‘Jesus. They’re as bad as each other.’
‘Think he’ll do it?’
‘Leavey, you mean?’ She smiled. ‘Yes. He’s like us, isn’t he? It’s second nature to want to help, despite everything.’
Turning her back to the view, Eva looked down the gangway to a group of men who were gathered beside a lifeboat, a fog of smoke above their heads as they laughed and joked.
They wore the clothes of men who drifted, men who worked where they could find work, and whose lined faces bore the strain of going without too often.
‘I think he’ll do it, once he’s had a chance to get over the shock,’ she said eventually.
‘I thought Decker was going to kill him.’
She grinned. ‘So did I.’
‘Are you going to try to get some rest? We’ve got a long way to go yet.’
Wrinkling her nose, she caught a whiff of marijuana from the assembled group and drew Nathan away, leading him further along the deck towards the prow of the ferry.
‘We should take turns catching some sleep,’ she said. ‘If Leavey’s got his head down and Decker’s keeping watch at the moment, then we’ll swap with them in a couple of hours. How are you holding up?’
He shot her a rueful smile. ‘Oh, you know. Getting used to being shot at again.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It was too good to be true, wasn’t it?’ He peered out into the darkness. ‘I mean, I really had convinced myself for a while there that I was just a bookstore owner.’
Eva reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘You’re a good bookstore owner.’
‘At least I didn’t let you burn it down.’
‘There’s that.’ She sighed. ‘Although I don’t know what we’re going to do with the place after all this.’
‘Are you worried that word will get around and we’ll get bombarded with requests for help?’
‘I don’t mind that so much. It’s knowing that the Section know where I am.’
Nathan shrugged. ‘Maybe, once all this is over, Knox will leave us alone.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Why?’
‘We’re not exactly at the top of his Christmas card list at the moment, are we?’
Chapter Forty-Four
Charlotte bit back the yelp of pain as the man’s elbow caught her in the ribs before he extracted himself from the seat beside her, his sour body odour wafting through the bus as he joined the queue to leave.
She rubbed her side and checked the zip on her handbag was still closed, glaring at him as he climbed off and passed the window, his head down.
The bus pulled away, and she risked a glance over her shoulder.
The woman behind her was holding up her mobile phone, the screen almost touching her nose as she poked and prodded at it, her brow furrowed.
An elderly man next to the woman held a book in one hand, the other dipping into a bag of crisps, his attention completely taken by the sports biography he was reading.
He glanced up and Charlotte turned away slowly, pretending to crane her neck over the heads of the other passengers and checking her watch.
Once she was sure she wasn’t being observed by the other passengers, she unzipped her bag and pulled out the envelope that Jeffrey had sent.
Extracting his notes, she flipped the map and news articles between her fingers, sorting through the handwritten pages until she found the photograph.
Three men.
Three descriptions.
She’d heard the rumours now, and had put the pieces together from the fractured conversations she had been listening to all day at Whitehall Place.
Jeffrey Dukes – not dead from a heart attack, but in a suspected missile attack.
Adrian Ogilvy – also dead, with all reports pointing to another missile attack.
One more man.
Charlotte ran her fingernail under the description for him, then reached into her bag once more and extracted her notebook. Snapping away the elastic to free the cover, she shook the pages until a photograph tumbled out.
It had been printed from an old newspaper report about a spy ring that had been broken in Brussels in the early eighties.
It had taken some planning, and login details belonging to a junior administrator, but a search through the archives after hours had finally proven fruitful.
She ignored the politicians in the foreground of the photo, their faces conveying the shock at discovering how close they had come to being infiltrated.
Instead, she peered at the man in the background, the one who was holding the door open to a sleek limousine, his body language that of someone on edge, ready to strike.
He wasn’t named in the accompanying caption, but as Charlotte read Jeffrey’s description and looked at the photograph once more, she finally recognised him.
‘Patrick Leavey,’ she whispered. ‘Well, well, well.’
It had been twenty years since she’d crossed paths with the man – and that had been fleetingly. She had been a secretary, after all, and of little consequence to the men in power.
But she remembered him.
Her head snapped up as the bus driver braked, smudged away the condensation on the window with her coat sleeve, and cursed under her breath as she recognised her stop.
Shoving the papers back into the envelope and zipping shut her bag, she pushed her way to the front of the bus, apologising as she knocked against other passengers in her haste to reach the door before it swished closed.
The driver glared at her in his mirror, his hand hovering over the button when she drew near.
‘Sorry.’
She shot him an apologetic smile and launched herself onto the pavement, the doors closing seconds before the bus roared away.
The walk to the flat only took a couple of minutes, her breath fogging in the night air while her heels clacked along the uneven pavers.
Jeffrey’s notes, the men’s names, the unanswered questions that remained – all jostled for her attention as she keyed in the passcode for the ground floor security door and stepped inside.
