by James Flynn
57.
The car was silent. Luke had ordered both windows be wound down; the fresh air whipping across his face was keeping him alert. Seona’s knuckles were white from where she was gripping the steering wheel so tight.
The road was a small country lane, the type that spread across Buckinghamshire like capillaries. It was barely large enough for one car at a time; hedgerows grew wildly along its flanks, leaning out into the road, taunting drivers. Luke had also told Seona to only have sidelights on; headlights on roads like these would make them visible from miles away. His arm was pulsing with pain; he bent down and removed his shoe. He pulled off his sock and tied it tightly just above the wound, creating a makeshift tourniquet to stem the blood loss.
“Does it hurt?” Seona couldn’t think of anything else to say, the silence was torturous. Her adrenaline was still pumping and she was desperately trying to see the road in front of her, keeping up with the twists and turns. She knew Luke was hurt, and she felt nauseated at the blood and death. She had believed Luke when he said that the man back on the driveway was working for the mysterious Medea, but did he know where her father was? And she had killed a man … she fought back the bile rising in her throat.
Luke couldn’t accept that Aubert had sold them out; he had far too much to lose by involving the authorities. Plus, people helping an investigation do not tend to be murdered. Perhaps the pilots had decided to squeal.
“How did they find us that quickly?” Luke asked the question rhetorically.
Seona started to shake, her hands gripped tighter and tighter on the steering wheel.
Luke continued, “No one knew where we were. No communications, nothing.”
Seona couldn’t take it anymore. “It’s my fault. I’m the reason they found us, I’m the reason Aubert’s dead.” She broke down. “I called someone at one of my father’s offices yesterday. I called from the phone in my room ...” Seona was sobbing.
Luke hadn’t been thorough enough with Seona’s room. Putting a tracer on Prussias Latvik’s offices would have been the first thing anyone would have done. These days setting a phone tap for the intelligence agencies was as simple as informing the phone company that they wanted all calls split and dual-routed to their listening stations across the capital. The SIS, MI5 or MI6 could set up a phone tap anywhere in the UK mainland and have GCHQ start monitoring within twenty minutes. They would then process all conversations on those lines through a centralised mainframe that filters certain chosen words. In this case they probably scanned for words such as Seona, kidnap and Prussias.
Once any of those words was mentioned, it would flag the call to an analyst, giving two locations: the call’s origin and the call’s destination.
Luke looked over at Seona. She was shivering and crying. He didn’t feel anger, she was a lost soul in another person’s world, and it was not her fault.
“I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry ...” Seona wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Seona, it’s not your fault, they would have found us anyway.” Luke touched her shoulder.
“But he’s dead because of me. He’s dead!”
Luke stroked her head. “You weren’t to know. These are bad people, Seona. I’m a … Aubert is dead because of them, not you.”
The moment was interrupted by a flash behind the car. There was a set of headlights two corners back. Luke kept his eyes locked on the road behind.
Seona could see the lights in her rear view mirror, she didn’t even realise that her foot pressed down harder on the accelerator.
Could just be a weekend driver, thought Luke.
“It’s ok, probably nothing to worry about. Relax.” Luke didn’t take his eyes off the road behind; the car was now only one corner back. It was travelling fast, far too fast to be a weekend driver.
“Please tell me that isn’t someone coming for us?”
“I think it is.” Luke was thinking, he was rapidly getting past the point of exhaustion.
Seona let out an angry scream. She just wanted to close her eyes and wake up from the bad dream.
The car was gaining with every twist and turn in the road, it was travelling well over 60 mph. Not an easy feat given the quality of the road. They didn’t have time to pull over and change driver, so Luke climbed into the back seats. He wrenched the drop lever on the seats but the vehicle’s familiar rust had spread to the interior. He yanked four times before the back seats dropped down, revealing the boot. Luke grabbed up the MP5SD and MK23 Colt, both still had their extra magazines attached. The headlights were now casting a strong light through the rear window.
