The Exphoria Code

by Antony Johnston

  The second law of thermodynamics states that the universe tends towards entropy; that order is more difficult to maintain than chaos, and such chaos is sometimes irreversible. Bridge had once demonstrated the second law to Izzy by dropping a tea cup on the floor, and asking her sister to imagine how much more energy it would now take to reassemble the pieces, let alone make an entirely new cup, compared to the ease with which it had fallen. Izzy just sighed, and handed her a dustpan and brush. But, sibling mockery or not, Bridge regarded the second law as an important universal constant. She often used it to make a joke of people’s reactions to her desk, or apartment, or the contents of her handbag. If the universe was heading inexorably toward entropy and chaos anyway, Bridge was just doing her bit to help it along.

  In a similar fashion, she’d assumed a single middle-aged man, living alone away from home for months, would tend towards that same entropic state and follow a kind of ‘second law of manhood’. But, whether he was a spy or not, James Montgomery was definitely some kind of lawbreaker. His apartment was spotless, cleaned to within an inch of its life, and squared away like an army barracks. If she didn’t know better from his record, Bridge would have assumed he served in the military. She ran a gloved finger over the surface of an occasional table, and it came up clean. Even the space behind the TV was immaculate. Did he have a cleaner who came round and did the place? If so, the longer Bridge spent here, the greater the risk of her being discovered. But surely a cleaner was too much of a potential security risk for Montgomery to employ. Bridge began to think she’d misjudged him.

  Until she saw the gun on the bedside table.

  It was an MP-443 Grach, standard-issue Russian military. Bridge was no firearms expert, but the Grach, and its predecessor the Makarov, were among the first weapons that intelligence officers were trained to identify. She was actually surprised it wasn’t a Makarov. Officially the Grach had replaced them years ago, but Makarovs had been in service in the USSR and former Eastern Bloc for so long that many soldiers still carried them out of habit, and the European black market was awash with them. Buying one was as easy as clicking a link on a darknet website and collecting it from whichever dive bar the local criminals patronised.

  Bridge found it hard to imagine Montgomery entering any kind of dive bar, but the very presence of the gun on his bedside table implied there was a secret side to him. And unlike Makarovs, buying a black-market Grach was neither easy nor cheap. What else did this officious little man hide from the world, she wondered? But, much as it raised serious questions about his character — and was surely enough to justify interrogating him — the Grach was, so to speak, no smoking gun. It didn’t prove he was the mole.

  She was about to replace the pistol on the bedside table when she heard the front door unlock.

  The bedroom door was open behind her, and in a smaller apartment she might have had a clear line of sight to the front door. But here, she couldn’t see who was entering, and they couldn’t see her. Had she been wrong about the cleaner? She quickly concocted a cover story: she was Montgomery’s French mistress, she’d spent the night here, she’d slept in all morning, and now she was just leaving, merci beaucoup et au revoir. So long as the cleaner didn’t somehow recognise Bridge, she should be able to get away fast and worry about the consequences later.

  But it wasn’t the cleaner.

  Pressed against the wall, craning her neck to see through the door, allowed her to see a sliver of mirror in the interior hallway. Reflected in it was the unmistakeable figure of Montgomery. What the hell was he doing back here at lunchtime? He usually went to a café in Agenbeux. Bridge had never heard him, or anyone else, suggest he ever returned home for lunch. And yet, here he was.

  She instinctively thumbed the safety catch on the Grach, not taking her eyes from the mirror. Montgomery had moved out of sight, into the kitchen. She heard the sounds of him opening cupboards, rifling through drawers, looking for something. Bridge moved to the door, still watching the mirror. Montgomery’s kitchen search was keeping him occupied. Good. If she was quick she could sneak out and, missing gun notwithstanding, he’d be none the wiser. She contemplated tossing the gun on the bed, but a man as neat as Montgomery would know it was out of place, and she didn’t have time to return it to the bedside table. Better to take it with her, let him think he’d been burgled, or mislaid the weapon. She could return later for a better look around.

  It was a nice theory, while it lasted.

  She made it through the interior hallway, into the lounge. Montgomery’s briefcase lay open on the couch, suggesting he’d returned to find something he’d forgotten to take to the office. She was almost out, just passing the very clean occasional table, when she heard footsteps behind her and Montgomery call out, “Qui va là?” Bridge continued to the door, not turning to look back. If he was asking, that meant he didn’t recognise her, and if she could get out quickly, he’d never know it was her.

  Another nice theory that didn’t last.

  She knew she wasn’t going to make a clean exfil in the split second before it struck, as she struggled to identify an odd sound. She was already ducking on instinct, but while her perception was working at double speed, her own movements were merely normal, and it was only immediately after impact that she realised the sound had been an almost imperceptible whistling.

  The cup glanced off the back of her head, smashing to pieces as it hit the floor. She stumbled, more from shock than pain, as her mind struggled to catch up with events. Montgomery had…thrown a cup at her? There it was, in a hundred entropy-fuelled pieces on the floor. She put out a hand to stop herself from colliding with the front door, and the impact pushed the Grach’s hard steel into her palm. Behind her she heard Montgomery gasp, followed by a sound she could now identify with ease. Footsteps, fast and hard on the wooden floor. He was running towards her.

