No Further

by Andy Maslen

  Ten minutes later, he pulled up on the tarmac forecourt of the showroom. He pulled the key from the ignition and handed it to the white-faced salesman.

  “I’ll leave it, thanks,” he said with a grin. “Bit too showy.”

  And then, leaving the Ferrari’s thoroughly test-driven engine ticking as it cooled in the warm spring air, Gabriel strolled back to the Audi and drove back towards Marlborough Lines. Over the acrobatic vocals of a new jazz singer he’d discovered called Cecile McLorin Salvant, he spoke aloud.

  “Buy British, Wolfe.”

  Striking Sparks

  While Gabriel had been scaring the pants off the Ferrari salesman, Max was enjoying the brilliant sunshine reflecting in dazzling spears off the mirror-like surface of the sea. The superyacht’s captain had just informed his boss that they were in Spanish waters when the latter’s phone rang. He glanced at the display and frowned. Shit! He put his flute of champagne down on the polished walnut deck.

  “Blacksmith! How are you my friend?”

  “I’m fine, Max. How are you?”

  “Oh, you know, the champagne could be colder, and the weather could be warmer, but other than that, not too shabby.”

  “Good. Well, now we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way, how did it go with Wolfe and his little friend? They’re both dead?”

  Max ground his teeth together.

  “No.”

  “No? What the fuck do you mean, no ? I served them up to you on a silver platter! How many men did you send after them?”

  After a few years of service, members of Kuznitsa came to think of themselves as being not so much outside the law as above it. They held a similarly dismissive view of the concerns of others. So to be interrogated by this low-ranking intelligence analyst caused the man who called himself Max no small amount of anger. Though at its core was a glowing ember of shame. How had it gone wrong? He inhaled deeply through his nose and let the breath out again, slowly.

  “Four.” To offer a longer answer would be to sound weak. Apologetic.

  “Four,” Blacksmith repeated, in a tone lacking the earlier outrage. “And now they’re all dead, I suppose?”

  “It’s the conclusion I am forced to draw, yes.”

  Blacksmith sounded petulant.

  “I thought I could trust you, Max. I thought you understood why this was so important to me. Why do you think I didn’t ask you for money for my information? Why do you think—”

  But Max had had enough.

  “Listen to me. You have your little reverse-crusade going on against the West. Good for you! Me? I’m not interested in ideology. We put a squad on Wolfe and his little friend, and somehow, they came off worst. We still want him dead, but right now I have other fish to fry. You want to strike a blow against Western imperialism? You need to look elsewhere.”

  And with that, he ended the call. A slender, leggy blonde in a pale-yellow bikini had been hovering a few feet away. When she saw he was free, she sidled closer.

  “Max,” she cooed. “You’ve been ignoring me.”

  He encircled her waist with one arm, and emptied his glass of champagne.

  “I’m all yours now, baby.”

  Blacksmith had left the building as usual at 12.30 p.m., mentioning with a smile to a colleague that he was going to try a new place for lunch. Once outside, he headed for a quiet little park half a mile from the office. Little more than a lawn surrounded by flower beds and a few benches.

  After Max hung up on him, he held the cheap pay-as-you-go mobile to his ear. He listened to the silence. Heard the roar of his blood. How dare that, that criminal hang up on him? After he’d practically gift wrapped Wolfe. He recalibrated his plan. If non-state actors weren’t up to the job, maybe it was time to turn to their opposite numbers inside the wire. State actors. And one state in particular. A state implacably opposed to the existence of the state of Israel. A state he knew intimately. A state that Wolfe was headed to very shortly.

  He called a number he had memorised during his first week on the Iran desk.

  While he waited for his call to be connected, he practised breathing deeply and slowly, trying to calm the fluttering storm of butterflies in his stomach. This move would have to be definitive. And it would have to perfect. One whiff of what he was up to, and he’d spend the rest of his life staring at the walls of a very unpleasant cell indeed.

