?” He frowned. “But you were tipped for the top. What went wrong?”
“I saw the writing on the wall and jumped before I was pushed.”
“But you were the smartest man in MI6. One of the smartest men in the country. You could have outgunned them.”
“If I’d had the will.” Sign smiled with resignation on his face. “I no longer wanted to belong to an organisation run by buffoons.”
Lask rifled through papers. “I can get you a job in a jot. For someone of your standing, you’ll be snapped up. Head of Security at Price Waterhouse Cooper, senior advisor to the Prime Minister, professor at Oxford – the list goes on and on. You do realise how important you are?”
Sign ran a finger and thumb alongside the cuff of his shirt. “I don’t care about that. I want something smaller. Something that matters.”
Lask was confused as he reached the end of the CVs in front of him. “I don’t have anything that matches that brief.”
“I thought not.” Sign crossed his legs, clasped his hands, and stared at Lask. “I’m not here for a job. I’m setting up my own private consultancy. I need to employ someone to help me. Someone special. You can help find me that person.”
“Consultancy of what?”
“Crime, espionage, mysteries. That’s what I do.”
“Yes, yes. That is you.” Lask pulled out a box file. “And what are the credentials of the employee you seek?”
“Someone who has an edge. Aside from that, I won’t know until I meet him.”
Lask rifled through his papers. “I have an ex–SAS sergeant who spent twenty years in the Regiment. Tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Happily married with kids?”
“Yes.”
“Dishonourably discharged?”
“No.”
“Then let’s move on. Next.”
Lask picked up a CV. “This guy might interest you. Former MI5 and…”
“Boring! Next.”
Lask went through his pile of CVs. “I have MI6 officers.”
“I don’t want MI6. I want someone different from me.”
Lask picked up the last CV. “What do you think about cops?”
“They’re a different breed to us. But there are excepti
ons. What’s interesting about this man or woman?”
“It’s a man. He was undercover for years. He spent time in prison as part of one assignment. Was shot. He…”
Sign held up his hand. “Don’t tell me anything else. I want to meet him. Arrange that meeting. If I hire him, you’ll get your introductory fee.”
The next day, Sign entered Simpson’s In The Strand. It was lunchtime and the restaurant was bustling with businessmen, government mandarins, and generals. One of the oldest traditional restaurants in London, Simpson’s was renowned for its carved meats, brought to the table on trolleys by expert waiters. Sign had been here many times, but not because of the fare. Like many others, he enjoyed dining in the establishment because it had wooden booths that allowed privacy. He sat in one of the booths. Tom Knutsen was sitting opposite him.
“Mr. Knutsen. You know who I am?”
Knutsen was wearing a blue suit he’d purchased from Marks & Spencer. He looked immaculate. Knutsen said, “Yes, I know who you are.”
“What do you know about me?”
Knutsen replied, “Senior MI6, until recently. Lask said you were destined for the top. He said your career was remarkable. Then he shut his mouth and said the rest of your background was classified.”
Sign nodded. “I haven’t read your CV. Lask gave me the briefest of thumbnail sketches. Beyond that, there’s a lifetime of experience that I refused to hear about.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to get the measure of you in person.” Sign gestured at a nearby waiter. “Would you like a cut of beef or turkey? They slice it with razor sharp knives.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Sign summoned the sommelier. “But you’ll have a glass of Sancerre.” When the wine waiter was gone, Sign asked, “How is your injury?”
“Fully recovered. I’m back on my dojo.”
