by A P Bateman
Simon Mereweather swallowed, checked his mirrors and changed lane. “Alright, Alex. Look, it’s just the two of you are under the microscope. The top tier does not like relationships between field operatives. Any employees, really. Not since that pair Annie Machon and David Shayler did their whistle-blower and publishing routine,” he paused, apparently unnerved. He fidgeted with the steering wheel and adjusted his collar. “Look, I was just interested to see that you two really can operate neutrally,” he said. “Caroline went with an agent from South African intelligence to see the potential witness. The man who Interpol believe met the man most likely to be our mystery sniper.”
“I know all this, I was in the briefing. Vigus Badenhorst, serving his sentence in Pollsmoor prison. I said I should go.”
“You were more use looking at the scene of the killing. We wanted a sniper’s perspective on it.”
“I still think I would have been better deployed meeting the prisoner.”
“Because you were one yourself? That was a long time ago.”
And sealed information… thought King. In MI6 recruitment files, not MI5’s.
He felt uneasy. How did MI5 have that information? Charles Forester had brought King in, made him an official agent after devising a back story of him being a long-term black-ops agent in deniable operations. Forester had known about King’s work for MI6, that was the reason he had approached him. Forester wouldn’t have told anyone, he was sure of that. But how much did Mereweather know? There were things he had done, back when he was a ‘Contract Man’, that could catch up with King, make it impossible for him to live a life any other way but on the run.
“Pollsmoor Prison is a tough place,” said King.
“And Caroline would see that,” replied Mereweather. “She would use carrot to your stick. I thought she would have the witness eating out of her hand, and it would appear she did. She arranged a release and deal through Interpol. She’s a force to be reckoned with, because we are still waiting for a reply from the Foreign Office and Whitehall. And we’d be waiting for weeks.”
“Get on with it,” King said tersely.
Mereweather shrugged. “Okay… They were hit leaving the prison. About five miles out. Two armed men. One rammed their vehicle, the other blocked their route. They fired on them, Caroline and the SASS agent fired back. Caroline got away.”
“And she’s in the air?”
“Yes.”
“And how did she get out?”
“Of the wreck?”
“The country. I take it she didn’t just catch a cab to the airport?”
“The MI6 chap that helped her earlier. She called me. I figured their chap would still in the area, told them… or pleaded, rather… to get someone on the scene and said to use their asset who would be close. He must have smoothed things over with the police and local intelligence, because she’s been in the air a few hours and will arrive at Heathrow Airport tomorrow morning.”
King nodded. He knew that the SIS, or MI6 as it was more widely known, would be calling in a great many favours from its sister service. He knew the top tier would be less than enthusiastic about that. Through no fault of Caroline’s, she would be black-marked. The thought made King believe that maybe it was time to go. For them both. Hang up the knives and guns and stop looking behind them. They both had savings, property to sell. They had talked briefly about buying a yacht. Of sailing the Greek islands, the Caribbean even. Or maybe Asia. It was only a pipe dream, neither knew how to sail. Caroline had pointed the fact out, King had shrugged and said he’d give it a go. Maybe a lesson or two first.
“So, the train,” Mereweather ventured. “What fall-out am I to expect?”
“Someone has been tracking me. I found the first tracker which had been secreted into the satnav that came with my hire car. There was no way it had been tampered with before, or at the time of hire. I kept it in play, thought I’d draw them out.”
“And you did?”
“I was rammed, or at least, they tried to ram me on the drive up here,” he paused. “The car’s wrecked, sorry. The Security Service won’t be getting their deposit back. I ditched the tracker, but realised when they picked me up at Winchester train station that I had to be carrying something else.”
“And you were? How?”
“The lining of my travel bag.”
“Same kind of device?”
“Identical.”
“So, what about this man? You said in your text to expect a prisoner.”
“He put up a fight.”
“And you killed him?”
“No. He slipped and hit his head.”
“Well, that’s something, at least,” Mereweather looked relieved. “If it looks like an accident, we can distance ourselves. No problem. Thank goodness for that.”
King took out the bundle of tissue. It was bloody and had started to unravel in his pocket. He placed it on the centre console. “It’s not as simple as that. I wanted to ID him. Fingerprints, DNA.”
Simon Mereweather glanced down. “What on earth is that?”
“His finger,” said King. “I don’t think there’s much chance of it looking like an accident now.”
38
“Best we can do, I’m afraid.”
“I thought it would be quicker,” King said. He looked at Mereweather. “Is there anywhere else?”
“Don’t mind me,” the technician commented dryly.
“This is as good as it gets,” replied Mereweather. “And we can’t go to the yard and work with Special Branch, for obvious reasons.”
Normally MI5 would work with Special Branch for something like this, but as King had pointed out, if the man on the train was a known terrorist or had links to terrorism, then sooner or later a body without a finger was going to be flagged on the system. The fact that two MI5 operatives had recently requested prints and DNA from a severed finger was not going to go unmissed.
