The John Milton Series Box Set 4

by Mark Dawson

  “Ten is on her way—we’ll meet her when we land. And Ziggy Penn is in charge of intel. I know, before you moan, that he’s annoying. But he’s also brilliant.”

  “Yes,” Milton groused. “He is. Right on both counts.”

  “We’re investigating the house and the area as subtly as we can. There’ll be three of you, fully armed, and we don’t think they know they’ve been blown. They don’t know that you’re coming. You go in, grab them or put them down, then get out.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  “I have unshakeable confidence in you, Milton,” Tanner replied, a wry smile bending his lips.

  Part II

  Winchester

  29

  Pope had taken up position in the churchyard of St Mary’s Church. It was open, with a lych-gate that stood alone as if the wall it had once offered access through had been removed at some point in the past. There was a path to the building that cut between the graves and several large shrubs had been planted along it; these offered excellent cover from the house and the occasional car that passed by, while also allowing Pope a good view of the entrance to the driveway. He checked his watch. It was 12.30 am. He had been watching the house for ninety minutes. The temperature had dropped quickly and he wasn’t really dressed for a long stake-out. Never mind. He would be busy soon enough.

  Another five minutes had passed when the van with the BT Openzone logo came around the corner. It continued around the bend in the road until Pope couldn’t see it any longer. He waited a moment to check that no one was watching from the drive and, happy that he was still undetected, cut between the bushes and shrubs and followed the van. He walked for three minutes until he reached a car park that served the Itchen Motor Company. There was a one-storey building set back from the road with enough parking spaces for six or seven cars. The spaces were empty save for the van and a vintage Jaguar that Pope guessed was waiting to be serviced. Pope heard the buzz of an engine and, as he approached the van, he saw a drone detach from the roof and lift off into the night. It had eight mini-propellers and a suite of cameras was cradled beneath the airframe. The drone climbed almost noiselessly and then proceeded toward the house.

  Pope reached the van. The driver’s compartment was empty. Pope went around to the other side of the vehicle where he couldn’t be seen from the road. He tapped on the door and, after a pause, it slid open.

  The interior was not what one would have expected to see from the outside. It had been fitted with a console along the opposite wall. There were two monitors, one of them displaying the feed from the discreet 360-degree periscope that poked up from the top of the van and the other showing aerial footage from the drone. There were digital recording devices, a directional antenna that was sensitive enough to discern the details of conversations from distance and a microwave receiver. There was a man at the console.

  “Evening, WATCHER,” Pope said.

  “Good evening, Five.”

  WATCHER was the operational codename for Ziggy Penn, the hacker from Group Six who was on long-term loan to Group Fifteen. Ziggy was short and wiry with untidy ginger hair, a messy thatch that had not seen a comb—or, Pope guessed, shampoo—for some time. His eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets, sitting above puffy bags that suggested a lack of sleep. His skin was pale, thanks, Pope knew, to a life spent inside staring at computer screens. His face was sallow, the skin on either side of his nose pitted with old acne scars. Pope had worked with Ziggy on a previous occasion and had found him mildly annoying, although the irritation was alleviated somewhat by the fact that he was unquestionably talented at what he did.

  The van’s ceiling was low, and Pope had to crouch.

  “You took your time,” Pope said.

  Ziggy indicated the van. “It’s not really built for speed,” he said. “Got here as fast as I could.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Not as much as you’d like,” Ziggy said. “I’ve got the estate agent’s plans from the last time the house was sold.” He nodded to one of the screens with a plan of the property displayed on it. “And I just put a drone up.”

  “I saw it,” Pope said.

