by James Flynn
“David! Are you trying to kill me? You scared the life out of me. What are you doing creeping round here at night?”
Mulberry was relieved that Berhoven’s tone was not accusatory. “I could ask you the same question, Laura, doing night shifts for the big man, are we?”
“No, or at least not after this one time. He works me hard enough as it is. No, it’s just with this Seona Latvik business I have been fielding calls left, right and centre, and now I’m stuck here writing up all the logs, well, until a resolution occurs.”
Mulberry suddenly had a thought. “So is His Highness here?”
Berhoven scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. He apparently has far more important things to take care of.” Berhoven rounded her desk and took her seat. “You never answered me, what are you doing here?”
Mulberry thought fast. “Same as you, this Latvik situation is a killer. I was just hoping he would be here, I need to run some reports, and cross-reference a couple of names.”
Berhoven eyed him suspiciously, Mulberry felt like she was trying to read his mind. “And you can’t do that in the morning?”
“Time is something we don’t have, Laura. Do you want to tell His Highness that we waited on something vital?”
Berhoven softened. “I guess this thing has us all a bit fried. What do you need in there?”
Mulberry nodded. “Just to access The Fly.”
It was the nickname the programmers had given Sir Peter’s direct link with the mainframe, giving reference to The Fly’s compound eye being able to process over one hundred images a second. They joked that Sir Peter could see things all over the world.
Berhoven held Mulberry’s gaze. “And if you get this information, does it mean there is potential for us to get out of here sooner rather than later?”
“I’ll do my best!”
Berhoven let out a small laugh. “Ok, well, if it can help us all get home before Christmas.” She stood up and crossed to the digital number pad and proceeded to type a seven-digit code. The pad beeped twice followed by a metallic thud. “All yours.” She winked at Mulberry as he passed.
Mulberry had been into Sir Peter’s office many times, but never alone. He felt his pulse quicken. The room was like a bunker, the only furnishings were several filing cabinets crammed together and a central desk. The dull energy-saving lighting cast eerie shadows into the corners of the room. Sitting dead-centre facing the door were three computer screens and one large hard drive.
Mulberry couldn’t bring himself to sit in Sir Peter’s chair so he stood waiting for the screen to illuminate. The screen wallpaper was the MI6 crest. How very patriotic, thought Mulberry. Sir Peter obviously felt that no one could enter the room because he had no security code to gain access to his hard drive. Mulberry fired up The Fly, and began trawling through tag-lines. Tag-lines allowed all information to appear on the screen, that way the user could scroll through and open up all files on a particular subject, a great time-saving device. Mulberry filtered down until he got to what he was looking for, it was a Metropolitan Police log of the SO19 team. It was grim reading, Mulberry dropped his head at the last point. All officers deceased. Aegeus hadn’t been lying. Mulberry read the next line. Two extra males found dead at scene. One identified as Remy Aubert and the other still awaiting identification.
His world was collapsing; everything was slipping through his fingers. He closed the programme and pinched the corner of his eyes, it was a nervous tick. One unidentified male? The numbers didn’t add up.
The Wolf’s Lair was oppressive, he had no idea how Sir Peter could work in it. Where is Sir Peter? Mulberry looked at the door, he had already overstayed his welcome, but he figured he had nothing else to lose. Sir Peter wouldn’t be happy about him being in there, but that would pale in comparison when Mulberry delivered the news that Seona was gone. His boss had been conspicuously absent during the whole thing and Mulberry now wanted answers. He trawled through the files on Sir Peter’s hard drive, nothing gave any clues to his whereabouts.
Mulberry was about to log the computer off when a small symbol lit up on the bottom toolbar, it was Sir Peter’s email. Mulberry clicked it open; the email was a transcript from a Foreign Office meeting that had taken place in Basel, Switzerland. Mulberry closed it down. Then something in Sir Peter’s inbox caught his eye. He leant in closer to the screen thinking what he saw was a trick of the mind. There was one name that kept reoccurring all the way down the inbox list, and it made Mulberry’s blood run cold.
