by A P Bateman
“Things can quickly get out of hand in the field.”
“Don’t I know it,” Villiers agreed. “But your department had a merry little shindig, so it would seem. Where are your agents now?”
“Sabbatical,” he replied cautiously. “We thought it for the best.”
“Everybody involved?”
“The ones who count.”
“For the best, I’d imagine. As you say. Allow them to lay low,” he paused. “Like I said, some of my people dug a little, turns out they dug up a whole load of shit.”
Amherst leaned forwards conspiratorially. Villiers followed suit. “Say what’s on your mind, James. I’m not playing your fucking games.”
Villiers straightened, taken aback. “Fine,” he said indignantly. “I’ll cut to the chase, then. There were people connected to your main suspect in a terrorism case, and they all died. Astonishingly, our investigators unearthed some wholly unbelievable anecdotal evidence that the former president of Russia was somehow involved, too. Many years before he straightened himself out and became an upstanding politician.”
“Now there’s a contradiction in terms…”
“Indeed. But the Russian president had a wicked, insidious past, and it would seem it caught up with him.” Villiers sipped some more of his tea. “Biscuit, old boy?”
Amherst shook his head. He sipped some tea for the distraction. He could tell the old spy in front of him was weighing him up. Amherst had come through the civil service. Villiers had worked out of embassies all over the world as an asset. He had run native agents, bribed and cajoled, sanctioned the use of lethal force – even helped the people who got their hands dirty get in place. And out again. He was an old salt, and he made the career civil servant nervous.
“You see, I know there was some off the reservation affair, and believe me, I understand. You had a missing agent, and your team worked tirelessly to get her back, and take out the threat. I get that. But what I don’t get, is why you went after the head of state of the second most, or perhaps even the most powerful nation on the planet.”
“Who says we did?”
Villiers smiled. “I’m sure it was unofficial.”
“We sanctioned no such assassination. Official, or otherwise.”
“Coincidence, then?”
“Of course.”
Villiers nodded. “I have an issue, I was hoping you could help me resolve?”
“Go on.”
“The Russian government’s reaction to their president being murdered was to cast their aspersions upon MI6 and the CIA. Our diplomats are persona non grata and the embassies are now empty. We lost our eyes and ears. Our official agents are twiddling their thumbs at home, while we have nobody out there to watch the show.”
Amherst shrugged. “It will play down,” he said. “We expelled theirs after the Salisbury nerve agent affair. They subsequently were allowed back; the Prime Minister hasn’t gone tit-for-tat, yet. With the Russians still here, our expulsion should be short-lived. They’ll want your agents out there where they can keep an eye on them again.”
“Yes, that’s all well and good,” Villiers said curtly. “But the Russians are doing some digging of their own. They will find the same link my agents made between these dead Russian mafia bosses and their esteemed former leader. When your missing agent and her heroic fiancé and all ensemble involved come into the fray, well, MI5 had better have the right answers in place. You certainly won’t come out of it holding onto the Director General post. And Commons Select Committees are incredibly taxing. The pressure affects your home life, too.”
Amherst stiffened. Was there no end to what this old spy could know, or how he could spin it?
“You see,” Villiers went on. “Our man in Pretoria met your missing agent, formed a bit of a bond with her. He was there, or rather, we were there when she got in a spot and needed our help. That’s fine. Professional curtesy. An agent in need. But he also told my investigators that he knew your agent’s fiancé. Knew him from old…”
Amherst knew this wasn’t going to be a meeting he left the room in control of. He could feel his career unravelling.
“Some of my more tenacious investigators did a little more digging,” Villiers paused. “Actually, a lot of digging. Turns out your agent who was known by a man on a desk in South Africa was a ghost. No employment records, but he certainly worked for MI6 prior to MI5. The digging went deeper. I called ex-employees. A combination of stick and carrot. I got back some surprising anecdotes. Have you heard of the Reaper?”
“Sounds a little fantastical.”
“No doubt. But the man that your agent got herself engaged to, was a fully-fledged black ops specialist for MI6 for more than a dozen years. Now, he did some sort of deal with your deputy director’s predecessor, Charles Forrester. A good man. But I fear even he went a little rogue towards the end. He took on this chap, signed him up as an unofficial he had brought in from the cold. Got him all pensioned up and PAYE’d and working for the other side. Your side.”
Amherst leaned back in his chair. He had always had his doubts about King, but he had inherited him. But the man also got the job done and it had not taken Amherst long in the role to see that there would always be jobs that needed doing that few would ever be capable of. He picked up his cup again, but the tea was cold. He chanced it anyway, could feel his throat drying out.
“It gets better. A series of unfortunate accidents over a short period not only led to a regime change within the SIS, but sparked suspicion. It also led to the disappearance of the Reaper. The man named Alex King. How about that?”
“You aren’t seriously suggesting that Alex King had something to do with that, are you?”
