by A P Bateman
“Dead?”
King nodded, leaned back on the countertop. “The director, the two deputies…” he said. “After I left MI6, I disappeared. But Charles Forrester found me, pulled at my conscience, used Jane’s name to get me to help him. Get me to come over to MI5. I should have moved on after that operation, changed my name, started a new life. But,” he paused, looked at her, his eyes softening. “I’d met you by then. And then, it was too late.”
Caroline looked up at him, then stepped in and cuddled him. She rested her head against his chest. She hadn’t told King she had told Beard his full name. She hadn’t seen King react like that, and didn’t feel she wanted to pour flames on the fire. She wondered if telling the MI6 agent King’s name would have repercussions. She eased backwards, touched his shoulder, rubbed him gently. “I know you’ve done a lot for your country, Alex. I know you’ve killed. And not just in the heat of battle, or in self-defence. But I didn’t know how renowned you were. Ryan Beard told me you went after a traitor in Switzerland. That you sat drinking a coffee and caught the man’s eye. You stared at him and left. The man went home and killed himself. Such was your reputation. He knew he was as good as dead.”
King laughed. “For crying out loud, what a load of bollocks!” he paused. “I was sent to pick him up. Bring him back for an interview without coffee. An interrogation. The police had already found him. His Russian paymasters had cut him off financially. The man was ruined, had nowhere to go. He couldn’t come home, he knew we were after him and he couldn’t use the assets he’d built up with the Russians. He topped himself after one too many peach schnapps.”
“Why so edgy then? Nobody else knows you worked with MI6. Why should Ryan Beard care?”
King shook his head. “Simon Mereweather knew something about me. Information that would only have been in MI6 recruitment files. I think he knows about my past. And that’s worrying, because there should be no reason for him to have looked.”
“And does that matter? It’s our opposite intelligence service. You worked overseas for them, now you work domestically for us.”
King said nothing, but pulled her towards him rested his hands on her shoulders. He knew then, as he looked into her glossy eyes, that he would never tell her what he had done. What action they had forced him to take when they had betrayed him, sent him into hell hoping that he would not return.
41
It was only the second time that King had attended a meeting on the top floor of the Security Service’s headquarters at Thames House. He had initially been brought into MI5 to work on an assignment with Charles Forester, the previous deputy director of operations, and taken his briefings outside of MI5’s headquarters. When Director Howard and the administration Deputy Director Elizabeth Chalmers had been killed in a terrorist attack on the building last year, much of MI5’s offices had been housed in Whitehall and a floor set aside at the River House, MI6’s distinct-looking headquarters on the other side of the Thames.
Both King and Caroline had taken briefings either in the field or in office suites in Whitehall. Now that Thames House was fully operation once more, King had only had one previous meeting. And it had been memorable.
King knew what he was. He was a blunt instrument. A hammer to hit nails. Much of the intelligence service’s most commendable work was done online. Its surveillance carried out by satellites. Its sentence handed down by drones and their lethal hellfire missiles. By many, King was viewed as a relic. A product of people still thinking in terms of the cold war. Times had changed, and men like King were outdated. The newly appointed director of MI5 had voiced this to King, then asked for his opinion. King had said if he truly believed that, then he wasn’t up to the appointment of Director.
Times had certainly changed, but a man’s eyes on the ground was worth a dozen cameras in the air, and once those hellfire missiles launch, then the die was cast. A man with a gun can not only eliminate a single threat without collateral damage, but can choose not to fire as well. King had asked Amherst how well he would sleep at night if his decision to launch an airstrike killed women and children, put there to act as a deterrent, human shields. He had then asked if he’d lose sleep knowing a terrorist leader took a bullet to the back of their head in the middle of the night and the children sleeping in the next house still had the chance to grow up. It had given the director something to think on, and King noted that drone strikes were less common since Amherst had taken over MI5 and ran joint intelligence operations with MI6 and military intelligence.
