The Colours: A spy thriller packed with intrigue and deception

by T. M. Parris

  “It’s not something I can take.”

  Gustave’s eyes were wide. “Are you sure, Max? It looks old.”

  “I can’t sell a thing like this!”

  Gustave frowned at the stress in Max’s voice. Pippin stepped up and wrapped the vessel. He had his answer. Max was rubbing his eyes, fingers under his glasses. Gustave watched Pippin pack the object, making him fumble. He just wanted to be out of there now.

  “Sorry to have troubled you,” he muttered, and tried to slip out of the door, but he pulled instead of pushing. Outside, the fresh air greeted him and he walked away fast, looking up again, getting comfort from the blue sky, the sun on his face, the yellow and green. It was over at least.

  He didn’t turn back. He didn’t see Gustave come out, watch him walking away, and start to follow him.

  Chapter 5

  Since Salisbury had so reluctantly given the green light, Rose wasted no time flying out to Nice and establishing herself and her team there. She didn’t want anyone changing their minds. Now she was video calling Walter from the team HQ, a spacious holiday apartment in a suburb of Nice. Outside the window the sun blazed onto a large balcony which looked out over a nicely tended tree-studded garden. Their beach towels were hanging out there to dry.

  “Are the others there already?” asked Walter.

  “Yes. Yvonne drove down from Paris. Ollie flew in yesterday.”

  Rose’s team consisted of two people plus herself, but they were good people. Yvonne was half-French and on loan from Paris Station. Ollie, drafted in from Vauxhall Cross, was young but already had an impressive record in the field.

  “You flew there together?”

  “No, separately. He had his windsurfer sent over. It’s a good time of year for it, apparently. Yvonne’s rented a moped. She’s keen on them. The three of us are going to have a great little holiday.”

  “How do you know each other?”

  “Work. We’re accountants.”

  “Accountants on holiday?”

  “It happens.”

  “And why Nice?”

  “Most tourists don’t stay in Monaco because it’s so expensive. They stay somewhere in France and go there for the day.”

  Crammed into the hallway was a collection of Ollie’s water-sports gear, taking up a lot of space. Yvonne’s crash helmet sat on the table along with a collection of spirits bottles, mixers and glasses. The place had a real holiday feel to it, three youngish Brits enjoying the late summer sun. But Rose was working hard, and the other two were out on surveillance, keeping discreet tabs on their target informant.

  “So did you speak to Hong Kong about Alastair?” she asked Walter. The screen showed his age; he looked pale and thin against a washed-out background that gave nothing away.

  “No can do, I’m afraid. I think he’s genuinely unavailable. On loan somewhere. Special assignment. Need to know, and so on.”

  He gave her a regretful smile. Rose thought it unlikely Walter couldn’t find out what a certain officer was working on if he wanted to. Walter was one of the MI6 old school that wasn’t supposed to exist any more: avuncular, faded around the edges, softly-spoken. But behind his flowery language lurked a dangerous sharpness; Walter knew what was what. Clearly he wasn’t going to give her any more on Alastair. Her attempts to make contact with her friend had failed, so she had no trouble believing what Walter said, as far as it went.

  “So we’ll need to look elsewhere,” he said. “It’s all a bit chummy, the fine art market. With all the regulatory tightening that’s going on post Panama Papers, terrorists and other criminal types have fewer and fewer options for getting their grubby fingers on their ill-gotten gains. But the art world is all still rather informal – a gentleman’s word and all that. Art dealers promise to protect their clients’ privacy, as they see it, and don’t do all the checks they should be doing.”

  “Well, that was certainly the case for the Van Gogh.” It just so happened that the piece of art they’d associated with one of Grom’s companies, a previously-discredited Van Gogh, had recently become the most expensive painting ever sold at auction. It had achieved some notoriety. “If Grom was the buyer, it would explain why he paid so much for it. It was a way to get money out of Russia quickly. And it also explains why no one knows for sure who owns it despite all the speculation. So we need someone who’s familiar with that world.”

  “Yes. Even better, someone who can credibly move around in it.”

  “You mean as an operator?” Rose had been thinking about an adviser.

  “Well, it would certainly be useful, wouldn’t it? At the moment, you’re working on a way of discovering Sutherland’s Monaco ID. Once you’ve got it, what then?”

  “Plan the next stage. With the name we should get an address, data on other assets, hopefully a link with the Freeport.”

  “There’s a Freeport connection?”

  “That’s where we think the painting is. You know, these bonded warehouses that are becoming specialised in storing fine art.”

  “Yes, indeed, they’re a money launderer’s dream, I’m afraid,” said Walter. “No declarations of ownership required, as long as the goods stay within the Freeport. Perfect for holding financial assets in secret. And avoiding tax. And hiding stolen artefacts, for that matter.”

  “They’re often found at airports. Monaco’s too small to have an airport, so it’s near the heliport. It sounds quite modest compared to some of the new ones springing up – Luxembourg, Singapore and so on. But it’s just as opaque. We’ll need access to it, or at least some way of verifying our painting is there and keeping track of it. That’s going to take some doing.”

  “Well, this is exactly where an inside man might help. You probably won’t welcome this suggestion, Rose, but hear me out.”

  “Go on.” Rose had a feeling she knew where this was heading.

  “John Fairchild has Monaco residency. He also owns a company in Monaco that lets and manages luxury apartments. I can see that being useful. He’s also the owner of a number of pieces of fine art and is very knowledgeable on the subject. You know how he can absorb information on seemingly every topic. With the right kind of incentive, he might be persuaded to place one of his own pieces in the Monaco Freeport. That would give him a way in.”

  It was what she was expecting, and she wasn’t having it.

