Hunting Ground

by L J Morris

  ‘He knew what he was doing might be dangerous. He was putting things in place for both of you to escape.’

  Porter shook his head. ‘He never told me any of this.’

  Sinclair put her arm around Porter. ‘He was trying to keep you out of it. To keep you safe.’

  Porter picked up Wyatt’s passport and stared at the photo page. He ran his finger across the image. ‘Why didn’t he keep himself safe?’

  Sinclair lifted Porter’s chin and looked him in the eye. ‘I promise you, they won’t get away with this. I’ll do whatever it takes to bring them down. Trust me. Okay?’

  Porter nodded. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We take all this stuff and get out of here.’

  They put the contents into their pockets and closed the box’s lid. When they opened the privacy curtain, the woman who had shown them into the vault reappeared and took the box from them. ‘Is there anything else we can help you with today, monsieur?’

  ‘No, thank you, that’s everything we need.’

  ‘Bon. I will show you back to the front. Follow me, please.’

  They followed the woman back along the glass corridor and through to the foyer. They said goodbye to her and exited the bank.

  * * *

  McGill stood on the same side of the road as the bank, looking back at the coffee shop. His handiwork had obviously been discovered; one of the waitresses was speaking to a policeman who took notes then spoke into his radio.

  Sinclair and Porter walked out of the bank and made their way back along the road. McGill jogged to catch them up and guided them down a narrow alley, away from the traffic of the main road. He looked back to the coffee shop, where two men in a black 4x4 were now paying a lot of attention to the man being lifted into the back of an ambulance.

  ‘What is it, Frank?’

  ‘The guy going in the ambulance, I had to take him out. He was following us.’

  ‘Are you sure? You’ve been on the run a while now. It could be your mind playing tricks.’

  McGill handed Sinclair a wallet. ‘He was definitely watching you two. I searched him and found his wallet. Just money in it. No ID, no cards. That’s not normal.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean he was following us, though.’

  McGill held up a phone. ‘He also had this.’

  Sinclair looked at the screen. It showed a detailed street map of the area they were in. ‘The red dot is where we are.’

  McGill nodded. ‘It’s tracking your phone.’

  ‘Shit! Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. I watched it show you in the bank then along the road. They know where we are.’

  ‘Right, we need to get rid of all electronics. Give me your phone, Frank.’ She took out all the sim cards and smashed the phones on the ground. From her phone, she also took the memory card. ‘Need to keep hold of the photos on this.’

  Porter was scared. ‘Who are these people? How did they even know we had those phones? How can they track us like that, Ali?’

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looks, Callum. If they were tracking us from the start, they would have picked us up by now. The fact they were watching us at the bank, and didn’t see Frank coming, probably means they weren’t sure the phone they were tracking was mine. They wanted to check before they made a move. It’s just a good job Frank spotted them first.’

  McGill held out his arms to the side and bowed his head. ‘I aim to please.’

  ‘Well. Let’s get out of here before we stop to pat ourselves on the back.’

  They took one last look at the commotion at the coffee shop then ran down the alley, away from the Avenue de l’Opéra.

  Chapter 14

  The 16th arrondissement is a mainly residential area of Paris, not far from the centre of the city. It’s quiet, leafy streets and broad avenues are lined with typically Parisienne stone buildings mixed with the more modern architecture of offices and apartment blocks. It houses Paris’s major sporting locations: Parc des Princes, Roland Garros, Stade Français. It also hosts some world-class museums, all within walking distance of the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe. All of this makes it an expensive area to live in, on a par with Chelsea or Kensington, and not where you would expect a retired academic to call home.

  Sinclair, McGill and Porter took the Metro to the Rue de la Pompe and walked to Dr Henry Shawford’s apartment. McGill looked up at the building’s ornate, nineteenth century architecture, the large rectangular windows and wrought-iron balconies that made up the front of the apartment block. ‘How much do you think it costs to live here?’

  Sinclair puffed out her cheeks. ‘More than we could ever afford. What do you think, Callum? Do you think a retired university professor could afford to live here?’