Director Amherst was a young man for the role, in his early forties, but he was an experienced mandarin, having served in the MOD and several prominent civil service roles in Whitehall. He wasn’t an intelligence veteran, but his speciality was in streamlining government departments with remarkable success. MI5 was receiving the streamlining treatment, but the rebuilding of Thames House was rumoured to have cost almost ten-million, mainly because of the use of the depleted uranium rounds used in the terrorist attack and the subsequent fire damage caused by phosphorous incendiary ammunition. There had been a great deal of HAZMAT clearance, and further security precautions put in place to prevent a similar attack.
Amherst looked up at both King and Caroline as they entered. He looked impassive, but made a show of looking at his watch. It was ten-o’clock. Caroline looked uneasy, but King nodded a confident acknowledgment and headed for the chair nearest the wall.
“Well, I believe this means we can start.” He looked King up and down, then adjusted his own silk neck tie. It was tied in a Windsor knot. King noticed the handkerchief matched and was poking rather a long way out of his breast pocket.
King eyed the other people in the room, the cups in front of them. He looked up expectantly and caught Mereweather’s eye. “Point me in the direction, Simon. I could do with a cup of tea,” he paused, looking at Caroline. “Coffee?” She looked up at him, her face flushed, her eyes wide. They seemed to say - sit down! but King winked at her and looked back at Simon Mereweather.
Amherst shook his head as Simon Mereweather went to stand, and buzzed through his intercom. He ordered tea and a coffee and looked back at King. “I believe you have had an eventful couple of days. What are your thoughts?”
King looked at the people seated in the crescent in front of Amherst’s desk. Simon Mereweather was closest to him and he was seated next to Neil Ramsay, the MI5 officer who had taken the body of the gunman away from King’s cottage. Sir Hugo Hollandrake, the Home Secretary sat cross-legged, slightly effeminate, his legs almost wrapped around themselves, his foot swinging rhythmically up and down. He hadn’t looked up. He was clearly disgruntled at having to wait for King and Caroline to arrive, and King’s insistence upon having tea and coffee served before they could commence. King looked past Hollandrake and felt a surge in his stomach. Amanda Cunningham sat on the end of the crescent, a folder resting on her lap. She was looking straight ahead, apparently not wanting to catch King’s eye.
King sat back in his seat. His heart rushed, his pulse surging. He knew it had been a mistake to invite her over to the cottage. A bigger mistake not to tell Caroline what had transpired. It had been innocent, with no intent, but in omitting telling Caroline, he had made it something more. Now the woman was here, and one thing he had discovered about her, was that she was far from predictable. With a drink or two inside her, she was downright unstable. He had expected to see her at some point, as she deliberated her findings, but the fact that it was today, in this meeting had unsettled him.
“There’s more to it,” King said. “Much more.” He looked up as Amherst’s secretary walked in with a tray and placed it in front of King and Caroline on the low coffee table. He looked up at her and nodded a thank you.
“Well, obviously,” scoffed the Home Secretary.
“So, what are your thoughts?” King asked amiably. “If you don’t mind, Home Secretary.”
“Well,” Hollandrake paused, looking flustered. “I just mean there’s more to it th
an we think. That much is obvious.”
“Is it?” King asked. “The newly formed terrorist group, Anarchy to Recreate Society, who have sworn to eradicate world poverty and redress the balance of wealth, has made good on their promise. They said they would kill the five wealthiest people on the planet, and apart from one man, they have,” King paused. “What more to it do you see?” King poured some milk into his tea and spooned in a sugar.
“Well, I…”
“Agent King,” Amherst interjected. “Tell us your thoughts. Now that you’re here and have your refreshments, I don’t think we should waste any more time. The Home Secretary is here to receive a briefing, not give it.”
King shrugged. “Well, Sir Ian Snell didn’t die from a gunshot wound.”
“Absurd!” Amanda Cunningham snapped. She leaned forward and looked at King, then glanced at everybody in turn. Her expression ranged from anger to bewilderment. It was like turning an expression dial. She knew how to work an audience. “I performed the autopsy and Sir Ian Snell died from a massive head trauma. Caused by a gunshot wound. You had your reservations back at the house, but I can now confirm they are unfounded.” She looked past King and caught Caroline’s eye. “I’m Amanda Cunningham, by the way.”