  “Embassy of the Islamic Republic of Iran, how may I direct your call?”

  “I would like to speak to the Ambassador please.”

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  “My name is Kaveh.”

  “And you are calling from?”

  “I work within British intelligence. I have information vital to the security of the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

  The receptionist paused. He could hear her breathing. And he could imagine the internal dialogue playing in her brain.

  A crank. Like they warned us against in our training

  But if he’s genuine and I don’t put him through, I will be committing a terrible mistake.

  The Ambassador must not be disturbed by frivolous intrusions.

  He will be furious if he learns I did nothing.

  Blacksmith knew how it would play out. He had no desire to speak to the Ambassador. It was merely the opening gambit. He waited.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Kaveh, sir. The Ambassador is in meetings all afternoon. Let me put you through to our Head of Security.”

  Perfect!

  Blacksmith waited while the call was put through. This time, the person answering had a deep, male voice, which dripped with suspicion.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Kaveh. You say you have information?”

  “I do.”

  “And you say you work for British Intelligence. Which branch?”

  “Secret Intelligence Service. The Iran desk.”

  “Why are you wasting my time? You are a fantasist, a, who is it, Walter Mitty?”

  Like a seduction, these initial contacts had to be played according to a strict set of rules.

  “No, sir. I am not. I am an intelligence analyst. And I have information vital to the security interests of the Islamic Republic of Iran. It has to do with Abbas Darbandi.”

  There, that should do it.

  While he waited for the security man to make his next move, Blacksmith looked down at a dirty grey pigeon that was hopping closer to his bench. Its left foot was deformed, the toes curled up and apparently clawless. He kicked out viciously at the diseased-looking bird, and was gratified to feel the soft contact as his toe connected with its side.

  “I’m afraid I do not know of this Abbas Darbandi. There must be a mistake.”

  “Mr Darbandi is your top nuclear scientist. He works at Vareshabad, running the programme to develop a nuclear warhead.”

  Your move.

  “Perhaps we should meet, Mr Kaveh.”

  “The bandstand in Battersea Park. I’ll be there at 6.30 p.m. this evening.”

  “Fine. How will I recognise you?”

  “You won’t. But I’ll recognise you.”

  At 6.32 p.m., Blacksmith approached the black, green and red wrought-iron bandstand from the north. The park was buzzing with commuters, mums with pushchairs, joggers, winos, tourists and students. Standing on the southern edge of the octagonal structure, dressed in a light-grey silk two-piece suit and a collarless white shirt buttoned at the throat, was the man he had come to see. Maziah Gul, Head of Security at the Iranian Embassy and also holder of the position equivalent to the SIS title “station chief” for the Iranian Ministry of Information and Security. In plain language, the chief spook.

  Blacksmith approached him from the side, getting within ten feet before the tall Iranian turned to face him. He held out his right hand.

  “Head of Security Gul. I am Kaveh.”

  “Prove to me that you are who you say you are and you work where you say you do,” Gul said.

  Having anticipated this most basic of vettings, Blacksmith had c
ome prepared for his meeting. From the inside pocket of his jacket he produced his SIS ID and a folded sheet of paper. He handed them to Gul.

  “My ID. Which you can photograph and check out later. And a standard intelligence profile of one of your people. Please take it. You’ll discover it is genuine.”

  Gul raised his finely curved eyebrows just a fraction.

  Good. You’re surprised. But also gratified and relieved. Not a wasted trip .

  He took the paper, unfolded it, glanced at it, then refolded it and placed it carefully in the inside pocket of his own jacket. He took a photo of Blacksmith’s ID with his phone.

  “If this is all genuine, I will be here tomorrow. Same time,” Gul said. Then he turned and walked away, skirting a group of mums dressed in jogging gear and warming up behind pushchairs equipped with spindly bicycle wheels.

  Twenty-four hours later, the two men met again. Gul’s demeanour was noticeably different. If not friendly, then not overtly hostile either.