The name that appeared over and over was Aegeus.
Mulberry couldn’t work the mouse properly; his hands had turned to jelly. It can’t be … he opened up email after email.
Final meet with David Mulberry complete, the team is ready and in place on American soil.
Operatives still not touched down, awaiting further news.
Mr Mulberry is stalling, he has lost control, Mr Temple now has control.
Mulberry couldn’t breathe; there were hundreds of emails from Aegeus. The implications of what he was seeing were too immense, fear gripped his entire body. It can’t be? Medea can’t be …
61.
“Let me out!” Seona gurgled. Every part of her body hurt. Her hair was matted with blood and dirt. She could also feel the dried blood down her left leg. Her last image of the car crash was seeing Luke flung from the rear window, then everything blurred into one as she was knocked unconscious. Flashes of being dragged along the ground, then a warm interior, someone’s breath, then nothing. She had woken up tied to the chair with pain raging through her limbs. She had no idea where she was, she had no idea if Luke was alive. The room was small and musty, the walls were brick, but there were bits of mud and roots protruding through. Her mouth was dry and there was an acidic metal taste on her tongue where she had bitten it during the crash.
Seona did not know what was going to happen next but she could feel that it was all drawing to an end; a sense of finality surrounded her in the musty low-bricked room. Seona didn’t know what to think, there were so many conflicting emotions that she couldn’t grasp at any kind of reality. She closed her eyes; she was hoping to summon the image of her mother, a woman who had seemed so strong to Seona, a woman who seemed to know everything about the workings of life. Seona didn’t have the energy to realise her mother’s image. Not for the first time since she was violently kidnapped in New York, Seona felt an acute sense of being a disappointment to her mother and father. The life she led was not one her mother would have wanted and, although her father supported her financially, she doubted he was proud.
Seona became aware of someone standing in front of her. She opened her eyes to see the short, squat, bald man grimacing at her. The man terrified her; his eyes seemed like dark pits.
He pulled down her gag. “Miss Latvik, open your mouth, please.”
Seona started to hyperventilate.
“Don’t make me ask twice, open your mouth.” He lifted a cracked porcelain jug up in front of her eyes.
Seona was shaking, she was numb.
“Fair enough, if you want it this way.” Aegeus threw the contents of the jug over Seona’s face, causing her to flinch. It was water. He laughed in contempt as she tried to lick the droplets running down her face. He turned to leave.
“Wait. What’s going to happen to me?” Seona asked
Aegeus turned abruptly and laughed. “Perhaps it’s better to leave that to your imagination.”
“You animal. All of this for me … people like you, terrorists ... are just criminals.” Seona didn’t know where the words came from.
Aegeus walked back to Seona and placed his face close to hers. He smiled, revealing the scar across his lip.
“Whatever gave you the impression that all of this has been done for you? Oh no Miss Latvik; this wasn’t for you. This was all for your father. You are just a tool. Be patient, Miss Latvik, not much longer to wait now.”
With that, Aegeus kicked Seona’s chair backwards and let her fall ha
rd onto the floor.
62.
Mulberry was pacing up and down in his office. At every turn he was fighting the fear that threatened to overtake him. He still couldn’t come to terms with what he had seen on Sir Peter’s screen: Sir Peter was Medea!
Mulberry kept pacing as he ran the implications over and over. He had been stupid and gone wading in over his head. The whole time he thought he was playing Sir Peter perfectly. He now felt naive. Sir Peter had been the master using Medea as the perfect cover. But Mulberry could not grasp the why. Prussias Latvik was one of his closest friends, it didn’t make any sense.
All the meetings. All the hooded journeys. All the planning.
Mulberry threw the crystal glass against the wall, smashing it into a thousand pieces. He had been out-manoeuvred and left with nothing. He picked up the picture of his wife and son and smashed it hard down onto the table. It no longer held a warm reminiscence, it pained him to see those he had let down.
