Presence of Mine Enemies

by Stephen England

  But even so, this was. . .unfathomable remained the only word he could think to describe it.

  Arthur Colville. That the Service could, somehow, be linked—however loosely—to an attempt on the life of the Queen.

  And now, this effort to cover it up. . .and to unmask the UK’s remaining assets in Russia itself.

  The career intelligence officer within him realized that this was how the game was played. Legitimate espionage, all of it—at least, if they hadn’t been involved in the attack on Balmoral.

  But the traitor inside feared that his own name was on that list. That’s what he was—a traitor, now more than ever. No escaping it.

  And only further treason would save him now.

  10:57 A.M.

  Parliament Hill

  London

  She stood alone on the crest of the hill as Marsh approached, a solitary figure silhouetted against the sky—the summer breeze playing with her greying hair.

  There had been fear in her voice when she called, the former director-general thought, trudging up the steep slope of what archaeologists believed had once been a burial barrow, back during the Bronze Age. Back before there was an England.

  “You left your mobile at home?” she asked, glancing quickly up into his face as he reached her side.

  A nod, as he turned to stand beside her, looking out over the city. “As you requested, Maggie.”

  Even that was a move that could rouse suspicion in this age of ubiquitous tech, but there was no way around it. And she had insisted.

  He leaned back, feeling the breeze wash across his face, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. Waiting for her to speak.

  When he’d been a lad, you could stand on this hill and see the Houses of Parliament, nearly ten kilometers to the south. The heart of a nation, spread out before you. Or so it had seemed, in those youthful days.

  Now the view was obscured by new construction—buildings growing up like weeds all around the city. And somehow, the nation he’d served seemed to have become obscured, right along with them.

  Perhaps so it ever was. The clarity of youth. That firm, unshakeable sense of right, becoming murkier with the years.

  “Who did you tell, Julian?” she asked suddenly, turning to face him—transfixing him with a hard gaze, her voice earnest. Trembling ever so slightly. “I need to know. . .that folder on Alexei Vasiliev, who did you give it to?”

  “A friend.”

  “Who, Julian?” She swore loudly, the profanity sounding strange on her lips. Her eyes flashing anger. “Give me a name.”

  “Philip Greer—the head of D Branch, counterintel. Why? What’s going on, Maggie?”

  “My contact,” she replied, taking a deep breath, “was a former KGB officer named Gennady Natashkin. I hadn’t spoken to him in years—to my knowledge, no one had. Until last week. For you. And last night, Julian, someone threw him off the balcony of his Moscow apartment.”

  12:03 P.M. Central European Summer Time

  The bus stop

  Liège, Belgium

  It was a fierce, desperate embrace—the young man holding on as if to life itself.

  “I’m sorry, brother,” Harry whispered, his hand on the back of Aryn’s neck, holding him close. His blue eyes staring out over his friend’s shoulder, across the busy Belgian street—knowing that they needed to move, that Belkaïd’s people would be getting impatient. Finding himself unable to press—the genuineness of the emotion he felt, nearly overwhelming him.

  The humanity of your enemy couldn’t be denied—not this close. Not in a war this intimate.

  He’d known case officers who had retired from the Agency early, unable to take it any more—day by day forced to find empathy with men they would, in any other life, have rather killed. Because you had to have empathy to be able to work with such men—and working with them was your job.

  And what happened when your support network was gone. . .and those men were all you had left?

  “They killed her,” Aryn whispered, choking back an angry sob, his fingers digging into Harry’s back, into the fresh scars left by Belkaïd’s men.

  Pain. His due in life, the price of his sins. He bore it in silence, taking the younger man gently by the shoulders and steering him back toward the waiting car.

  At the end of the day, it was just another question he didn’t have an answer to. One he dared not face.

  2:30 P.M. British Summer Time

  A terraced house

  Abbey Road, London

  It was raining by the time Julian Marsh returned home, a distant rumble of thunder far-off in the summer sky.

  He’d taken the long way back from his meeting with Maggie Forster—criss-crossing the city in an effort to see if anyone had been following him. He was sure she had done the same.

  “I’m afraid, Julian.” Those words meant something, coming from Maggie. But she had reason to be. “They’ve killed British citizens already, you know that as well as I. Here in this country. And nothing’s been done to them, so they’ll do it again.”

  “Is there any way you could leave the city, even for the weekend? Just get out until we can get this sorted.”

  He was being optimistic in thinking things could be worked through that fast, and they had both known it. But she’d shook her head. “We could go to my stepson’s, but I wouldn’t think of putting him in this danger. To go anywhere else. . .the break in routine would only upset Richard. And money isn’t the easiest to come by these days.”

  “I can give you the money, Maggie, that’s not a problem. I feel as though I am responsible for this.”

  “You likely are, Julian. But keep your money—there’s few places I could go that they can’t follow. Just find who did this. Promise me that.”

  A promise easier made than kept, Marsh thought, running a hand through his rain-slick, greying hair. Huge drops of water coming away on his fingers. Greer.

