by Mark Dawson
“The flat,” Control said. “Don’t hang about.”
The driver put the car into gear, pulled into the traffic and headed towards the towers and minarets of the Houses of Parliament. Control looked up at the big Union Jack snapping from its flagpole high above, the pennant ripped back and forth by the gusting wind, and then at the purple-black of the glowering skies behind it. The forecasters were predicting another week of storms. Control’s country house was in a Wiltshire village that was bisected by a river that carved its course through the valley; he had been too busy to go home since last weekend, but his wife had reported that the water was in full spate, and there was some concern that it was close to bursting its banks. It would flood the orchard at the bottom of their garden. She had been very concerned when she had explained the situation. Control made all the right noises, but he had too much to think about in London to worry about that.
The meeting had been called on short notice. The Foreign Secretary had chaired it and he had been joined by the heads of MI5 and MI6. The mood had been pensive. They still had no idea what had happened to Number One. It had been five days now; protocol required them to assume the worst. The Foreign Secretary had been furious, but Control had anticipated his reaction and was not caught out by it. It was a risk that came with the territory in which the Group operated, he had explained. Agents were lost; that could not be avoided. Control was measured and calm and explained what might have happened and what would happen next with patience and tact. The Foreign Secretary was a civilian with no operational experience. That was the problem with politicians; they could not possibly begin to understand the exigencies of his work. The man needed careful handling. The whole Milton debacle had been a challenge to navigate and he had only just emerged on the other side of that, and this new setback would just be a question of educating him into the realities of life in the field.
The bottom line was brutally simple: these things happened.
Pope had been promoted to Number One after Milton had disappeared. The two of them had been friends. Control remembered that they had served together in Northern Ireland at the beginning of their careers. Despite that, he trusted Pope. He had led the team that he had sent to Mexico to bring Milton back and there was no suggestion that its failure had anything to do with his leadership.
The meeting had dragged on. The Foreign Secretary had asked what was likely to happen to Pope if he had been captured and they had debated the possibilities for a while but Control found the discussion tedious and otiose; he had already jettisoned him. He was dead. Even if he had been captured and even if he could have been exchanged for one of the Russian spies that they had swept up over the years he would still be useless to him. Pope was burnt: a busted flush. He was finished and, as such, he would waste no more time or effort on him. It was a difficult job that he did, he reminded himself, and there was no time for sentiment.
The Foreign Secretary had sat at the head of the table, an expression of supercilious disdain on his face and, when the discussion about Pope drew to its conclusion, he had removed his spectacles and tapped them on the table. “Of course,” he had said, “we understand that we are going to lose agents from time to time. Natural erosion, as you say. Can’t be helped. But this is the second time in a year. If it was just the once, well, we could accept that and move on. But it isn’t. What about Milton?”
Milton.
The thought of him had angered Control and now that anger returned like the echo of thunder. Pope’s loss was excusable. It was regrettable but, as he had made plain, it was a risk that went with the territory. But Milton was different. That was a loss that would stay on his resumé, a stain that would always be there to diminish his many other successes. He blamed himself for what had happened. There had been signs, plenty of signs, but Milton was such a brilliant agent that he had wilfully ignored all of them. That had been a critical mistake. He should have put the failsafes into motion as soon as he had entertained the first suspicion that he was breaking down. He should have issued a file on him, a file with red borders, and given it to one of the other agents to execute. Callan could have done it; the boy was keen. That would have put an end to months of blame and recrimination. That would have preserved his reputation.
He had only made one other mistake like that in the ten years that he had been in command of the Group and he had managed Beatrix Rose much more successfully than he had managed John Milton.
So far.
Pedestrians swilled around the car as the lights that faced the Houses of Parliament went to red.
Milton.
He felt his temper kindling.
He needed distraction. He opened his briefcase, taking out the latest files that had been assigned to the Group and spread them out on his lap. The Jaguar broke out of the jam that had gathered at the lights, turned left onto Westminster Bridge, and accelerated away.
Chapter Thirty-Six
CONTROL OWNED a flat in Chelsea. He had purchased it ten years ago when he had started to spend more time in the city than at home. He was getting home later and later and it made sense to have a pied a terré where he could repair when long nights were necessary. The driver pulled up to the side of the road, got out and opened the door for him. Control bid him good night and crossed the pavement to the front door. He fumbled in his pocket for the key, pressed it into the lock and opened the door. The driver, who was armed, waited until he was inside and then drove away.
What a day! Control deactivated the alarm, took off his overcoat, hung his umbrella on the hatstand and removed his shoes. He massaged the soles of his aching feet and then stood before the mirror. He was dressed immaculately, as ever, in a well tailored suit that showed an inch of creamy white cuff. His regimental tie was fastened with a brass pin. He was of late middle age, of average height, a little overweight, his hair thinning at the crown. He was not the sort of man who would excite attention. He was as anonymous as a provincial accountant. Perfect for the job that he was asked to do. He rubbed his eyes. He had been up since five and he was tired.