  Bridge turned, letting herself fall back against the front door so she could brace herself, and raised the gun. “Stop,” she said, but he didn’t. Montgomery had picked up his briefcase, and was swinging it above his head like a mallet. His face was a strange, twisted mixture of surprise and fury, and Bridge had no doubt in her mind that he would beat her to death if he could. She had no choice, but she needed him alive to interrogate. She aimed for his knee and pulled the trigger…

  The firing pin clicked. Twice. The gun wasn’t loaded, and Montgomery had known all along.

  He caught her with a downward swing of the briefcase, striking her head and one shoulder. It was only a briefcase, but it was surprisingly heavy. Combined with Montgomery’s desperation, plus her own surprise at the gun’s failure to fire, it made a blow strong enough that she fell to the floor, the gun escaping from her fingers. The case burst open on impact, spilling its contents, and as Bridge fell with them, she couldn’t help identifying what she saw; three briefing folders, two notepads, three ballpoint pens, a roll of English mints, a mini-tablet, a micro-USB cable and power brick, and two hardback novels.

  Montgomery stood over her in the narrow hallway and shouted, “I knew it!” She wasn’t sure what he’d known, but there’d be time to ask later. Right now she was more concerned with regaining control of the situation, if she’d ever had it to start with. From this position on the floor there were limited options to attack a standing opponent, but Bridge knew them well enough, and decided that in the narrow confines of the hallway, simplicity would carry the day.

  She kicked out, bracing her shoulder against the door for extra leverage as she slammed the sole of her boot against his shin. It didn’t crack, but it made him yelp and stagger back, giving Bridge enough time to scramble to her knees and deliver a rising punch to his kidneys. It was minimal power compared to what she could do while standing, but she was gambling that Montgomery wasn’t a practised fighter, and not used to taking body blows. Sure enough, he doubled over in pain, giving Bridge time to get to her feet. She moved around, standing tall and impo
sing behind him. “That’s enough, James,” she said between breaths, “you’re coming with me.” She reached out a hand for his shoulder.

  “No!” he roared and, still doubled over, rushed at her. His head and shoulders slammed into her chest, driving them both back into the lounge. Bridge stumbled, bracing herself for impact with the floor, but instead hit the back of the couch and fell backwards over it. She rolled with it, landing on the floor. Montgomery, holding a hand over his kidneys, limped round the back of the couch and reached for a wooden fruit bowl on the coffee table. While Bridge regained her feet he picked it up and tipped it, apples and oranges falling to the floor around him.

  They seemed on equal terms. Both winded, both standing, with only the coffee table between them. But Bridge knew she had the advantage, and not only because of her height. Nevertheless, she had to finish this as fast as she could. The less damage she did to Montgomery, the easier it would be to persuade him she’d only used minimal, necessary force, and to confess his crimes. He swung his arm back, confirming in her mind that he lacked CQC training; to an experienced fighter, any backswing was a telegram to your opponent, telling them what you were about to do. She waited for Montgomery to commit to his forward swing, then immediately took a step forwards to bring herself inside the length of his arm. She half-turned, pivoting to face the swinging arm, and raised a forearm to block the overswing as the attack missed its target. Meanwhile, Bridge’s free arm swung up and back, elbow first, travelling with the full momentum of her turning body. Montgomery’s nose broke on impact.

  He staggered back, moaning, and dropped the fruit bowl so he could nurse his useless, bleeding nose. The bowl clattered harmlessly to the floor, but Montgomery stepped blindly onto one of the fallen apples and twisted his ankle. He lost his balance as his leg buckled under him. He fell backwards, cracking his head on the corner of the occasional table with a hard, sickening crunch.

  Bridge stood over him, ready for his counterattack. He stared up at her in silence. She stared back, and finally realised no counterattack was coming — not now, and not ever again.

  James Montgomery was dead.

  In the Good column: she could now take as long as she wanted to search his apartment, and find more evidence to incriminate him. In the Bad column: MI6 could no longer interrogate him to find out who he was delivering information to.

  Good: if Montgomery really was the mole, his spying days were over.

  Bad: if he wasn’t the mole, Bridge’s spying days were over. Possibly also her days as a free woman.

  Good: …she was struggling to think of any other silver linings, if she was honest.

  Bad: plenty more in that column, though. Where to start?

  First, she wondered if she should hide the body. But Montgomery’s sudden disappearance would raise as many questions as the discovery of his corpse. Plus — and here was one for the Good column — she’d worn gloves the whole time. Her prints weren’t on the Grach pistol. There was nothing to directly tie her to the scene during the inevitable police investigation.

  Next, she considered using his landline to call Giles. She’d left her phone at the guest house, and while Mourad was closer, the only number she knew by heart was Vauxhall. But that would absolutely tie her to the scene, and not through fingerprints but simple deduction. Nobody would believe that Montgomery, if he was a spy, had made a sudden phone call to the very people he was betraying, at the exact same time he was apparently fighting for his life. Whitehall was pretty good at spin, but even the powers that be would struggle to explain that away. No, phone calls would have to wait. The most important thing Bridge could do right now was gather more evidence.