Villiers steepled his fingers and stared at Amherst. He watched until the MI5 man glanced away. He smiled. “I have it on good authority that the top tier of MI6 was as rotten as anytime in history. More so. Forget Kim Philby. Forget Burgess and Maclean. There were men in charge at the River House that made a mockery of what it is we do. The heroes of both World Wars, the Cold War… Everything we’ve ever done. These men used SIS assets and tried to feather their nests in international business affairs,” Villiers paused, watching Amherst for a flicker. He was quite sure that the civil servant knew nothing. Which was good. Because he could always elaborate and build on the situation. “It was a blemish nobody will benefit in making public. Which sort of buys your agent clemency, I suppose.”
“Sort of?”
“Yes. You see, I’m quite convinced that this King fellow, killed this top tier of reprobates. I’m also quite convinced that they used him and hung him out to dry. They saw him as a loose end and were foolhardy enough to try and have those loose ends snipped. It did not go well for them.”
Amherst shrugged. “No harm, no foul.”
“Well, not quite.”
Amherst returned his cup to the saucer and placed it back on the table. He glanced at his watch, decided it wasn’t too early for a proper drink. He would break out the bottle of Courvoisier when he got back to his office. He had been drinking more lately. It was no wonder why.
Villiers smiled. “I know. It’s in the bank. Quid pro quo. I want a favour.”
Amherst nodded. He had already decided to put someone on Villiers. Someone’s job was now to get something on the director of MI6. No. A team would be on it. He’d get his best analyst and watchers in place. The man’s rubbish would go through them before it reached the dump. His wife would be followed. If she wasn’t having an affair, then perhaps someone could be coerced to pursue her, a younger man who would sleep with her and put on a good show for the cameras. His teenaged children could be harvested for information somehow. He made a note to check if they were at college yet. University. Maybe drugs would be a way in? Amherst would have Villiers and his family shadowed for as long as the man remained in the role. He checked himself, Christ, what was happening to him? Ashamed, he looked back at his opposite number.
“Go on,” he said.
<
br /> Villiers smiled. All teeth and snide, but no warmth. “I have a problem. I lost an asset. A Russian who wanted safe passage to Britain in return for what they knew.”
“Which was what?” Amherst prompted.
“All in good time,” Villiers said. “Only he didn’t show. Or, frankly, we don’t know if he did or didn’t. His handler went to meet him. And that was the last we heard. I sent another man in his place, but he did not make contact with either of them.”
“Where?”
“Finland,” he said. “Lapland, to be precise.”
“Lapland?”
“Yes. Turns out it’s not just where Santa has his grotto, but a strategically placed piece of land that meets with Norway and Russia at a single point.” Villiers reached into his pocket and retrieved a folded sheaf of four papers. He placed them on the table. “Everything you need right there.”
“What do you want, exactly?”
“Well, the way I see it, your agent went rogue. He has a chequered past, to say the least. He took down Russian mafia, then went on a personal war and killed the Russian president. I’m not interested what the Russian president did; I’m quite sure he deserved it. However, your agent’s actions have had all my intelligence agents, assets and support staff expelled from Russia. As well as Britain’s diplomats and embassy staff. We have no eyes or ears in the place. But what is worse than all of that, is I have another Russian defector on course with my handler in the frozen Arctic. Now, if my handler’s asset was compromised, and it is looking that way, then this defector will undoubtedly be hunted by agents from the FSB or the GRU. The defection is set, so they are effectively on the way and there is no way of getting word to them to halt their migration, and believe me, if they succeed, then what they are carrying with them could well save us all.”
4
MI5 Headquarters, Thames House
The bottle of Courvoisier had been a gift from Amherst’s opposite number in the French counter intelligence bureau, the DGSI, or Direction Générale de la Sécurité Intérieure. The man knew the connotations of the gift when he had given it, and Amherst had known as he had gratefully received it. It wasn’t a celebratory drink. It wasn’t Champagne. If you were going to have a drink to take the sting out of the awfulness of the job, then you had better have a good one. Amherst was on his third measure of the amber liquid, and it was worrying how well it was going down. To draw a line, he placed the cork stopper back in and put the bottle back in the open drawer beside him. He closed it and moved on.
The man seated opposite him had accepted a glass, but Amherst could tell it had been wasted on him. Should have served him tea. Whether he had accepted out of politeness, gauging his boss’s mood, or whether he had wanted to quench a demon or two of his own, Amherst wasn’t sure. It certainly hadn’t been the man’s style to conform, so he already acknowledged that he would probably never know why King had sunk the measure in one go. Perhaps he was toasting something, but as he looked at the man across from him, he could only imagine what that would be. On second thoughts, he knew he was better off not knowing for sure.
At a shade under six-foot, broad-shouldered, trim-waisted and fit, Alex King looked like a light-heavyweight boxer. He certainly had the eyes of someone who could stare down an opponent. They were the coldest, grey-blue that Amherst had ever seen. There were a few scars, thin white lines, that showed when he was tanned. Amherst knew that under the man’s shirt was a network of scar tissue, each telling a story. A story about how he was still here, and others were not. He was a world removed from the career civil servant, and those two worlds were never really meant to meet.
King ran a calloused hand through his close-cropped dark hair. It was a new cut. Shaved at the sides and back, a little more left on top. It was the smartest Amherst had seen him. If he wasn’t mistaken, he may have shaved this morning, too.