  It couldn’t be, and yet he could see few alternatives—knowing how close Philip would have kept such information. Hard to believe that his old colleague could have been turned—and yet who better?

  The ultimate recruitment—to make a spy out of the spycatcher.

  He would have to find a way to confront him about it. . .some way to do so without further jeopardizing Maggie—and whatever other sources she might still be harboring.

  A resolution that, like his promise, was easier made than kept. Far easier.

  6:01 P.M.

  New Southgate Cemetery

  East Barnet, London

  He felt as if he were going to vomit—his breath coming fast, his body possessed with a restless energy as he paced back and forth across the red carpeting of the small chapel.

  It couldn’t be true—couldn’t be. None of this was actually happening. No, no, no. . .it wasn’t real. None of it.

  Except it was, something within Simon Norris reminded him. It all was. So very real.

  His eyes settled on the cross at the front of the chapel, a mad desire to rip it from where it hung seizing hold of him.

  But he dared not leave such trace of his presence. Not even here.

  When the door opened behind him, his heart nearly died within him, turning on heel to see the Russian standing there in the opening, regarding him calmly.

  “What were you thinking?” Norris fairly screamed at him, his body trembling with fury, the pent-up rage breaking free like water through a broken dam.

  Alexei simply shut the door without a word, walking past him down the length of the chapel, checking the side rooms off the sanctuary to ensure that they were alone. The fury building up within the analyst more with every passing moment.

  “Were you even thinking?” he demanded, unable to maintain his silence for a moment longer. “Tell me that, hey? Were any of you precious bloody sods even thinking?”

  “We are alone, Mr. Norris,” Alexei observed, gesturing to the adjacent rooms. “Had you even checked?”

  “Of course I had,” Norris lied an
grily, knowing all too well that the Russian could see right through him. “But you’re not answering me!”

  The faintly contemptuous smile was proof enough that Alexei hadn’t believed the lie. “We weren’t supposed to meet again, Mr. Norris—not until you were set to leave the country. But you demanded this meeting. So it falls to you to tell me what has precipitated all this. Without shouting, if you please. We are not alone in this cemetery, even if the chapel itself is vacant.”

  “You know,” Norris spat, struggling to calm down. Lower his voice. “One of those names I gave you, Alexei. He’s dead. You killed him.”

  “Smert shpionam,” was the Russian’s casual, almost off-hand reply. Death to spies. “What did you think was going to happen, Simon? That we were going to deliver vodka and caviar?”

  Of course he knew, even if he’d been lying to himself, deep down.

  “But to do it while I’m still here, in Britain?” he demanded, feeling the panic rise once more within him. That primal instinct for survival moving, as ever, to the fore. “Are you all insane? You’ve placed everything in jeopardy, Alexei. Everything. If I fall under suspicion now, you lose it all—everything I’m prepared to give you.”

  “And yet you still asked to meet once again, in person,” the Russian mused, “putting yourself in further jeopardy. Did you even think that through, Simon?”

  “Answer my question!”

  Alexei just looked at him, something of pity—or was it condescension—written in those ice-blue eyes. “He was due to leave the country, or so I was told. We had to act, or let him escape. Perhaps he suspected something, I don’t know. Either way. . .you still have a deal to uphold, Mr. Norris. Don’t be late.”

  Alexei Vasiliev passed through the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery, glancing briefly at the red brick of the building on his right before turning left—heading down the wooded street toward where he’d left the car, two blocks away.

  The trees adding to the gloom of the gathering twilight as he dug the pieces of his mobile phone from his pocket, replacing the battery and SIM card with practiced ease, tapping in a familiar number.

  A tiny smart car skittered past him down the street as he raised the mobile to his ear, bringing a cold, contemptuous smile to his face.

  “I’ve just been to see about the house,” he announced when the other end connected. “The seller is anxious to move—he gives the impression that he would rather be out sooner than later. Is that possible, do you think?”

  It was a moment before Kudrin replied, a curious hesitancy in the rezident’s voice when he did so. “Possible. . .but inadvisable. There are others interested in the property, and they know about you. Possibly him, as well.”

  Chapter 18

  5:30 A.M. British Summer Time, July 12th

  Notting Hill Gate Station

  The London Underground

  “You’re certain?” Roth asked, his voice low as the train rumbled once more out of the tube station, the carriage around them packed with passengers.

  A quick, almost imperceptible nod from Litvinov as Roth studied him. “Kudrin was taken off-guard—I could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t lying to me.”

  But are you to me? That was ever the question, wasn’t it, the British officer thought—aware of Greer’s uncertainty. Still. . .this wasn’t something any of them could afford to ignore.

  The best dezinformatsiya never was.

  “But you weren’t able to learn the name of their source?” he asked cautiously, carefully scanning the car. No sign of the watchers this morning. Interesting.

  “No,” the Russian replied. “I don’t believe Kudrin himself is privy to that information. And if he isn’t. . .there’s no way I can obtain it, either.”

  “I understand,” he heard a voice—presumably that of the British officer—respond. “Just stay alert, and make sure you don’t expose yourself to any unnecessary risks. If anything can be developed on our end. . .I’ll set up a meet to pass it along.”