Luke joined Seona back in the front. “We are going to have speed up just a little bit. I think that car is for us, but I want to make sure.” The last thing Luke needed was to open fire on a boy racer trying to impress some girl. “I’ll talk you through it.”
Seona pushed down on the accelerator and gripped tighter still on the wheel.
“No, no, you need to relax your hands. Sit back in your seat, let your arms and legs go soft.” Luke echoed his Group 9 advanced driving instructor. The stiffer your muscles, Temple, the twitchier the movements. Twitchy movements are dangerous at speed. We need smooth movements, fluid connections between brake, accelerator and steering. Seona did her best to relax into her seat.
“Good, that’s good. Now we need to pretend that the road is straight.”
Seona flashed him a puzzled look.
“We need to cut the corners smoothly, like cutting around the edges.” It was a crash course but it was all they had time for. The car was still gaining.
Temple, your mind will always come down on the side of caution. Your mind will always tell you that you can’t take a corner at particular speeds. You have to break this block. Let the car tell you, not your mind.
“Ok, Seona, you’re doing great.” The car swerved around a hedge-lined corner. “It won’t feel natural but never brake during a corner. Always accelerate through the corner and feather the brake before you get to it.”
The car headlights behind now lit up the whole interior of the car. Luke couldn’t wait any longer. He jumped back into the rear of the car, stuffed the Colt into his waistband and brought the MP5SD up to aim, flicking to three-round burst. The Range Rover’s suspension was non-existent and getting a steady aim was near-impossible. Luke aimed slightly above the headlight glow.
“Seona, it’s going to get noisy but keep your eyes on the road and keep your body relaxed.” Seona shouted a reply but Luke didn’t hear it as he opened up with the machine gun.
The window cracked into tiny shards and the country air filled the interior space. Almost instantly gunfire was returned from the car behind; sparks flicked off the metallic framework of the Range Rover and a bullet passed out through the windscreen. Seona screamed, and the car shifted sharply to the left, throwing Luke hard against the side of the car.
Luke let off another three rounds at the car but none hit its target. Another round of fire smashed into the rear of the car; bullets passing through the car rang metal on metal. Luke held the MP5SD tight into his shoulder to minimise shaking, as he went to squeeze the trigger the gunman in the following car let off a volley of bullets below the body of the car. In an instant, there was a popping noise; the rear right tyre had been blown out.
Seona yelped as the steering wheel span to the right. She instinctively pulled back to the left to try and correct it but at the speed they were travelling it was a fatal decision. The car buckled and tipped up onto its two left-side tyres. The speed was too much and the velocity sent the car flipping over and over. Luke was thrown around like a rag doll; Seona’s scream was drowned out by the grinding and crumpling of metal. Then there was darkness. The car came to a rest on its roof in a freshly ploughed field.
58.
The SIS building canteen was a comfortable modern eating area. A long plastic and metallic counter stretched the length of one side, ending in a till. Normally the counter would be alive with coo
ks and servers dishing out various grades of food and drink. But at 11 p.m. on a Sunday evening there were temporary blinds pulled down and the low hum of refrigerator units generated the only noise.
Mulberry almost never ventured to the staff canteen, partly because of time constraints, but also partly because, being Director of Operations for MI6, he felt he should distance himself from such mundane things as catering and food. He wanted to keep a mystique around his role, something befitting his senior position.
Currently, he didn’t feel so powerful. He needed to escape his office so he had strolled the corridors and found himself arriving in the canteen. On a Friday the unsold sandwiches were left out for any weekend workers to grab without charge, but as Mulberry was discovering they were unsold for a very good reason. He pawed at an egg and cress sandwich that was so dry and hard he could have used it as a doorstop. He was awoken from his reverie by the ringtone of his Nokia. He snatched it from his pocket and looked at the number, it was withheld.
“Yes?”
“Ah, Mr Mulberry, good evening.”