  Porter shook his head. ‘No way. Not unless he comes from a rich family. Do we know if he comes from money?’

  ‘Danny never said. He just sent us the address and some basic background. He’s one of the names mentioned in the notebook. You do know what else is in this area, though?’

  McGill and Porter remained silent. Sinclair looked at them both in turn. ‘The Russian Embassy.’

  McGill let out a short laugh. ‘You think he’s a Russian agent?’

  Sinclair smiled. ‘He wouldn’t be the first Cambridge scholar to be on their payroll.’

  ‘How come no one ever offered me bags full of money to be a double agent?’

  ‘You don’t know anything, Frank.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. There is that, I suppose.’ They both smiled; Porter looked at them, puzzled. He still hadn’t got to grips with their sense of humour.

  ‘You stay here with Callum, Ali. I’ll get the door open.’ McGill walked across the street to the apartment block’s front entrance. The external doors were solid wood, stained dark green and varnished. McGill tried the handle: the door opened and he went in. So far, so good. The small entrance lobby he was standing in was no bigger than a standard garden shed. Both sides were covered in highly polished brass post boxes, with a secure, wrought-iron gate guarding the entrance to the rest of the building. He retrieved a lock-picking set from the inside of his jacket and got to work on the gate’s lock. Within a minute, the gate was open. He signalled to Sinclair, and she and Porter jogged to the entrance to join him.

  Inside, the staircase was in keeping with the rest of the building. An ornate, wrought-iron bannister, topped with a polished mahogany handrail, followed the marble steps up the outside of the entrance hall. At the top of each flight of stairs were the entrances to two apartments. Shawford lived at number eight, the top floor.

  There was no noise within the building. None of the apartments they had passed sounded like they were occupied. The people who lived there were unlikely to have nine to five jobs and it was too early in the evening for them to be at one of the swanky restaurants that littered the area. They were more likely to be away on business or holiday; the idle rich.

  The three of them crept up the stairs, not talking and keeping noise to a minimum. As they reached the landing outside Shawford’s door, McGill and Sinclair drew their weapons. They had no idea what they could be walking into. After being followed at the bank, this could all turn out to be a trap. McGill shuffled up to the door then reached out and rang the bell. He took a step back and levelled his weapon.

  After a couple of minutes they heard slow footsteps approaching on the other side. The door opened only as far as the chain would allow and the thin voice of an old man spoke in French, but with a very heavy English accent. ‘Oui?’

  Sinclair answered in fluent Russian. ‘We need to talk to you, Dr Shawford. It is a matter of life and death.’

  Shawford closed the door and removed the chain. As soon as the door reopened, McGill pushed his way into the apartment. Sinclair followed and pushed Shawford into the lounge. She held her finger to her lips to instruct both the old man and Porter to be quiet.

  McGill joined them in the lounge and re-holstered his weapon. ‘All clear, the guy is on his own.’<
br />
  Sinclair guided Shawford to a couch beside the large marble fireplace, opposite the room’s huge window. ‘Okay, Henry. Can I call you Henry? You and I are going to have a little chat.’

  The old man was scared and visibly trembling. He stared at McGill, the man who had pushed his way into the apartment. ‘Who are you people? I don’t have any money.’

  McGill looked around the room at the decor and various artwork and ornaments. ‘Well, I would say that’s debateable.’

  Sinclair put her hand on Shawford’s knee. ‘We aren’t here to hurt you, Henry. We may be about to save your life. Your name appears on what looks like a kill list, belonging to an organisation that looks hell bent on triggering World War Three.’ She showed Shawford the notebook. ‘The list is in here, Henry. Who are they? Why would they want you dead?’

  Shawford sagged and shook his head. ‘I knew they wouldn’t leave me in peace.’

  ‘Who, Henry? Who wouldn’t leave you in peace?’

  ‘The people I’ve been working for all these years. First it was the KGB, then, when the Soviet Union collapsed, it was FSB. Now? Now they don’t have a name, but they are very rich and very powerful.’