  “Of course.” Dmitri Pavlovich Litvinov. “I’ll keep an eye open around the rezidentura—relay anything I can that pertains to the case.”

  And then both men fell silent, as if they had parted. The voices gone, replaced only by the low hum of the voices on the train.

  Alexei Vasiliev pulled the earbuds from his ears, leaning back against the seat of the carriage—his face expressionless, his tablet neglected on his lap.

  The micro-transmitter he’d slipped into a pocket of Litvinov’s suit jacket in a deft brush-pass as they boarded the train would continue broadcasting for another twenty minutes, but he had what he needed. Knew, everything he needed to know. Treason.

  He’d encountered many traitors to the Rodina over his decades in intelligence work, but it was something you never got used to. The sense of betrayal, ever fresh.

  And there was only ever one remedy, to such a cancer. Cut it out.

  Smert shpionam. . .

  7:49 A.M. Central European Summer Time

  The Ardennes Forest, near Malmedy

  Belgium

  “It’s a job,” Harry thought, remembering Gamal Belkaïd’s words the previous night as the box truck sped along the quiet roadway, dappled sunlight flickering across his face as its morning rays filtered through the woods of the Ardennes—tall trees lining the road on both sides for as far as the eye could see.

  Miles upon miles. During the Second World War, Allied commanders had made the mistake of believing that these forested mountains were impenetrable, the terrain far too difficult to allow for any kind of major armored offensive.

  The Germans had proven them wrong—twice. A mistake for which over eighty young American artillerymen had paid with their lives, taken prisoner and gunned down by the machine guns of the Waffen-SS in a field not too far from this very road. Broken bodies, crumpled in the crimson snow.

  And now, here was Belkaïd, sending them into the same terrain. It was a test of some kind, he knew that much—not believing the trafficker’s excuse of simply needing extra men on the job for a moment. The man was a cipher. . .his motives much harder to parse than the straightforward black/white religious ideology driving his young companions.

  That Belkaïd wished to advance the Islamist cause seemed without doubt, but it rang false somehow—a discordant hubris, something. It might be a weakness, even, but something about the man spoke of someone to be underestimated at one’s own peril.

  Harry let his arm hang outside the window, feeling the slipstream rush by—casting a glance over at the driver.

  The man had spoken perhaps five words since they’d set out from Liège, an impassive, unmoveable entity in the driver’s seat. A short, dark-haired Arab—Algerian, presumably, like Belkaïd.

  There were four other trucks, just like this one—fanning out through the Ardennes by different roads toward a singular goal. A rendezvous with smugglers from over the “border” with Germany, presumably trafficking cargo from points further east.

  Much further.

  And that’s all Belkaïd had chosen to reveal. The shipment could be anything. Drugs. Guns. More counterfeit phones like the ones he’d shown off at the warehouse.

  Women, even. Harry’s face tightening at that last, a brief, almost imperceptible grimace before the mask fell back in place.

  He’d seen them in the windows of the Gare du Nord in his early weeks in Brussels—red-lipped and beckoning, a haunting illusion. It had almost been enough to tempt him to seek some solace in their arms, a comfort as counterfeit as Belkaïd’s phones. . .but there were some lines he could never bring himself to cross.

  Even if he no longer knew what they were.

  7:31 A.M. British Summer Time

  Thames House

  Millbank, London

  “He was clear that this. . .‘contact’ of Arthur Colville’s was still at large,” Phillip Greer observed, his mind still racing as he sorted through everything Roth had just laid out before him.

  A nod.

  The count
er-intel spook swore beneath his breath, suddenly remembering MacCallum’s words, sitting there in the small interview room in HMP Belmarsh.

  “I never betrayed my country. And if I didn’t, that means someone else did. Someone you haven’t found yet.”

  He might even have been telling the truth, Greer realized, the wilderness of mirrors in which he walked suddenly distorting once again, projecting back crazed images of oneself, of one’s surroundings.

  Madness.

  “There has to be someone else,” he said finally, glancing quickly over at Roth. “Perhaps someone in MacCallum’s old branch, someone close enough to. . .you’re sure that Litvinov can’t get us the name?”

  “He seemed quite sure,” the former Royal Marine replied, his dark fingers interlaced as he leaned back into the chair, his eyes thoughtful. Reflective. “If he’s telling the truth—if he’s not, himself, being played—that’s something that’s being kept compartmented from the rezidentura.”

  It made sense, Greer thought. And insisting that Litvinov probe further was foolhardy—the risks of compromise, far too great.

  Even if it made the job they had to do that much harder.

  Greer picked up the receiver of the phone on his desk, connecting him to his secretary in the outer office.

  “Rhona,” he began, “I’m going to need access records for the Registry, as soon as you can obtain them for me. And personnel files for G Branch. Thank you.”

  He set the phone back down, glancing through his thick glasses at Roth as he began to undo the cuffs of his dress shirt, rolling the sleeves back to the elbows. “You and I, are going to be in for a long day.”