  “What is it you want to tell me?”

  “Forgive me, but it is not you I want to tell.”

  Gul frowned and his eyes darkened until they were almost black.

  “What do you mean? I warn you, do not play games with me.”

  “I am not playing games. But the information I have, I will only reveal its detail to someone inside MOIS in Tehran. If you can set up a call, I will explain everything.”

  “You need to give me something more. I have to present a credible case.”

  Blacksmith sighed.

  “Let me put it this way. If you send me away now, I will find another way to speak to the right people. But speak to them I will. When I do, I will tell them of your lack of cooperation. And believe me, Head of Security Gul, when they learn of what I know, and discover you prevented me from telling them sooner, they will not be pleased with you. I can imagine they might recall you to Tehran.”

  Blacksmith watched Gul’s facial muscles warring with each other. Half wanted to explode with rage, drawing lips back from teeth. Half wanted to remain impassive. The latter half won. Just. Gul didn’t speak for almost a minute. Blacksmith was patient. He could afford to be. He and his family had waited a long time already. Finally, Gul broke his silence.

  “Very well. I will let you know when I have set up a call.”

  Let's Get into Character

  Back on base, Gabriel changed into shorts, T-shirt and running shoes and left the house at an easy jogging pace towards the base perimeter. After ten minutes, he found an unoccupied assault course. Smiling, he sprinted for the first obstacle, a net-climb, and leapt onto the knotted ropes. He reached the top and paused, looking west over the surrounding countryside and the distant trees hazed with blue. He folded himself over the top bar and scrambled back to ground level.

  Twenty minutes later, having thrown himself at each of the obstacles the course’s designers had installed to test soldiers’ fitness, he sprawled on the grass, chest heaving, face damp with sweat. He sighed deeply. In many ways, life on base was simple. You did what you were told to do, or briefed to do. Your three squares were laid on and cleared away for you. You worked, you played, you slept.

  Yes, slept.

  In truth, he hadn’t been sleeping so well recently. Nothing to do with the job. Even incidents like being contacted by armed mercenaries in the depths of the English countryside didn’t stop him getting a decent night’s rest. They didn’t. But something else was interfering with his sleep. And it had to do with Michael.

  He closed his eyes and let himself become absorbed by the floating orange-and-blue blobs inside his eyelids. Breathing deeply and rhythmically, he tried to feel his way to the key that would unlock the memory he could feel but not access.

  We’re at the park. Down by Victoria Harbour. Mum’s there. She’s reading a book. Michael and I are playing with a rugby ball. He’s so good, even though he’s a little kid.

  “Kick it, Gable! Kick it higher!”

  “I don’t want to. The park’s not big enough.”

  “Baby!”

  “I’m not a baby!”

  “Kick it, then.”

  Mum looks up. Tells us to keep quiet.

  “There are other people who want to enjoy the sun without two little boys shouting and disturbing everyone.”

  Michael sticks his tongue out.

  I check Mum’s not looking and put two fingers up at him.

  His eyes widen in shock. It’s very naughty to do that. It means, you know, “F-word off.”

  “Do we need to call the MO?”

  The woman’s voice snapped the fragile thread linking Gabriel to the past. He opened his eyes, blinking against the bright light, to find himself looking up at a female soldier in combat dress, a major’s single crown on her shoulder boards. He stood, shading his eyes against the sun.

  “Sorry, was I in the way?”

  The major smiled and shook her head.

  “I was watching you. Not bad for a civilian.”

  Gabriel smiled back. She had blue eyes that contrasted with her raven-black hair, which was twisted into a pleat across the back of her head.

  “I like to keep in shape.”

  “Which you most certainly are.” She held her hand out. “Sal Morris.”

  “Gabriel Wolfe.”

  “I said civilian, but you used to serve, didn’t you?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  She shrugged.