  McGill sat at the opposite side of the fireplace. ‘So, you’ve been selling secrets to them? Is that what paid for all this?’

  ‘I don’t have any secrets to sell. I’ve been much more important to them than simply selling secrets.’

  Sinclair sat beside Shawford. ‘Tell us about it, Henry. The more we know, the more we can do to stop them.’

  Shawford sat back and crossed his legs. ‘I got involved back in the sixties. I was at Cambridge and Kim Philby had just defected. He was an ex-Trinity College alumnus and there were a few of us who were inspired by him. Gathering information from MI6 and passing it to the Soviets. It all seemed so glamorous, so James Bond.’

  McGill sat forward. ‘People died because of him. He was nothing more than a traitor.’

  ‘But in the Soviet Union he was a great hero. He received the Order of Lenin.’

  McGill started to speak again but Sinclair silenced him with a look. ‘Go on, Henry. What happened? I assume you were recruited?’

  ‘I offered my services at the Soviet Embassy. I thought I would become a secret agent, but I’m not that type. I’m an academic. They had something else in mind for me.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘During the Cold War, Directorate S ran sleeper agents in the UK, US and Canada. Long-term undercover operatives who could pass for locals. They had back stories, family trees and every piece of documentation they needed. I helped them integrate into our society. I found them accommodation and work. I introduced them to my friends, created a whole network, it was beautiful.’

  Sinclair had heard this story before. ‘That’s not new info, Henry. We all know about sleeper agents and how they would be activated when the Russians needed them. We’ve all read the books and seen the films, but the Cold War is over. The Soviets lost. These agents either went home or were captured. I’m sure a lot of them are dead.’

  ‘That’s right, but a large group of them stayed exactly where they were. With the KGB gone, they went into business for themselves. They married and had children, built business empires and large fortunes. They became pillars of the very society they had been sent to infiltrate. Now, their children, the second generation, are taking control.’

  Porter clicked his fingers. ‘That’s what the list in Justin’s book was about. He worked out that powerful people were being killed, and replaced by this second generation. They’re taking over the world, one CEO at a time.’

  Shawford uncrossed his legs and shifted in his seat. ‘Justin was the name of the young man who came to see me a couple of months ago. He asked about the same things you have.’

  Porter stood up. ‘What? You met Justin?’

  ‘Yes. He had worked out a lot of things, but he didn’t have all the details.’

  ‘What did you tell him? Did you tell this organisation about him?’ Porter took a step towards Shawford, pointing at him angrily. ‘Are you the reason Justin is dead?’

  ‘I didn’t tell anyone.’ Shawford looked at Sinclair and McGill. ‘I didn’t.’

  McGill grabbed Porter’s arm and pulled him to the other side of the room. ‘Calm down, Callum.’

  Sinclair glared at Porter. ‘It’s okay, Henry, we believe you. Don’t we, Callum?’

  Porter sat down, lowering his eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Sinclair smiled and turned back to Shawford. ‘Now, Henry, tell us what happened when Justin came to see you. What did you tell him?’

  ‘I’m not a young man, Miss Sinclair. I know I don’t have long left, and if they decide to kill me then … so be it, but I won’t let my life’s work be forgotten. It’s too important.’

  ‘What did you tell him, Henry?’

  ‘I told him I was trying to write my memoir but that I was struggling, I’m not a natural writer, I struggled when I tried to make things sound dramatic, entertaining. He offered to ghost write it for me.’

  ‘So, you gave him the information.’

  ‘I gave him all the notes I’d written about my life story; from Cambridge to now. He said it would be a best seller.’

  Sinclair could sense there was more. ‘What else, Henry?’

  ‘I gave him the file I’d kept – details of the agents we put in.’

  Sinclair thought of the USB stick they had found in the safe-deposit box, could that have the information on it? ‘What sort of file? Is it on a USB stick?’