He needed a drink. He took off his suit jacket, hung it on the bannister of the stairs leading up to the two bedrooms on the first floor and went through into the sitting room. There was a drink trolley pushed back against the wall and he took a bottle of scotch through into the kitchen and poured himself a generous measure. He looked out of the window into the garden beyond. Night had drawn in properly now, and, as he looked out onto the narrow stripe of lawn and the rear of the terrace opposite, with the slate roofs, the chimneys and the satellite dishes, the sky flashed with a pulse of lightning. He put the glass to his lips and sipped the scotch, the liquid warming his gullet as rain started to fall, lashing the glass, and, in the distance, a peal of thunder rolled across the city.
The cupboard was well stocked with ready-meals. He took out a chicken curry, removed the cardboard sleeve, slid it into the microwave and set the timer for five minutes. The machine hummed as the platter rotated and, soon, the smell of the food filled the kitchen. He would eat and then review the files he had brought home, perhaps with the benefit of another drink. He took his glass and the bottle back into the sitting room. It was almost ten o’ clock, and it was his habit to listen to The World Tonight on Radio Four.
The room was dark and he stooped at the standard lamp.
He was fumbling for the switch when the light on the other side of the room switched on.
The figure of a man was silhouetted in the armchair.
“Hello, Control.”
John Milton was sitting there, unmoving, watching him. His face was cast in shadow by the lamp just behind his shoulder.
His stomach suddenly felt turned inside out.
“You must have known I’d come back for you one day?”
Control couldn’t look directly at him without squinting into the light. Milton would have planned it that way. “I don’t…”
Milton held up a hand to stop him and then leant forwards so that Control could s
ee him more clearly. He was dressed all in black: black jacket, black jeans and a pair of black boots. He was wearing latex gloves on his hands and he held a revolver in his right hand. “Before we get started, let me set a couple of things out. First, I’ve been waiting for you a little while. More than long enough to find both of your panic alarms. They’re disabled now, so don’t think you can call for help. You can’t. It’s just me and you. Second, there was a pistol in the drawer over there, too. This one.” He held up the Jericho 941F semi-automatic. “It wasn’t loaded but I found where you keep the ammunition and it is now.”
Control’s knees felt like water. “Can I sit down?”
Milton waved the gun at the settee.
“What do you want?”
“A discussion.”
“About what? About you?”
He turned his head a little and Control could see that his thin lips had formed a cold smile. “No. Not about me. A few other things.”
“Such as?”
“Let’s start with Michael Pope.”
Control measured that. “Alright,” he said.
The microwave pinged in the kitchen. Control jumped but Milton didn’t take his eyes off him. He caught himself thinking that this must be what it felt like for those men and women that he sent his agents to neutralise. His authority, his position, his years of experience; they were all useless in the face of the hard-faced killer sitting opposite him. And Milton was a killer. Cold-blooded and lethally efficient. No-one knew that better than Control. John Milton was the best assassin he had ever worked with. The absolute best; no-one else came anywhere close. He had been Number One, after all. He was the most relentless, the most ruthless, the most deadly operative he had ever sent into the field.
Milton sat back in the chair and the shadows fell back across his face again. “Do you know what’s happened to him?”
“He was on assignment. South of France. We haven’t heard from him for five days.”
“Who was the target?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Was it Pascha Shcherbatov?”
That took him by surprise. “I—I—” he stammered.
“He sends his regards.”
Control put the empty glass down on the side table; his hand was shaking and it rattled against the wood. He was already nervous and the direction the conversation was taking made him feel even worse. “You’ve met him?”
“A few days ago. Pope is alive. Shcherbatov has him. He used him to get to me.”
“How do they know about you?”
“That I don’t know,” he said, dryly. “But they knew quite a lot. If you asked me to guess, I’d say that you’re employing one of his agents.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“He knew Pope was coming after him. And he knew where to find me. Draw the dots, Control.”
“So what did he want?”
“We’ll get to that. I want you to tell me about Beatrix Rose first.”
That surprised him. The conversation wasn’t following a path he could predict and he needed time to think. He absently knocked back the last of his drink. He held the glass up and said, “I don’t know about you but I…”
“Stay there. You need to take this seriously.”
“I am taking it seriously.”
“No distractions, Control. I wasn’t born yesterday.” He tapped his index finger on the barrel of the gun. “So. Beatrix Rose.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I never found out what happened to her.”
“You know the procedure: minimum information. You didn’t need to know.”
He brought up the gun. “And now I do.”
Control waved his hand in the air before his face. “There was an assignment, just after you were transferred, I believe, and she was compromised. She didn’t report afterwards. We assumed what we would always assume in the circumstances: K.I.A.”