“So, you want me to investigate?”
“Yes.”
“And the Finnish police can’t, because?”
“In short, there’s nobody up there,” Amherst said. “They sent one of their officers…” He turned over a piece of paper and read. “… Lena Mäkinen. Senior Constable, or Vanhempi Konstaapeli,” he said.
“That doesn’t sound very senior,” King replied. “Sounds like a patrol officer.”
“I gather it was a routine investigation. Our asset was killed by wolves.”
“Wolves?”
“Or a bear.”
“I think the bears are all hibernating.”
“Well, wolves, then,” Amherst niggled. “Something tore the poor sod up and left only a few remains.”
King shook his head and smiled. “And I thought it was all elves and reindeer up there. Fat guys in red suits sitting in grottos.”
“I expect there’s some of that up there, too. Or less so now that Christmas has passed, and all the tourists have cleared out.”
“Who was the asset?”
“An MI6 agent, or handler.”
King frowned. “Not an asset, then.”
“He was dispatched to bring in an asset. He didn’t show either.”
“What kind of asset?”
“A defector.”
“Defector?” King paused. “A bit John le Carré, isn’t it?”
“An old story for a modern era. We wanted what he had, apparently. It was worth a quiet exfiltration, some sort of financial or lifestyle payoff and a new identity.”
“And there’s little police presence up there?”
“That’s right.”
“How far north, exactly?”
“About as far as it gets in Finland. A few miles from where Russia, Finland and Norway intersect.”
“Chilly, then.” King agreed. “What did the coroner’s report come up with?”
“There hasn’t been one. The police were called, they turned up a day later. It was a removal and tagging job,” he paused. “In their eyes.”
“So, what do you want from me?”
Amherst slid the sheaf of papers all the way across the table with a stretch. “It’s all there,” he said. “Memorise and destroy before leaving the country. Your tickets are waiting for you at the Finnair customer services desk at Gatwick.”
King nodded. “Destroy all of these?” he asked.
Amherst nodded. “This is black bag. There are no formal records on this. MI6 have a contact in the area. He will liaise with you and aid with your investigation. You need to find out what happened to their asset and whether the hostiles got what they wanted. MI6 have another defector on route. The first defector’s number two. They have the same information and want the same arrangement. MI6 were playing them both, without the other’s knowledge. A safety-net. You need to meet them, provide them safe passage to Norway, where an exfiltration will take place. Details to follow.”
“Who is the defector?”
“A specialist of some type…”
“Some type?” King interrupted. “That’s pretty bloody vague.”
Amherst looked at him sharply. He didn’t appreciate insubordination, but as he looked into the man’s unnervingly steady eyes, he mellowed his expression. King reminded him of a German Shepherd his parents had once owned. Nobody could look into its eyes or it would growl. Linger too long, and it would snap. Amherst’s father had taken the dog away one night and returned without it. He wondered whether he would ever be tempted to do the same with King. But then he remembered Villiers’ anecdotal suspicions. Amherst dismissed the idea as abruptly as it had come.
“A debt has been called in,” Amherst said. “I’m doing this for both you and Caroline, as much as to aid our sister service.”
King remained impassive, but his stare was no less unnerving. The mention of his fiancée irked him somewhat. She was on sabbatical with Interpol. Six months so far and no sign of returning to MI5. They had gotten together at Christmas, but it had been different somehow. It had been passionate and a release for them both. But Caroline’s experience having been abducted
, what she had seen and the people-trafficking links she was now trying to sever throughout Europe, had focused her solely on her crusade. He loved her, knew she loved him, but she had demons to slay. She wouldn’t be his Caroline again until she battled them and won.
“Europe? Last summer?” Amherst said. “MI6 did a lot of digging. The Russian’s will have too. Links have been made. They are convinced that their president was killed on the back of your operation last summer.”
“To get back one of your agents.”
“You went too far off the reservation. You had no official remit.”
“Do you want my resignation?”
“No, I…”
“Well, brass it out, then,” King interrupted. “Tell them it’s a load of bollocks and move on.”
“Politics isn’t always that simple.”
“Then it’s about time to remember you’re not a politician. You are the head of Britain’s defence. You hunt the terrorists, the spies and the foreign government organisations who would do our country harm. So, you lie about it. Deny it. Tell them to kiss your arse if you need to. But stand firm.”
“We need this done. I need this done.”
“I’m doing it,” King assured him.
“Well, good luck, then.”
King stood up, tucked the sheaf of paper inside his jacket pocket. He knew how unofficial this was, everything else came in various coloured folders, depending on the security clearance and sensitivity. King turned and walked to the door.
“Oh, and King…” Amherst took a pair of glasses out of his pocket and wiped them on a cloth as he looked up at him. “It’s probably nothing, but there’s a storm on the way up there. It looks to be the worst in years but may even skip right past and sweep back up into the Arctic. The police are a bit nervous in heading that far north unless they can absolutely help it. Just a bit more snow in a cold and desolate place already, I should imagine. It might affect the rendezvous with the defector, though,” he paused. “But as I said, it’s probably nothing…”
5