Mulberry’s heart sank; the South African accent of Aegeus provoked a Pavlovian nervous response within him. “I have no news yet. My operative will be contacting me once he has Seona Latvik safely back with us.”
“I’m afraid yet again Mr Mulberry you have failed in securing Miss Latvik. Your operative is dead.”
The words didn’t feel real. Aegeus continued: “But fear not Mr Mulberry, what you have failed to do, we have achieved. Seona Latvik has found her way to Medea.”
Mulberry stood up, knocking his chair over.
“Medea is very disappointed in the way you have handled the whole operation, Mr Mulberry. We told you that we do not tolerate failure, and you have failed in doing what you promised … what we were paying you for.” There was a pause on the line. “Therefore there will be no more payments, and we shall be dealing with you accordingly.”
“But that is …” Mulberry heard the line go dead.
The phone call had been so sudden and unexpected Mulberry was frozen to the spot for several minutes, trying to work out what was happening. What did Aegeus mean Lennon was dead? How did they know where Seona was? He had been careful not to tell Medea or Aegeus more than was necessary. He left the half-eaten sandwich and hurried back to his office.
By the time he exited the lift he was running, panic was setting in. There will be no payment. Aegeus’s words were still fresh in his mind, he was losing everything, and on top of losing his dreams, Aegeus had also stated that we shall be dealing with you accordingly. Mulberry knew those words were fatal. He needed to know what the hell had happened at Aubert’s. He couldn’t believe that Lennon was dead. What had happened to the SO19 team? Nothing was making sense. Surely if Medea did have Seona Latvik, then Temple must be neutralised? He needed more information. He lifted up his mobile and clicked number three on his speed dial. Lennon’s phone rang but no answer was forthcoming.
As he arrived at his office he stopped short. It was gone 11 p.m. on a Sunday evening and no senior officers at the Met would be available to talk. He would only be able to get some Ops guy who wouldn’t know his ass from his elbow. There was, however, one place that he knew could get all the information he needed. He turned on his heels and headed for Sir Peter Villier’s private office.
59.
The bright strip lighting flashed on, the neon bulbs flickered incessantly. Prussias was staring at his own image in the mirror. He looked tired and dishevelled with a scruffy beard. The chair he was sitting on felt like it was going to collapse under his weight at any moment. The TV screen sat directly in front of him. Water was lazily dripping behind him. A hiss filled the room.
“Mr Latvik, there are very few times in our lives where we are confronted with something that has the power to make life become transparent.”
Prussias didn’t respond to the distorted voice.
“A moment that destroys everything around it, allowing you to see what is crucial. The purpose of things.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Prussias was mentally exhausted. In his brief encounters with the voice, Medea, it was all riddles and opaque rhetoric.
“No, you don’t. But do not feel bad about that, Mr Latvik, nobody ever produces a moment of such clarity themselves. It is left to others to produce it for them.”
A silence fell over the room. Prussias had been pushed to his limits; he wanted it all to end. “What do you want from me? Just tell me, I can give whatever you want!” His shout echoed around the room.
The voice replied in a slow, calculated manner, “Mr Latvik, perhaps it is time to give you a moment of clarity.”
The TV screen in front of Prussias Latvik lit up in bright blue. There was a countdown in the top corner. Live feed: five, four, three, two, one. Prussias screamed when the picture flicked on; it was a guttural scream that shook the room.
On the screen was a clear image of Seona. She was tied to a chair, a white gag was in her mouth, her hair was a strange colour, but Prussias saw the familiar piercing blue eyes. They were blurred with tears and red edges. His heart collapsed at the blood that was crusted down her face, she looked so frail. My precious gem, what have they done to you? Prussias spoke in a whisper.
“Can you feel the clarity, Mr Latvik? She cannot hear a word you say. Be under no illusions that you brought this on yourself.”