There was a weariness in her step by the time she climbed the last stair tread and shoved her hand in her bag, wrapping her fingers around her house keys.
The smell of frying garlic and onion wafted from under her neighbour’s door, a tinkle of laughter and murmured voices interrupting the tumbling thoughts that occupied her every waking moment.
The Minister’s office had been a hub of frantic activity all day, and although she suspected it had something to do with the man who had arrived unannounced the previous day demanding to speak with Edward Toskins, she didn’t have the security clearances or the nerve to ask Neil Hodges what was going on.
Instead, she had lurked in corridors, hovered at doorways and tried to listen to the fleeting snatches of conversation passing her by as, one by one, the Minister’s advisers and acolytes were called into his office.
They didn’t stay long.
Five minutes, ten if they were having a particularly bad day, and they came hurrying away. They avoided eye contact, kept their heads down and scurried out into the corridors of Whitehall Place as if someone had lit a firecracker under their backsides.
At least she had been included in the subsequent meetings with the department’s patrons and contractors. Out of all of them, Elliott Wilder had impressed her the most – not least because of the nonchalant way he had dismissed Hodges and Toskins for what they were.
A lot of hot air.
Charlotte sighed as she raised her key to the door of her apartment, then froze.
She ran her hand over the grazes to the paintwork, scratch marks that tore at the seam between the door and the frame.
Jaw set, she pushed against the door.
It didn’t move.
‘What the hell…’
Frowning, she inserted the key and held her breath.
The lock turned easily, undamaged.
Any hope that whoever tried to break into her
apartment had failed faded the instant she pushed open the door.
Charlotte staggered against the doorframe, her mouth open as her eyes took in the sheer devastation.
The living room had been torn to pieces – cushions lay strewn over the carpet, the bookshelves had been emptied of their contents and books tossed to the floor, and as she picked her way through to the kitchen, she held a shaking hand to her lips.
The crystal vase her mother had given her lay in smithereens across the tiled floor, the last stems from a bouquet of lilies Jeffrey had presented her with the night before he left now withering in a pool of water.
Cupboards had been wrenched open, as if whoever did this was in a hurry, with crockery and glassware splintered over the tiles, crunching under her shoes.
She backed away, then hurried to her bedroom and let out a shocked gasp.
The intruder had been here, too.
Heart hammering, Charlotte turned back to the living room and placed her handbag on the coffee table.
She had never been burgled before, so why now?
She set her shoulders, and unzipped the bag, peering in at the envelope.
Was that what the intruders were looking for?
Who were they?
She spun around at noise out in the corridor beyond her front door, then gulped a deep breath when she realised it was only another neighbour returning from work.
She had taken too long already – she needed to phone the police, report the break-in and ascertain if anything had been taken, despite the knowledge that the intruder was likely after the documents she had been carrying in her bag for safe-keeping.
As she picked up her mobile phone, she hurried along the short hallway and into the bedroom once more.
She stopped at the foot of the bed, the sheets strewn across the mattress and the three drawers beside her wardrobe ripped open, her personal effects tossed over the floor.
She glanced down, her thumb hovering over the emergency button at the base of the phone screen.
Biting her lip, she threw the mobile onto the dressing table and then began to pick up the underwear and jewellery that had been discarded over the carpet beside the open doors of her wardrobe.
‘Whoever you are, you bastards,’ she hissed under her breath. ‘You’ll pay for this.’
Chapter Forty-Five
Gerald Knox paused beside a gilt-framed mirror, adjusted his tie with a grimace, then dropped his hand as a door to his left opened and one of the Prime Minister’s staff beckoned to him.
‘Good luck,’ he murmured as Knox passed.
Knox pursed his lips.
It wasn’t the first time he had woken the PM after midnight, but it had been a while – and she wasn’t known for being gracious at that time of day.
He blinked to let his eyes adjust to the soft lighting from the table lamps in the study as the door closed behind him, then noticed a figure already sitting in one of the armchairs at the far end.
‘This had better be good, Knox.’
‘Good evening, Prime Minister.’
‘It certainly was, until twenty minutes ago.’ She waved him to the chair beside her, and indicated two crystal tumblers on the table between them. ‘I presume you’ll join me in a nightcap.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’
They clinked glasses, and Knox savoured the smooth single malt for a moment before resting the glass on his knee.
Eventually, she spoke. ‘All right, what’s going on?’
‘We’ve made significant progress with the matters we discussed, and my team have located a former MI6 agent by the name of Patrick Leavey who is assisting us. Leavey has indicated to my team that the person behind this is known to the British government.’
‘Who?’
Knox lowered his voice. ‘Elliott Wilder.’
‘Shit.’ The Prime Minister closed her eyes for a moment, then sighed. ‘Do you think Nivens or Toskins – or anyone in their departments is involved?’