  As she chased down these cascading, branching possibilities of action, her unconscious mind replayed the fight on a constant loop, a natural side effect of the residual adrenaline still pumping through her body. Every moment, every detail, held in a moment of clarity. The sensation and surprise when the cup hit her, the impact of her boot on Montgomery’s shin vibrating through her body, her world turning upside-down as she fell back over the couch, the sensation of Montgomery’s briefcase on her already-bruising face, the apples and oranges falling from the bowl…

  Other things had fallen, too. She walked to the entrance hallway, where Montgomery had hit her with the briefcase, spilling its contents on the floor. There was one item in there, something odd, that she’d glimpsed during that moment of pain.

  A mini-tablet.

  Its screen had cracked when it hit the wooden floor, but when she thumbed the power button the device lit up, still working. And it was another ‘second device’, the very thing for which she’d called out Voclaine, that Montgomery had neglected to mention. More worrying was the unmistakeable small glass dot on the rear. It had a camera.

  She slid the tablet inside her hoodie, and wondered again about Voclaine. Every revelation made him look more innocent. But if so, where was he? Why escape from police custody? Why break his own second device, the presumably incriminating iPhone, rather than let security inspect it?

  Lost in thought, Bridge almost missed the sound of footsteps outside the front door. Two sets, at least. There was mumbling in French, then a key in the lock —

  She backed towards the lounge, too slowly. The door opened to reveal an elderly landlord, keyring in hand, staring at her in confusion. Behind him stood a curiously familiar gendarme. It took Bridge a moment to recognise him from the passport photo Giles had sent her.

  Marko Novak.

  52

  Henri Mourad eventually admitted to ‘GL’ that he wasn’t Tunisian, hoping it would stop her making half-drunken passes at him whenever they met. Instead she seemed to find the idea of sleeping with an Algerian très exotique, and persisted in her efforts. On the bright side, she didn’t withdraw the discount, and Henri suspected he might need it as she led him through a noisy, crowded sailors’ bar. At the back of the room an older man with a pale, rough face sipped a glass of dark beer.

  GL addressed him only as “Old Philippe”, and while he wouldn’t elaborate further, GL vouched for him as a long-time friend. Old Philippe had retired from the sea years before, following a mild stroke, and now worked out his years on the docks, supplementing his retirement fund with a well-earned reputation for discreet handling of ‘green routes’. Not so discreet that he wouldn’t accept a higher payment to spill the beans, mind, and after a furtive exchange of euros he did just that.

  “Two of them; Spanish-looking,” he said. “They had a package they wanted routing to England, and I sorted passage for it via Guernsey.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last night? Maybe the night before.” Old Philippe shrugged, and swigged his beer.

  Henri cursed. One way or another he’d missed the package, and probably the men too. “Where’s the boat now? Could it still be in Guernsey?”

  “Portsmouth by now. It might sit there for a while, though.”

  “And the men? They were carrying forged passports; did they travel with the package?”

  “They were in no fit state to go anywhere,” said the old man with a cold, dry laugh. “One looked like he was going to pass out right where you’re standing. Green as grass, he was.”

  “What was wrong with him?”

  Philippe raised an eyebrow at GL. “Does your toyboy think I’m a doctor?” GL snorted with laughter.

  Henri remembered something Marcel had said during their last meeting. “You’re the contact they were directed to from Toulouse, aren’t you? They were looking for someone who could help them smuggle an item from this port.”

  “I have friends everywhere.”

  Henri doubted that. “Could they still be here in Saint-Malo? Did they ask about hospitals, or where to get help without attracting attention?”

  “The only thing they asked about was handling procedures for the package.”

  GL nudged Henr
i. “This is why I think it’s your men. Go on, Philippe.”

  “I was about to, if you’d let me speak, woman,” said Philippe, taking another swig of beer. “They insisted it not be opened, which is normal enough. But they also wanted to make sure it wouldn’t be scanned, at any time, and that costs extra.”

  “You mean scanned with X-rays?”

  “X-rays, microwaves, they even wanted assurances it wouldn’t get sniffed by dogs. I don’t know what’s in that package, but if it’s just drugs I’ll eat my gloves.”

  “And yet you agreed to ship it anyway.”

  Old Philippe shrugged. “Money is money.”

  Henri balled his fists in frustration. “And they’re probably already halfway back to Portugal. Dammit.”

  Philippe reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Get over yourself and pay me another hundred euros,” he said.

  The paper was folded; impossible to see what it contained. “What’s that?” Henri asked.

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, boy. I made a copy of their initial manifest. All the way from…well. That would be telling.”

  Henri looked to GL. She shrugged and said, “It’s your money. How badly do you want this?”

  He sighed, knowing she was right, and that he had little choice. He gave Philippe the extra cash in exchange for the photocopy, unfolded the paper, and scanned the form. It was unfamiliar, and he knew almost nothing about shipping conventions or lingo, but he didn’t need to in order to find what the old sailor had teased him with.