  “It’s equipped with a day/night camera and a thermal camera. Here.” He indicated the screen with the overhead footage and pushed a button; an infra-red shot replaced the feed on the screen. Pope saw the church and, using that as the waypoint, found the house and the van that they were in. Ziggy smirked with self-satisfaction. “I’ll station it over the house. I’ll take a close look before you need to go in.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well,” he said, stroking his chin. “They’ve got a standard domestic broadband connection that I should be able to hook into. I’ll have a look for alarms and cameras and, if they have them, I’ll see if I can take them out. And if—” Ziggy was interrupted by movement in the drone feed. “Wait a minute,” he said. His fingers flashed across the keyboard and the display focused on the car. It had already turned off the road and was rolling into the property. Pope saw its brake lights flash as it rolled to a stop.

  “Can we get a better look?” Pope said. “I want to see who’s driving.”

  Ziggy moused over and clicked a button. The drone swung several feet to port, opening up an angle so that it could look down at the car as two occupants got out. He froze the footage, drew boxes around the two people—a man and a woman—and zoomed right in. The software corrected the digital artefacts that would otherwise have spoiled the image, lightened the shot and presented an acceptable view of both people.

  “That’s them,” Ziggy said. “Timoshev and Kuznetsov.”

  “Send it to HQ,” Pope said. “And call Tanner for me, please.”

  Ziggy swivelled in his chair, picked up a headset with an attached microphone and handed it to Pope. He put it on and waited as Ziggy placed the call and then directed it to Tanner.

  The call was noisy, with the sound of a powerful engine making it difficult to hear what Tanner was saying. “Hello?”

  “It’s Number Five,” Pope said. “We’ve had a development.”

  “Report.”

  “WATCHER has forwarded pictures to you.”

  “Hold on,” Tanner said, then, “They’re downloading now.”

  “I followed PAPERCLIP to Winchester, as reported. He took the train and then got a taxi from the station to an address in Kings Worthy.”

  “He doesn’t know you’re there?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “You don’t believe so?”

  “High level of confidence.”

  Tanner exhaled impatiently. “These pictures. What am I looking at?”

  “The male and female at the property two minutes ago. WATCHER is running the registration on the car.”

  “It’s registered to a Mr. Thomas Ryan,” Ziggy interceded. “The Land Registry has him down as joint owner of the property. The other owner is an Amelia Ryan. Biometric match confirms—that’s them. It’s Timoshev and Kuznetsov.”

  “Anything else?” Tanner asked.

  “I’m running a full script on them now,” Ziggy reported. “I’ll have more when it’s done.”

  “As fast as you can,” Tanner said. “What’s your recommendation, Five?”

  “There’s a lot we don’t know. There are at least three adults in the house now: PAPERCLIP, Timoshev and Kuznetsov. Might be more—no way of knowing unless we get closer.”

  “We’re going to need you to take them. That comes directly from Control.”

  “I’ll need backup. Five or six agents would be ideal.”

  “We don’t have five or six. Most of our strength is tied up outside the country. You can have two.”

  “That might not be enough.”

  “It’ll have to be. I’m two minutes away with Number One. Ten is on her way, too. Hold your position. We’ll be with you soon. Report if anything changes. Tanner out.”

  30

  It was twelve-thirty when Beck heard the sound
of footsteps approaching on the gravel and, a moment later, a key turning in the lock. The door opened and Mikhail came inside.

  He saw Beck and stopped. “Vincent,” he said. “Shit. What’s the matter?”

  “Where’s Nataliya?”

  Mikhail stepped aside and his wife came through the door, closing it behind her. She stepped into the light and Beck saw that there was an ugly contusion on her forehead. There was a cut from her left eyebrow to the scalp above her right eye and it was picked out with a trail of dried blood. The skin on either side ran from deep black to purple to blue.

  “What happened?” Beck said.

  “Geggel crashed his car,” she said.

  “Are you all right? Your head—”

  “I’m fine,” she said, allowing him to reach up and gently run his fingers down her cheek. “Mild concussion at worst. I had a couple of hours’ sleep in the car. I’ll be okay. I have a headache, that’s all.”

  “Why are you here?” Mikhail asked.