“Caroline Darby,” she said warmly.
“I know, Alex told me all about you. Nice to finally meet you.”
“Finally? What, after two days?” Caroline frowned.
“He talked a lot,” she said. “Over dinner.” She turned to King, then looked at Director Amherst. “I’ll stand by my findings. Sir Ian Snell was killed by a massive head trauma from a gunshot wound. You are hunting a sniper. That is the MO from the previous three killings. American software giant William Hoffman killed in California by a point-fifty bullet through ballistic glass, at a range of one-thousand metres. American social media guru Steve Gaits killed in Paris by a seven-point-six-two at five-hundred-metres. British television and media mogul Max Blackwell killed in Liverpool by a point-three-three-eight, and I can confirm, the same point-three-three-eight that killed Sir Ian Snell in Cornwall.”
“Why the change in calibres?” Ramsey asked.
After it was clear nobody had a satisfactory answer, King said, “Tool’s for the task. The fifty used to kill Hoffman needed to punch through ballistic glass. Hoffman’s ranch had a long approach and his security detail would be able to see anyone getting near. The one-thousand metre range was on the cusp of the point-fifty punching through the glass, but the sniper would have known this. The seven-point-six-two was good for five-hundred metres and easily obtainable in France. Nobody heard the shot, so the rifle would have been suppressed. That calibre works well with a suppressor.” He reached and picked up his cup, took a sip of tea and held the cup on his thigh. “The sniper has a three-three-eight in this country. He’s used it twice already. He’ll carry on using it here.”
“Why?” asked Amherst.
“Practicality,” said King. “Guns are heavily controlled and licenced in the UK. This won’t be legally owned, most likely stolen. If you’re a member of a suitable range, have experience and pass the criteria, you can own calibres of this power, or more. The rifle will be bolt-action operated, not semi-auto. And unless they have a licence with the relevant ammunition authorised, then the ammunition will have been stolen too.”
“Okay, thank you,” Amherst nodded. “Tell me, why do you feel the need to doubt the pathologist assigned to this investigation, Agent King?”
Sir Hugo Hollandrake turned and stared at King. “Yes, do tell. I would love to know why a man of your…” He looked King up and down distastefully. “… stature, feels he can disregard the work of an esteemed pathologist.”
Caroline touched King’s arm and stared at him. She whispered, “Are you sure about this, darling?”
King looked back at Sir Hugo Hollandrake and to Amherst in turn. “I was sent down to look at the crime scene because of my experience.”
“You barely found your way around the crime scene!” Amanda interrupted. “You were a rank amateur, didn’t know what questions to ask. I had to guide you, prompt you even.”
“Is this true?” Amherst asked incredulously.
“Yes!” blurted Amanda.
“Director Amherst, I feel you may not have your best team investigating this matter. Either that, or MI5 isn’t best placed to continue with this.” Hollandrake shook his head. “The police have plenty of senior detectives who could do this.”
Simon Mereweather held up his hand. “I’m sorry, Home Secretary, but I chose to send King down to investigate. That decision was on me. And I still stand by that. Alex has invaluable experience that nobody else in this room has. He has spent years in the field and done more for his country than we should ask of anybody. The sniper skills demonstrated by these people have been remarkable. Shots fired, and people killed at tremendous distances, and I assumed when I looked at the property on Google Maps, that this would be no different. Sir Ian Snell’s nearest neighbour was over two-thousand metres away and the ground looked open with little cover for a gunman to get near their target. I assumed this was a massively long shot and thought King would be able to contribute his expertise.”
“It’s fine, Simon. You suggested King and I concurred,” Amherst said gruffly. “So, let’s have it.” He looked back at King, who seemed unperturbed, sipping from his cup. Then he glanced at Amanda Cunningham as he said, “Without further interruption?”