Mulberry stared out into the dark vision of London. He had risked everything to try and live a different life and had failed. Now he hadn’t just lost the money, but his whole life. Mulberry had been in the game long enough to know Sir Peter would not let him live. He was the last link in the chain.
He sank down into his chair; it would more than likely be the last time he sat in his office. He had to protect his family; they would have to be packed off. Perhaps if he was lucky and lived long enough he may even see them again. He brushed off the broken glass from his wife and child, folded the soft cardboard frame and stuffed it inside his jacket pocket. A faint buzz caught Mulberry’s ear. He thought he had imagined it, then it went again, it was his phone. He reached into his trousers and pulled out the mobile phone, the name flashing on the screen made him frown; he had no capacity for shock left in him.
“Lennon?”
63.
“Try again, Mulberry.” Luke sat against a wooden fence.
“Temple? Is that you?” Mulberry kept his voice even.
“Are you Medea?”
“Where are you, Temple?”
“Are you Medea?” Luke urged.
“No, I’m not. Now where are you? Let’s talk.”
“Do you know who Medea is?”
“Temple, this is dangerous over the phone. Just tell me where you are.”
Hearing David Mulberry’s voice angered Luke. He was talking to the man responsible for his transformation. Everything was starting to make sense, how the others knew so much about him, why he had been singled out to lead the team. Mulberry knew what he was capable of, and most importantly Mulberry knew that Luke couldn’t function back in a civilian world. His anger rose.
“Do you know who Medea is?” Luke raised his voice.
Mulberry paused. “Temple, you have survived this long, don’t lose it now. It is not safe to talk over the phone.” Mulberry wasn’t sure anymore what was being bugged. “No, I don’t know who Medea is, but things have changed, we need to talk.”
“Where is Seona? Is she alive?”
“I do not know, but what I do know is I cannot talk about it over this line. We need to meet face to face.” Mulberry was sensing that he may have a lifeline.
Luke had to make decisions fast, he was hazy and thinking clearly was a struggle. He had regained consciousness lying splayed in a ditch having apparently been thrown from the Range Rover. It was Lennon’s phone’s ringtone which had brought him swimming back to the surface, and the name on the screen had boiled his blood. The car was ruined, and Seona was gone, tyre marks led away from the crash site. Whoever had been following them was obviously in a hurry. He had left everything in the Range Rover, including the Claymores and extra ammunition.
“Temple, are you still there? We need to meet; things are not what they seem.”
Luke knew he had little choice. “We meet on my terms, and you come alone.”
“Ok fine, but time is important. Let’s keep focused on what’s important, Temple.”
Mulberry’s words drew Luke back to a different time. He checked his watch, the screen now had a long crack running down the centre but the dials still worked. It showed the time as 11.50 p.m., he must have been out for almost an hour.
“We meet at 9 p.m. tomorrow evening, where new meets old, you know the place.”
Mulberry did in fact know the place that Luke meant, it was Group 9 code for where they used to be briefed and given their objective outlines for UK-based operations.
“I will see you at 9 p.m.”
“And make sure you are alone, if I see anyone monitoring then you die.”
“Fine.” Mulberry knew it was not an idle threat.
Luke hung up. He took a deep breath in before attempting to stand, his ribs had been badly bruised in the crash. Looking over at the destroyed Range Rover he knew that if he hadn’t been thrown free he would be dead; the whole rear of the car was crumpled. Had Seona survived? He assumed that she had. Luke tried to block out thoughts of her being tortured; he knew what these people were capable of.
Reaching the Range Rover he took a deep lungful of air, trying to ascertain the extent of his chest damage. It was painful but it didn’t feel like there were any sharp stabbing pains, plus he had checked under his top and there seemed to be no major contusions or deep purple bruising indicating internal bleeding. He had cuts and bruises and his arm would need medical attention at some point but he would live, for how long would be determined in the next twenty-four hours.