‘No, Prime Minister. Robert Nivens gave us no cause for concern – he has very little to do with the day-to-day running of the Foreign Office and tends to delegate, and I don’t think Toskins has a clue as to what’s been going on.’ He emitted a snort. ‘We think that’s why Dukes first joined the FCO – he might’ve thought the arms thefts were an inside job, but that’s until he uncovered Elliott’s involvement.’
‘Any idea how many shipments were compromised?’
‘We have eight confirmed so far, all over a period of fourteen months. Last week’s missile theft was the first on that scale though. From what we can deduce, it’s been a mixture of surface-to-air rocket launchers, small arms and landmines until now.’
‘So, whatever he’s up to, he’s been planning it for a while. That would explain why he viewed both Dukes and Ogilvy as threats.’
‘We’ve conducted an in-depth analysis of everyone working in the Department for International Trade and apart from a few questionable deals to countries that have slipped through the net with regard to arms sales, we’re confident that they’re in the clear as far as Elliott Wilder is concerned.’
She opened her eyes, and gave a slight shake of her head as if clearing any negative thoughts. Her voice held a brusqueness to it when she spoke. ‘Next steps?’
‘I spoke to my team an hour ago. They’re currently based in North Africa – Algiers, to be exact.’
‘Why there?’
‘With respect, Prime Minister, I will get to that. However, you should also be aware that we have every reason to believe that Elliott Wilder is an active Russian agent.’
Even in the warm glow from the lamps placed around the room, he could see her face pale.
‘Our situation worsens.’ Her hand shook as she lowered her glass to her lap. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Patrick Leavey – the contact that Delacourt’s team located in Portugal – confirms that Wilder first came under suspicion in the eighties but MI6 never managed to pull together enough evidence to bring him in. Notwithstanding that, Wilder has managed to inveigle himself into being awarded numerous arms contracts since the early nineties, whittling away at those suspicions by stealth.’
‘He’s determined.’
‘He’s patient.’ Knox couldn’t help the note of admiration in his voice. ‘As is the case with many Russian agents, he and his masters are in this for the long haul, hence why he’s been careful. Obviously, something has triggered this sudden course of action though. It seems extreme by comparison to his previous strategy of lying low.’
The Prime Minister waved her hand in front of her face as if batting away an errant fly. ‘Europe is dealing with some of the biggest challenges it’s faced in fifty years. It’s the perfect time for the Russians to take advantage of the instability we’re facing. Perhaps Elliott and those controlling him decided it was time to make a power grab.’
‘We have a plan to deal with this matter, but it is a little… unorthodox,’ said Knox, tapping his fingers against his glass as he waited for her reaction.
Eventually, she narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I’m not going to like this, am I?’
‘It’ll afford us a quick and easy solution, Prime Minister. One that won’t involve your detractors. One that can be – up to a point, at least – kept out of the public eye until it becomes absolutely necessary to make a statement. And one that can be set in motion immediately.’
‘Tell me.’
Knox set out the plan as the PM listened without interruption.
‘Prime Minister, I realise this is extreme, but I believe it’s the only way to resolve the situation. If we try to apprehend Elliott Wilder there is a very real risk that he’ll escape. If he does, and he manages to head back to Russia, the political fallout could be disastrous for you.’ Knox paused. ‘Killing Wilder is the only viable option.’
When he was finished, she took a sip of her drink and gazed at the carpet for a moment before speaking.
‘There’s no other way?’
‘Not without the involvement of MI6 or the MoD, no.’
Her lips twisted. ‘As you know, I’d rather they didn’t know. Not yet.’
‘Understood, Prime Minister.’ Knox turned in his chair to face her. ‘My team of analysts here in London have run the projections on this, along with several other scenarios. It’s our best chance.’
‘Very well.’
‘I take it then, Prime Minister, that I can have your authority to proceed on the basis I’ve just outlined?’
She drained her drink, then placed the glass on the table and rose to her feet.
Knox stood, towering over the diminutive woman who held the country’s future in her hands, and held his breath.
Her gaze moved to the bookcases lining the walls, to the tomes of case law, history and geography, before finding him once more.
‘Do it.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’
He shook her hand, then made a hasty retreat across the study, his mind already turning to the intricacies of the operation.
‘Knox?’
He paused, and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Prime Minister?’
‘For goodness’ sakes, tell them to keep the damage to a minimum this time.’
Chapter Forty-Six
Morocco
* * *
Eva shielded her eyes against the glare off the windscreen, then held up her mobile phone and swore under her breath.
Pulling down a baseball cap to afford some shade over her pale features, she flicked up the collar of her polo shirt and wandered back to the four-by-four.
‘I’ve still got no signal.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I don’t think the breakdown service will come out here anyway,’ muttered Decker from under the vehicle.
His legs poked out from under the radiator grille, his body lying in a narrow trench that they’d dug into the stony track – back-breaking work that had taken the four of them almost an hour using their hands and shoes to scrape away the dirt and pebbles.
Assassins Rogue Page 17