  “Come inside.”

  Beck ushered them into the front room. He sat down on the sofa.

  “Well?” Mikhail said.

  “We’ve been compromised.”

  He shook his head. “After today? No. That’s impossible. We were careful.”

  “No. Not after today—it might not even be because of you. The Center has confirmed it—we’ve been blown. They signalled me this afternoon. There’s no question.”

  Mikhail’s anger flared. “What the fuck?”

  “Calm down,” Beck said. “Just relax. You’re certain you’re black now?”

  “Of course we’re black,” Mikhail snapped. “You think we’d come home if we weren’t? We’re not amateurs. We’ve been driving for hours.”

  Beck concentrated on maintaining his sangfroid. “I know you’re careful,” he said. “We just need to be sure.”

  “We’re sure,” Nataliya said, more evenly than her husband. Her voice was quiet. She sounded tired. “We took our time. That’s why we’re late. No one is following.”

  “What do you mean we’ve been compromised, Vincent?” Mikhail pressed, his temper up. “How did they fucking find out?”

  “Please, Mikhail. We need to address this rationally. Please—sit down.”

  Mikhail was cool most of the time, but he had a propensity to lose his temper when things had gone wrong. Nataliya, on the other hand, never wavered; she was collected at all times and, even now, Beck was not surprised as she reached over and laid her hand on her husband’s shoulder. He sat down on the other sofa and Nataliya sat down beside him.

  “We have to think about what’s next,” Beck said. “Working out what happened can come later. The Center will get to the bottom of it.”

  “They’d better,” Mikhail snapped, although some of the anger was gone from his voice. “I’m telling you that we did not mess up. It’s nothing to do with us.”

  Beck nodded solemnly. “This is what I know. I got a flare this evening. The British have breached our security and we need to shut down. We’re about to be exposed and we need to shut everything down and get out of the country.”

  “How could they possibly know that?”

  Beck held out his hands. “I don’t know, Mikhail. It was just a flare—no detail. I’ve heard rumours that there might be a leak within the Center. There’s no evidence to suggest that a traitor has access to Directorate S, but it can’t be ruled out, especially now.”

  Both husband and wife were pale-faced when he finished.

  “So what do we do?” Nataliya asked him.

  “We go.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Right away.”

  They didn’t protest. Beck wasn’t surprised; there had been close shaves before, but this was of a different order entirely. The British would unravel every strand of their fake lives until there was nothing left to unpick. Their property business would be shuttered and then every deal that had been done would be forensically examined for links to Moscow. Their friends would be interrogated. They would visit the restaurants they enjoyed, the tennis club that Nataliya had been attending for five years, the running club that Mikhail ran with every Tuesday night. The Ryans knew that they were burned. They were good at hiding, at blending in, but no one could stay out of sight forever, and not when the spotlight was shining as brightly as this.

  “We’ve had bad luck,” Nataliya said. “Losing Callaghan was a blow. This—it feels like they have someone inside.”

  “Maybe. Callaghan was a pity, but we did well with him for as long as we could. He was never going to listen to us forever. He was too impatient. Took too many risks.”

  “He was an operational nightmare,” Mikhail said.

  “You ran him well, Misha. That wasn’t your fault, and neither is this. But you’re burned. It is what it is. You’ve done enough. It’s time to go home, where the president will present you with medals for the sacrifices you’ve made. For the things you’ve done for the Rodina.”

  Nataliya nodded decisively and stood. “Fine,” she said.

  “I’ll load the car,” Mikhail said.

  “I’ll help,” Beck offered.

  They made their way upstairs. Beck followed Mikhail into one of the bedrooms. He took down a suitcase from on top of the wardrobe and opened it; it was already packed with clothes.

  Beck realised he hadn’t even asked about the operation. “How was this afternoon?”

  “They met,” he said. “They talked.”

  “Did you hear what they said?”

  “No,” he said. “I couldn’t get close enough.”