Prussias let go of his desperation. “Don’t hurt her! I beg you, don’t hurt her! It’s me that you want to hurt, hurt me, but let her go, please, I beg you ...”
“We are hurting you. This is not about her, Mr Latvik, she means nothing to us. But she means everything to you, and that is why she must die, and you must watch.”
Prussias tried to jump from his chair but the bonds wouldn’t yield. “Damn you! She has nothing to do with this, let her go, please, just let her go …”
Medea didn’t say a word.
Prussias wanted to lash out. “I will kill you, if you hurt her, I will use everything in my power to find out who you are and kill you! I will spend whatever it takes to stop people like you … you hear me? Do you hear me?” Prussias was sweating and frothing at the mouth. Seona sat still in the chair; Prussias had never wanted to hold her as much, to protect her.
The screen went black.
“You will be summoned when it’s time, Mr Latvik.”
The speakers went dead.
60.
Mulberry arrived at the outer section of Sir Peter Villier’s office. Most people assumed that the Director General’s office would be located up on the top floors of the SIS building, height equating to status, but within intelligence and security status, it was all about depth. Mulberry was stood five floors below ground level.
Sir Peter had two offices located within the SIS building, one above ground for entertaining guests and the one which Mulberry was now standing in front of. In total the SIS building stretched seven floors below ground but the last two levels were used to house giant storage units that held and processed all the data collected from countries all over the planet. They were situated down in the depths of the building to protect them from any kind of attack, including the new wave of magnetic disruption devices.
Sir Peter’s subterranean cavern was actually an office inside an office. The outer section was for his PA, Laura Berhoven, an astute forty-something bear of a woman. Sir Peter had brought her from his army days and she looked like she could take on a whole army on her own. Six feet tall and shoulders broader than those of a wrestler.
Mulberry peered through the tiny window in the door and checked that the outer office was empty; he swiped his card across the magnetic strip and the green light lit up. Berhoven’s office was its usual organised chaos, paper seemingly strewn over every spare space. It was a foolish person who underestimated Berhoven. Sir Peter didn’t keep ineffective people around for long, and Berhoven had been his PA for many years. Mulberry was now stuck, although his swipe card worked on t
he outer office he was now confronted with Sir Peter’s personal office, the ‘Wolf’s Lair’ as the civil servants within MI6 had distastefully named it, after Hitler’s command centre during the Second World War. It had no windows and the one door was made of reinforced steel. Sir Peter’s office did not use a swipe card, it had a stand-alone digital keypad system, and Mulberry didn’t have the code.
In there stood Sir Peter’s lifeline, a computer that was hooked directly up to the data storage units in the two storeys below. It was not connected via the secure intranet that ran around the building; Sir Peter had a direct personal link up, meaning he had access to all updates from any police or security operation around the globe. It would have all the communications and information about what had happened at Aubert’s. But first he had to get in.
He was pinning his hopes on Berhoven’s computer. It was rumoured that she had the secure log-in and unique swipe card ID for every senior member of staff. It was just an SIS building myth, but Mulberry knew all too well that a myth was truth wrapped in time.
He sat on the fabric roller chair and fired up the machine. As the screen powered up, Mulberry felt like thanking God, Allah and Buddha all at the same time; Berhoven hadn’t logged off of her machine. He began opening and flicking through files and documents in various digital locations. It was going to be a long process. Just then, a noise outside the door made Mulberry jump away from the computer. He had heard high heels clacking on the ground.
Berhoven is in, what the hell is she doing here at this time?
Mulberry’s blood pressure rocketed; he had no idea how to explain what he was doing. He clicked close on the various windows, left the screen as it was when he found it and flicked off the monitor. He rushed from the desk, but he didn’t know where to stand or what to do. The exterior card swipe beeped and the door was thrown open. Laura Berhoven entered with her head down, putting her swipe card back in her small purse. She towered over Mulberry, her tight blouse accentuating her frame. Suddenly she looked up and screamed.