MI5 did not have a dedicated forensics facility, using Home Office facilities instead, or on occasion, facilities like the one the two men were standing in now. A private company owned and run by ex-Home Office forensic experts who knew how to secure those all-important government contracts. This facility had dealt with some of MI5’s lesser known investigations, especially matters which were unrecorded for public record. Fishing with dynamite, as it was often referred to. Harvesting evidence and replanting it to seal an investigation. The smoking gun, the extra rope for terrorists to hang themselves, metaphorically speaking. Such practice was unthinkable in a Home Office laboratory. The British judicial system was the fairest in the world, but the enemy had changed, and the fight was just that little more delicate, the stakes a little higher than they had ever been.
“So, are we doing this?” the technician asked impatiently. It was past office hours now. The man had dinner plans and a boxset to catch up on. He looked at King and Mereweather in turn. “Where is the subject? I’ll need to take DNA swabs first, then run prints. That can take hours if they’re on East European databases. Russia’s are tediously slow.”
King took the bundle out of his pocket and tossed it over to the technician. The man stared at the bloodstained tissue, looked back up at King.
“What is this?”
“That’s the subject,” he said. “Or at least, his finger. DNA shouldn’t be a problem, but you’ll only have the one print to work from.”
39
King had woken at six. He had checked his phone, seen the texts and replied. The first he replied to had been Caroline’s. Her plane had touched down and she was headed towards diplomatic arrivals. She had sent back a text and told King not to bother picking her up. Simon Mereweather was putting on a car and she would meet King back at the flat. She had signed off with three kisses. All was well.
Mereweather’s text had been short and sweet – Meeting. Nine-sharp. Top tier. King had texted back – Make it ten. He knew Mereweather would be livid, but he felt a little petulant today. Caroline had been away, gone through s
o much, King was damned if he was going to rush away with her so close.
King had then slipped on his jogging bottoms and a T-shirt and ran the short distance to the market and bought a selection of Caroline’s favourite pastries from a stall. They were baked fresh each morning and he chose pane au chocolate for Caroline and plain croissants for himself. Then he picked up some glazed pastries with chopped pecans and a heavy glaze and jogged back. It wasn’t exactly a workout, but he dropped the bag of pastries onto the counter and walked out onto the balcony overlooking the lock.
He started with an 8kg kettle bell and French pressed until failure. He topped out around the eighty mark, but wasn’t really counting. He gave himself twenty-seconds recovery, picked up the 12kg kettle and went back to it. He pushed to failure, lost count after thirty. After twenty seconds recovery he worked with the 16kg, again pressing until he could manage no more. Then dropped straight into abdominal crunches. He worked to one-hundred, rolled over and did one-hundred push-ups. He gave himself a full minute to breathe, then dropped into a low squat and swung the 12kg kettle bell, changing hands after he reached twenty. He repeated five times, then went back to crunches and press-ups once more. Hanging from the ceiling was a heavy punch bag and King went straight to it - punches, blocks, strikes, kicks and knees - timing himself for three-minute rounds. After each round he dropped and held a low squat while he breathed and rested for one minute. When he broke away, he was soaked with sweat and breathing hard. He reached up for the two hand-holds he had fitted into the ceiling and started a series of pull-ups. He rested in between, but merely dangled, never touched the floor. He could feel his shoulders burning like fire. Upper body strength was so important in King’s work, or at least the work he had done up to a year ago. Now that he was tasked with investigating and surveillance, he did not need to be so physically fit. But King knew he would need it again one day. He was certain of it. He started raising his legs, crunching his lower stomach muscles, controlling the speed and maximising the effect. When he finally dropped back down, he stretched for five minutes, each time gaining more flexibility and healing the muscles he had so strenuously worked on. He glanced at his watch, finishing exactly on the forty-minute mark. He had done more than most people would in a ninety-minute gym session, and all without spending a penny on membership, or looking in the mirror.
King stripped off and ran the shower. He shaved first, using traditional sandalwood shaving soap in a mahogany bowl. He had discovered the brand online and found it to foam and retain moisture far better than mainstream foams or gels. He worked the soap into a lather with a traditional badger hair brush and applied it generously. King always wet shaved, and used a traditional vintage safety razor with a single replaceable platinum blade. It shaved far smoother and closer than modern multi-blade razors, and had the distinct advantage of converting to a weapon or survival blade if needed. It was the life he had led, that had shaped his decisions in such a way. Nothing was taken on face value and he always made decisions based on what-ifs. King left nothing to chance.
He stripped off and stepped into the shower. He ran the water cold for a while, targeted the muscles he had worked. The icy water would repair the damage. King had lost count of the times he had sat in iced water baths when he had boxed semi-professionally and in prize fights as a younger man, and he’d lost count of the times he’d done the same in some dingy hotel in some fly-ridden country, recovering from secret battles nobody would ever hear about.
Eventually, he turned up the heat and played the water on his neck. He shampooed and soaped himself and leaned his hands against the wall as he rinsed. He was using the time to think. Play over the events of the past two days. Two days, was that all? It felt like much longer. Meeting Amanda Cunningham, seeing the bodies at the farmhouse, the body of Sir Ian Snell on his patio. Then the attack, the man he’d killed and the destruction of his cottage. The sight of Snell’s wife and her Russian lover yesterday, the autopsy, the drive back, the fight on the train… He shook his head, water hitting the shower screen forming rivulets of which ran down, clearing pathways through the condensation. Too much had happened to draw conclusions, he’d barely had time to draw breath.