Luke laid out the equipment salvaged from the Range Rover. The MP5SD and MK23 Colt had been thrown along with him out of the car. He had located both weapons in the field and they now sat side by side with the Claymores and extra ammunition. He re-packed them into the Bergen, which he had also managed to salvage, tucking the Colt into his waistband. He scanned down at his clothes, the designer gear was muddy and ripped.
Luke hoisted the kit onto his shoulders, letting out a groan at the pain in his ribs. Mulberry knew far more than he was letting on. Luke knew how slippery he was and again his anger boiled up at being used; loyalty had been broken. Luke reprimanded himself – there was no such thing as loyalty in the world in which they operated.
Luke set off up the country lane away from the crash site. He felt a rush of adrenaline, a deep primal surge. He was now on familiar territory. For the first time since New York he was the one on the offensive and alone, and that was a deadly combination.
64.
Monday 25th July
Through the darkness, Canary Wharf Tower looked like an illuminated decoration across the river, thrusting up toward the cloud-covered sky. The Greenwich naval buildings stood serene in their glory, the roars of the past bursting from every stone and block. The clock face showed the time to be 9.10 p.m., and Mulberry began his walk from the east buildings down towards the westside entrance, passing through the regal atmosphere of what was once the most important naval port in the world. Greenwich Park had been a favoured spot of the kings and queens of old; it was now a large tourist trap that attracted thousands every year, as well as being the starting place of the famous London Marathon.
Passing across the expanse of gardens, Mulberry skulked over to a bench set underneath a small souvenir shop. Memories of past covert liaisons hung in the air, no security patrolled the site, and it was dark and vast enough to be invisible from the Greenwich streets. Several of the most covert operations ever sanctioned had been discussed by Mulberry within the glare of the naval buildings. Often public places paradoxically allowed the most privacy.
The bench allowed a perfect, unspoilt view over to Canary Wharf, which now stood in Mulberry’s eyes as a painful reminder of a world of wealth he would never know. Sir Peter’s computer screen was burned into his mind; the carpet had been pulled from beneath his feet and the feeling of shock was intense. Mulberry’s neck hairs bristled, Temple was not someone to cross; Mulberry had done just that and also thrown in several failed assassination attempts to boot. The regal naval buildings held a
deathly silence; lights twinkled along the river down to Mulberry’s left. Sitting among such history, it was hard not to picture the Thames as the blue vein it had been for the country over the centuries.
Mulberry’s eyes caught a tiny explosion of light between the buildings; less than a second later blood exploded from the top of his thigh and he screamed in pain. Materialising out of the shadows Luke strode across to the seat. He grabbed Mulberry and pushed him hard against the wall; he frisked his jacket and trousers then stood back and levelled the gun. Mulberry was pawing at his leg, gritting his teeth with the pain.
“It’s a flesh wound. Who is Medea?” Luke was pumped with anger.
“Who?!”
Mulberry rocked back and forth in pain. Luke struck him gently in the face with the back of his hand. Six months ago he never thought he would see this man again.
“It’s complicated.” Mulberry spluttered the words.
“What do you know? I want everything!”
Mulberry forced himself to speak clearly. “I was approached anonymously about eight months ago. I was asked if I could execute a private job; the job would be to kidnap Seona Latvik on American soil and get her shipped back here. Medea was the man organising the project.”
“So it was you who recruited me?”
“Yes, my job was to put a team together for the lift. Medea was taking care of the transport; we would pick her up this end and deliver her. I needed off the record members; I had to make it look like a terrorist kidnapping. I needed someone who could achieve it. Group 9 was finished, and I knew you wouldn’t be adjusting to normal life.” Mulberry’s breathing was short and shallow.
“So you thought once I had served my purpose, you would erase me?”
Mulberry coughed and spluttered. “Yes, don’t pretend you are so morally outraged. Once the operation had finished you would be a danger. The others were just yes men, but you …” he coughed again. “I couldn’t afford for you to live.”