Milton leant forwards again to stare at him, the shadows reaching down his face like daggers. “This is going to be so much easier if you tell me the truth.”
He felt panic closing around him. He had no idea what he should say, what Milton did and did not know.
“Let me help you out. I know she’s not dead.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I went to see her after I saw Shcherbatov.”
“Where?”
He smiled and shook his head. “You don’t need to know where. But you might as well assume she told me everything. I know what you were doing then, when she disappeared. I know that you’d been prostituting yourself for years. I know all about the deal you thought you were doing with Anastasia Semenko. I know that you thought that she was an arms dealer looking for a way in with the Syrians. I know that she was introduced to you by the Iraqis that you’d already been working with, although you didn’t know that they were also working with the Russians. I know that you didn’t know that the Iraqis were in the habit of selling useful information to the Russians. I know that Semenko paid you because you said you could make an introduction with Assad’s regime. I know that they had you exactly where they wanted you. I know that the meeting Semenko and Shcherbatov were going to on the day that she died was with you. And I know that you sent us after them because you couldn’t afford to let them live. Shcherbatov told me everything and Beatrix Rose confirmed it. How long did it take you to find out he survived?”
He glared at him with sullen frustration. “We thought he’d drowned in the river but then he popped up again in Moscow a week later.”
Milton chuckled, humourlessly. “Did you know that he was married to Semenko?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You can’t blame him for hating you. He wants to disgrace you. And then he wants to kill you.”
Control felt a bead of sweat as it rolled out of his scalp and traced a slow line down his forehead. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m getting to that,” he said. “Do you want to reconsider what you told me about Beatrix?”
Control looked at the gun in Milton’s hand and swallowed hard. “It’s true about Semenko. They trapped me. They were ready to flip me. Can you imagine how dangerous that would have been for the state?”
“Best you don’t try and justify what you did,” he warned. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Rose found the evidence in the car that they were using to blackmail me. Photographs, financial records. She brought in the pictures and showed me. I tried to brush it off but I knew it wouldn’t wash. She’d guessed what had happened and that didn’t leave me with any choice.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I sent agents to dispose of her.”
It was a flippant choice of synonym and he regretted it at once. He saw Milton stiffen and the gun jerked around so that it was facing right at his chest.
“And?” he said.
“And that was a fuck up, too. Chisolm shot her husband and Rose stabbed her in the throat. Spenser took her daughter and she fled. I have no idea where she went. We never heard from her again.”
“Because she knows that if she comes after you, you have her girl. An insurance policy.”
“She was taken into protective custody.”
“Come on,” Milton snapped angrily. “Don’t waste my time.”
“There might have been something about using the girl to concentrate the mother’s mind.”
Milton passed the gun from his right hand to his left.
“What’s going on, Milton?”
Milton told him. He spoke for five minutes, explaining how Anna Kushchyenko had picked him up in Texas and flown him to Moscow, how he had been taken to see Shcherbatov and how he had shown him Pope. Milton said that Pope was sick and Control feigned concern. Milton said that he had agreed to work with them so that he could buy a little time to think of something better. The Russians had located Beatrix Rose in Hong Kong and he had gone to speak to her.
“Why does he wan
t her?”
“Because he wanted to talk to her about what happened that afternoon,” Milton said. “He knows you didn’t get everything she took from the car. She copied the drives. She hid them before she came to see you. I’ve got them now. I collected them this afternoon before I came here.” He swapped the semi-automatic into his left hand, reached his right into a pocket and retrieved a clear bag with six flash drives in it.
“It would be better to give those to me,” he said.
“I’m sure you’d like that.”
“You’re going to give them to the Russians?”
“Of course not. I needed an insurance policy of my own. This is it. And just so it’s clear, I’ve downloaded these myself. They’ll be attached to emails that I’ll set to send in the future. Unless I delete them, they’ll go far and wide: government, the press, everywhere I can think of. It’s my dead man’s switch.”
“So what do you want?”
“First, I want Beatrix’s daughter. She has grandparents in Somerset. You’re going to deliver her to them. I want fresh passports for both her and her mother.”
“I can do that.”
“And two million dollars paid into a bank account of my designation.”
He bit his lip. “Two million?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s not so easy…”
“I need the Russian girl put under surveillance. She’s Shcherbatov’s proxy. She came into the country with me and she should be at the Holiday Inn in the Docklands. She’s expecting me to bring the drives back tonight and I’m guessing if I’m not back by midnight she’ll sound the alarm and that will be that for Pope. You need to get on that right away.”
“Fine. Anything else?”
“The third thing: you’re going to help me go and get Pope.”
“How am I going to do that?”
“A six man team, full load out, logistic support.”
“Are you mad? Pope is in Russia, man. We can’t send six of you to conduct an operation on Russian soil.”
“Yes you can.”
“No…”
“The Russians will help.”