  “And?”

  “Aleksandrov is dead, isn’t he?”

  “And Geggel?”

  “Dead,” Nataliya said, coming into the room.

  “Well done. Excellent work. The Center will be pleased.”

  Mikhail could be hot-headed, but that was not surprising given the stress that he and Nataliya were under. They had been covert for twenty years. Maintaining their secrecy while undertaking work for the Center was difficult and dangerous. It was claustrophobic. Beck had two main functions: he delivered orders to Mikhail and Nataliya and placated them when they complained about what they had been asked to do. And now a third had been added: get them out of the country before they could be caught.

  31

  The helicopter swooped low over Winchester and continued to the north. The pilot located a football field adjacent to a sports and social club and descended quickly. As the helicopter settled on its skids, the noise from the turbines dropped from a roar to a whine and then a murmur. Tanner opened the door and hopped down to the grass below. Milton followed. The rotors were slowing down, gradually drooping over the helicopter. Hot exhaust gases vented from the back of the fuselage, causing the air to shimmer in the glow of the helicopter’s range lights.

  There was a car waiting in the dirt car park next to the field. Milton and Tanner made their way across to it. The engine switched on and the lights flicked to life. Tanner opened the door for Milton and he got in. There was a woman sitting in the driver’s seat. Milton recognised her.

  “Number Ten,” he said.

  “Hello, Number One.”

  Her name was Conway. Milton remembered her file: she had served for several years in the Special Reconnaissance Regiment, and had extensive experience related to covert surveillance and denied area operations. She had been seconded to the MI6 team in Yemen to train Yemeni forces fighting al Qaeda and to identify targets for drone strikes. She had been tagged as a potential recruit to Group Fifteen by her MI6 handler during that operation, and Milton had been impressed enough during her selection to recommend her file to Control. Her work had been excellent so far: efficient, decisive, and, when the need arose, ruthless.

  Tanner stayed outside.

  “You’re not coming?” Milton said.

  “It’s down to you now,” Tanner said. “It’s your operation. I need to get back to London.”

  Tanner slammed the door and
slapped his palm on the roof.

  Ten pulled away.

  Conway drove them into the village and pulled up in the car park of the Itchen Motor Company. Milton and Conway got out of the car and crossed over to the van that was waiting there. Milton knocked on the door, stepped back, and waited until it was unlocked and pulled open. Light shone out of the interior, enough for Milton to see that Michael Pope had opened the door.

  “Evening,” Milton said.

  Pope reached out a hand and Milton clasped it. “Good to see you,” he said.

  Pope shuffled aside so that Milton and Conway could clamber into the van. Milton looked around, blinking to allow his eyes to adjust to the wash of light that was emanating from the various pieces of equipment. Ziggy Penn was sitting at a control desk; he swivelled around in his chair.

  “Hello, Number One,” he said. “Shut the door, would you?”

  Milton slid the door closed again. Much of the space in the back of the van had been taken up by the equipment, and it was cramped for the four of them.

  Ziggy turned to Conway. “Number Ten?”

  Conway gave a short nod of acknowledgement.

  “Then the gang’s all here,” Ziggy said. “Let’s get down to it.”

  “What have you got?” Milton asked.

  Ziggy swivelled his chair so that he was facing the console. “Quite a bit,” he said. “I’ve got a drone over the property.”

  Milton examined a high-definition overhead image of a house and the surrounding area. It was large, with two wings, several outbuildings and the bright blue square of a swimming pool. The northern boundary of the garden was marked by the curve of a private road that offered access to a collection of similarly large houses. The road that they had taken to get to the van marked the southern boundary.

  “The property was last on the market four years ago. I found a cached copy of the plans—here.”

  Milton looked at the screen to Ziggy’s left. It was a brochure from a local estate agent advertising a large house. Ziggy swiped two fingers down on the console’s trackpad until he had the plan.