Unperturbed, King shrugged. “As I said to Ms Cunningham, it was a long shot and on the cusp of what a point-three-three-eight can achieve. But I later found two missed attempts. Two bullets in the wall. My first instinct was that it would have been too noticeable. Snell would have heard the sonic wave and the bullet strikes. If the weapon wasn’t sound moderated with a suppressor, then he would certainly have heard these two shots from across the valley.”
“Even from so far away?” asked Hollandrake.
“Especially so. Because of the valley and the echo that it would generate,” King answered. “When we returned to the property the next morning…”
“Who?” Amherst interrupted.
“Ms Cunningham and myself. We discovered Snell’s wife in bed with her bodyguard.”
“No crime there,” Amherst said dismissively. “Morally reprehensible, but not a crime.”
“Viktor Bukov is Helena Snell’s bodyguard, but he is posing as her cousin, Ivan Kerchenko. That’s the name he’s working under. We don’t know where Kerchenko is.”
“So, Snell’s wife is having an affair, is in bed with her lover just hours after her husband’s death,” mused Amherst. “Nothing tangible. What do you make of King’s theory of multiple shots, Ms Cunningham?”
“It’s not a theory. The bullets were there.”
“But only one shell casing at the house the shot was taken from,” Amherst said, looking at a sheet of paper in front of him. King assumed it was Amanda’s report. “Why leave a shell casing at the house, if they took three shots?”
“Snell was killed by a gunshot. Anarchy to Recreate Society murdered him, as they said they would,” Amanda said emphatically. She was flushed, and King noticed her hands were shaking, causing the papers in her hand to waft, as though in a breeze. “Whether or not they took more shots, and why they left only one casing at the house is not something I can comment on. I only deal in cold, hard facts. And that was what I saw. Snell was either engrossed in his paper he had been reading and didn’t notice the other two shots, or maybe he was asleep. All I know is that I was chosen for my expertise, and my expertise in this matter has drawn a conclusion.”
Amherst looked at King. “Fair enough?”
King shrugged, sipped some more tea.
“So, what about South Africa?” the Home Secretary asked. “Sounded like a complete and utter balls up.”
“I was compromised,” Caroline said sharply. “I was greeted by an imposter who knew the name of my contact. I was abducted.”
“A bit
dramatic,” Amanda scoffed. “You look safe and well.”
“I killed two men to escape.” Caroline glared.
Simon Mereweather held up a hand. “Need to know, Agent Darby.” He looked back at Amherst. “Miss Darby was later ambushed a second time, the prisoner she secured release for and the South African Secret Service agent escorting her were both killed in the attack. She was lucky to get out alive. South African intelligence have more leaks than a sieve and somebody knew her every move. They knew she was coming and they knew why she was there. I think we can conclude from this, that the identity of the sniper would have been that much closer if the prisoner had been able to talk. There is no doubt in my mind that the man who shot the prisoner and killed his brother, who practiced in the South African bush, is the same sniper who is behind the killings on this list,” Mereweather paused. “Whoever their contact is in the SASS, they sacrificed a serving agent. The SASS are livid and starting a thorough sweep of their seals. We can’t expect further cooperation from them, and neither should we want it until they clean house.”
Amherst nodded. “And you were compromised down in Cornwall, I hear,” he said to King. “They bombed your house, I believe?”
“Someone shot at me. My cottage was blown up afterwards.” King glanced at Caroline, who had raised a hand to her mouth. The colour drained out of her face. He’d told her he’d been compromised, that there had been a fire, but had not had the chance to come back to the conversation. Her exploits in South Africa had been at the forefront of their brief conversation. “As yet, we don’t know who the gunman was.”
“And nor will you, I imagine,” commented Sir Hugo. “Not if he got away.”
“No, he didn’t get away, Home Secretary,” Mereweather said. “King killed him.”
“Really?” Sir Hugo Hollandrake looked surprised. “He looked at King, but looked away when King held his stare. “So, it may be possible to get an identification after all?”