  “What is it people say? ‘It’s the little things’? You carry yourself like a soldier, and those weren’t weekend warrior moves you were pulling on the assault course.”

  Gabriel held his hands up in mock surrender.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Which regiment?”

  “Paras then SAS.”

  She nodded, looking him up and down.

  “Figures. So what are you doing down here in the glorious confines of Marlborough Lines.”

  I’m preparing to go undercover in Iran to assassinate a civilian scientist who’s building a nuclear bomb that will destroy Israel.

  “I work for the Ministry of Defence now. You know, swapped the sword for the pen. Here for consultations on procurement policy. We have some free time and they said I could use the course.”

  “Huh. Procurement. Riveting stuff.”

  Gabriel could see the major trying to find something interesting to say, or ask, in response to his conversation-killing statement, then give up. He took pity on her and gave her a face-saving way out.

  “I know, right. Listen, don’t let me keep you. Unlike me, I’m sure you have something interesting to do.”

  She smiled, probably grateful she wouldn’t have to force herself to make small talk about arms procurement.

  After saying goodbye, Gabriel waited until he was alone again, then called Fariyah Crace. She picked up on the first ring.

  “Hello, Gabriel. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “Oh, you know. Preparing papers for two conferences at opposite ends of the country. Trying to catch up on my reading. Dealing with hospital paperwork. And, if I’m lucky, seeing patients. I told Simon I might be able to squeeze him and the children in for a half hour three weeks next Friday.”

  Gabriel laughed. Her unflagging good humour was one of the qualities he loved about the soft-spoken Muslim psychiatrist whom he credited with having saved his life. Not from an enemy’s bullet, but possibly one of his own.

  “So, I was wondering—”

  “Whether, amongst all this well-organised chaos, I had an hour when I could see you?”

  He shrugged, even though he knew she couldn’t see the gesture.

  “Something like that. You did once say I was your favourite patient. Or do you say that to all the boys?”

  Now it was Fariyah’s turn to laugh.

  “Professional ethics prevent my answering that, Gabriel, as you well know. I would like nothing better than to see you. But there is a small problem. My time at
the Ravenswood is booked solid for the next month at least.”

  Gabriel’s heart fell. He knew it was selfish, but he had grown used to the idea that whenever he needed her insights, Fariyah would be magically available.

  “Oh,” he said. “No, of course, I mean it was stupid of me to—”

  “So, if you would like, I could see you at home. I have a consulting room. Well, it’s a conservatory, but it has two very comfortable chairs and a lovely view over Hampstead Heath. As you like acting on the spur of the moment, how about this? Can you come this evening? Say about seven-thirty? We could talk for an hour or so, then perhaps you would stay for dinner. I’m sure you and Simon would get on and I know the children would love to meet you.”

  “Yes. Yes, please. I have a couple of days before my next—”

  “Jaunt?”

  “Jaunt, and I’m kind of at a loose end, so yes, please. What’s your address?”

  Eli returned to the house in the married quarters at 2.30 p.m., looking red-faced but more relaxed than Gabriel had seen her since the encounter with the mercenaries. Like him, she was dressed in running gear: pale-grey vest, khaki shorts.

  “How was the physio?”

  She smiled.

  “Really good. And you’re not going to believe it. What sort of treatment do you think he did on me?”

  “Oh, this being the Army, probably bent it backwards and forwards a few times and told you to get over yourself.”

  “Nope. Acupuncture.”

  Gabriel was genuinely shocked. He’d grown up in Hong Kong, where all forms of Chinese medicine weren’t just commonplace but often preferred to Western treatments. But here?

  “That is, actually, very surprising. What was it like?”

  “Amazing! He stuck the little needles in my foot and around the ankle and then gave me a magazine to read for ten minutes while he went off and saw someone else.”

  “And it worked?”

  “Well, it feels a hell of a lot better than before. He gave me exercises to do as well, obviously, and he did some massage and manipulation on it, but, yeah, it really feels better.”