  ‘No. I don’t get on well with new technology. All of the information is in a brown cardboard folder, held together with a red ribbon.’

  They hadn’t found it yet. ‘Did Justin tell you what he was planning to do with the file?’

  Shawford shook his head. ‘Just that he would take it to London and keep it safe, until the time was right to use it.’

  ‘How much information is in there, Henry?’

  ‘All of it. All the UK sleeper agents I dealt with: their real names, fake identities and occupations, addresses, the whole shooting match. He said he wouldn’t use it until after I was dead.’

  ‘Is there any information on this second generation, Henry?’

  ‘Yes, I kept track of all the members of my network. Their successes, their children, everything.’

  McGill let out a long whistle. ‘No wonder they killed Wyatt. He could’ve taken the whole organisation down.’

  Sinclair held up the notebook. ‘He still could, if we get to the file first.’ She looked back at Shawford. ‘Henry. Do you remember any of the details in the file?’

  ‘Of course. I remember all of my creations.’

  ‘Do you know the name Vadim?’

  A smile appeared on the old man’s face. ‘Ah, yes. He is my masterpiece. We put two generations of the family, Vadim’s father and grandfather, in as sleepers at the start. I created a backstory that went back another century; linked them with the aristocracy. That got them places the other sleepers couldn’t go. Now, Vadim is on the verge of real power.’

  ‘What do you mean? Who is he?’ Sinclair saw the red dot on Shawford’s head a fraction of a second before the window behind her shattered. She dropped to the ground and dragged the old man with her, but it was too late. The bullet had struck his left temple.

  McGill dived to the floor and crawled to the window. ‘Looks like a sniper from the opposite roof. Stay low and get to the door. Time to leave.’

  Sinclair and Porter stayed on their stomachs and dragged themselves to the door. McGill checked the sniper was no longer there then crawled over to join them. ‘That guy had a clear shot at you, Ali, and he didn’t take it. That must mean he was only after Shawford. He didn’t know we were here, or who we are. He must be on his own.’

  ‘He knows we’re here now.’

  ‘He’s probably calling for backup right now. Okay, Callum. Out the door and down the stairs as quick as you can. No point being quie
t now.’

  All three of them ran down the stairs to the entrance. McGill took the lead. ‘Stay back. I’ll check the street.’ He opened the solid front door just enough to see out into the street. It was quiet: two joggers and a dog walker on the opposite side; a cyclist passing the door. No sign of a sniper or a backup team. It was as if nothing had happened. He raised his hand to beckon the other two forward, just as a black 4x4 screeched up to the entrance. McGill slammed the door shut and locked it. ‘Move. NOW.’

  Sinclair and Porter bolted for the staircase as the first silenced rounds splintered the wooden door and it smashed onto the marble floor.

  McGill jumped up the first three steps as bullets pinged around his feet. ‘Get back up to the apartment. There has to be a fire escape.’

  The three of them sprinted up the stairs as the sound of smashing wood came up from the entrance hall. Sinclair kicked open Shawford’s front door without even breaking her stride. Porter followed her through as McGill stood at the top of the staircase and fired shots into the stairwell to keep their pursuers’ heads down.

  Sinclair ran through the apartment and into the bedroom at the back. The steel fire escape had been retro fitted to the back of the old stone building. She pushed up the sash window and looked down the four storeys to the back alley. Two men were rounding the corner and heading for the bottom of the steel steps. Sinclair looked back along the apartment’s hallway to where Porter stood, not sure what he should be doing. ‘Callum. In here. Now.’

  The young man did as he was told – he was terrified. Sinclair pointed out of the window. ‘Out on to the fire escape and up to the roof. Don’t look back.’ She watched as Porter disappeared through the window then she shouted back at McGill, ‘Frank. Time to go.’

  McGill ran through Shawford’s door, into the bedroom, and followed the other two out of the window. He checked below him. The two men were now on the first flight of steel steps, their boots clanging on the metal and making the whole thing vibrate. He fired a shot at them then holstered his pistol and climbed up to the roof.