“Now that’s a sight I’ve wanted to see…”
King spun around, smiled when he saw Caroline standing next to the bath. She was naked, wearing only a smile.
“Ditto,” he said, trying and failing to hide his excitement at seeing her. “It’s good to see you…”
She smiled. “I can see that,” she said, stepping over the edge of the bath and into the shower’s spray.
They kissed, tenderly at first, but soon built in both passion and urgency, their tongues exploring and probing as if it were the first time. In truth, it had not been that long, but at the pace in which they had both been working, and with entire continents between them, it had felt like weeks. Caroline took his hands and placed them on her, then slid her own hands slowly down his torso. She fingered at the scar on his waist, ran her hands over the rough tissue. He moved her hand away. He always did this, but she couldn’t help it. She thought of how it had happened, how she had nearly lost him. Touching it reminded her how fragile life could be, and in doing so, she felt more alive. She took his cue, moved her hand lower, hovering teasingly, then taking hold of him, kissing harder as he grew in her hand.
Caroline wrapped around him, positioned herself, taking the lead and letting him know exactly what he should do. Despite his rigorous exercise, King was strong and fit, and he didn’t struggle as he held her, was able to take his time, but as the passion built, so did his pace and together they soon peaked, and as they ebbed and relaxed, King let her go and they embraced, kissing more softly, and far more tenderly than before.
Caroline broke away first. She smiled as she stroked his muscular chest. “I’ve missed you,” she said.
“I noticed.”
“Miss me?”
“Didn’t you notice?”
She giggled and kissed him again, but this time it was a quick peck on the lips. “Right, get out, I’m taking over the shower,” she said, and slapped his backside as he stepped out onto the mat. “And get some coffee brewing.”
40
King had made an espresso for Caroline and a tea for himself and they had made short work of the pastries, as Caroline had told King what had transpired in South Africa. King had given her a brief synopsis of his past two days. He had included the destruction of the cottage and the gunman, but had omitted to tell her that Amanda Cunningham had come over for dinner. He had told her about the fight on the train, but had skipped over removing the man’s finger. She’d only just had breakfast.
Caroline had changed into a navy trouser suit with a white blouse. King had put on his cleanest jeans and a shirt.
“Not wearing a suit?” she smiled, sipping her coffee.
“Funerals and weddings.”
“You’re struggling with this, aren’t you?”
“With what?”
“This new role,” she said. “They won’t like you attending a meeting at that level wearing jeans and a shirt.”
“And a leather jacket,” he quipped.
“I mean, if this doesn’t suit you…”
He shrugged. “It’s not so different, I’ve killed a man and fought two more in as many days.”
“Well, I top trump you there,” she said quietly. “And isn’t it two men?”
“No. He hit his head.”
“Technicality?”
King shrugged. “This chap, Ryan Beard, I want to find him and say thank you,” he said.
“You’ll do no such thing!” she put the empty coffee cup down and stared at him. “I’m not your property! I thanked him myself, both times.”
“I just…”
“I know what you just!” she said. “Christ, Alex, I’m an experienced agent carrying out my duties. It got hairy, MI6 were the closest friendlies, they helped because that’s what we would do.”
King held up his h
ands in mock surrender. “Okay!”
She stood up from the table and hovered at the coffee machine, glancing at her watch. “We’d better be going, we have to meet at nine.”
“I’ve made it ten, thought it would give us a bit more time.”
“What?” she asked incredulously. “You rescheduled on the Director General? Alex, the Home Secretary will be there!”
“At ten,” he said. “Mereweather didn’t text back, so I’m guessing it’s okay.”
She shook her head. She was either flabbergasted by his actions, or doing a pretty good impression of it. “The agent I met in South Africa knew you,” she said. She had been thinking on Beard’s comments, his ridiculous anecdote. She couldn’t see the man she had just made love to in the shower as the same in Ryan Beard’s tale.
“Unlikely,” King said.
“I showed him our picture in Majorca. The one I carry in my purse.”
“What?” King stood up. He was around six-foot and towered over her. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“Alex?” she stared up at him. “I wasn’t sure he was from MI6. I knew you were, thought it was worth a shot. He was an embassy man. He would have given assistance to special operatives on missions.”
King turned around. He was shaking, enraged. He took a breath, a step back. “That was information I told you. Forester doctored my past, had me down as an unofficial asset working for MI5. He used that to bring me into MI5 for the operation. After he died, and I continued to work with MI5 and it was all kept official – pension updated, salary re-evaluated. I just went with it – so I could keep working with you. My past with MI6 was never known. By anybody.”
“But your name?”
“I used dozens of aliases with MI6. You know Alex King isn’t my birthname, I had a past. One I’m not proud of. The only people who knew me as Alex King in MI6 are all dead.”