  “John Fairchild isn’t someone MI6 is supposed to be associating with. His loyalties have come into question more than once. Plenty of people have a problem with him. Including Marcus Salisbury.”

  “Yes, well, Salisbury can be kept at arm’s length, my dear. I’m happy to take any flak that comes from that quarter. In this instance, our interests and those of John Fairchild are aligned. Fairchild would be delighted, would he not, to finally track down the man who had his parents killed?”

  “I expect he would, Walter, but what would he do then? He’s too involved. It’s personal for him. As well as his own motivations, in Russia he made a promise that he would kill the man. If we invite him in, what’s to stop him walking all over our operation to satisfy his own thirst for vengeance? We’re trying to learn something here, about how Grom operates, who else he’s in touch with. For us it’s about neutralising a threat to British security. Fairchild doesn’t give a stuff about British security. He’s only in it for himself.”

  “Well, he may need some management, but I have to say with his credentials and standing in the region, he is someone who could help you get a result.”

  “Of course we need a result. Salisbury made it very clear he’d close us down if we weren’t getting anywhere. But involving Fairchild could jeopardise that. Walter, I know you feel responsible for the guy.”

  That touched a nerve. Rose recognised that particular tiredness on Walter’s face from previous conversations.

  “I get the blame for him, certainly. His parents were working for me when they vanished, but nothing I did made them more exposed to our friend Sutherland. They did that themselves
. I regret that I couldn’t keep Fairchild on board when he was a teenager. I should have shared more with him earlier, I realise that now. He should have found out they were intelligence officers from me, not elsewhere. And yes, I didn’t tell him about Sutherland’s existence. That was for his own protection, to stop the boy trying to go after him.”

  Interesting that Walter referred to this man they were pursuing as Sutherland, while Rose called him by his street name. Grom was the Russian word for thunder. Back in Russia, Grom was a menacing, powerful force. Rose had felt that force even though she’d never met him. She’d only ever seen him from a distance, once in Moscow and once by Lake Baikal, where his presence even far away sent a chill down her spine. He was much less powerful now, but that emotion stuck, and so did the name.

  “But now he knows,” said Rose. “He discovered that six months ago in Russia. He actually met the guy. At the time you thought Grom might try and recruit him. Play on his bitterness with MI6 and try to bend him to his own cause, whatever kinds of acts of revenge that might entail. Wouldn’t it be a mistake to run the risk of bringing them together again? A master manipulator, that’s how you described Grom. Much like Fairchild, in fact. Bringing him into the mix sounds dangerous to me.”

  “The chances of Sutherland actually showing up in Monaco are tiny. He’s in hiding. He’s going to be in some place that has no links at all with any of his former FSB personae.”

  “You can’t guarantee that. The whole reason for this operation is that we don’t know what his Monaco identity is. He may know that. He may be counting on it. He may be there already. Monaco may be where he’s hiding out. We have to plan for all this, Walter. And we will. But John Fairchild isn’t what we need.”

  She was making a solid rational case, but the rational was only one part of it, she was uncomfortably aware. Her reinstatement in the Service and posting to Moscow, both brought about by Walter, were in large part due to his view that Fairchild had developed feelings for her. While this may be true – though nothing had been said – it wasn’t something Rose welcomed, and besides, her experience of Fairchild had taught her that he was perfectly able to set his feelings aside when it suited him. But Walter had no qualms about using her to try and keep tabs on his errant erstwhile ward.

  Rose hated that her career success was based on such a thing, even if it were only one part of the story. And she hated that despite all of this, when she and Fairchild worked together she also felt a connection with him. Despite their different perspectives they had a lot in common. For all these reasons, she was determined that Fairchild would play no role at all in their operation, and, ideally, in her life. That had been the case for the past six months and she intended to keep it that way.

  Walter gave her a meaningful stare over the top of his glasses.

  “Well, that’s my view, Rose. Fairchild could be very useful.”

  Rose held her hands out. “And you know my view. Fairchild is too big a risk. He’s a wild card.”

  “It sounds a little to me, Rose, that you’re saying you can’t manage him.”

  Walter’s turn to touch a nerve.

  “That isn’t what I’m saying. The man won’t be managed. He’ll do his own thing.”

  “Unless he’s persuaded otherwise. In which case he’d be extremely useful.”

  “But Walter, there must be someone else. Some rich guy with a painting or two who’d do MI6 a favour. Jet down here for a couple of days, breeze in to check the place out, find out who’s who. We can wine and dine them. I bet you know a dozen people like that, friends of the Service.”

  Walter gave a slight shake of the head. “None that spring to mind. Besides, persuading Salisbury to give you more resources might start to get tricky. Fairchild, on the other hand, we can manage his expenses a different way I’m sure. It doesn’t have to go through the books.”

  “It can’t go through the books. Salisbury would blow a gasket.”

  “Quite. But, as I say, we can manage that. It’s really the only option, my dear.”

  They both knew full well Fairchild wasn’t the only option. Having regrets about the past was understandable, but Walter insisting on bringing Fairchild in on a live project where he had a clear personal interest was folly. Did Walter know more than he was saying? Did he have some ulterior motive? It wouldn’t be the first time with him.

  “I think it would put the whole op in jeopardy, Walter. I really do.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Rose. Not at all. Not with you in charge. You should have more confidence in yourself.”

  “And besides, I have no idea where he is and no contact details. Last time we parted, we were both in a bit of a hurry, to put it mildly.” By that she meant that they were under fire from Russian agents, fleeing on a motor boat across a freezing cold Siberian lake. “We didn’t really have time to exchange numbers.”

  On screen, Walter’s expression remained unchanged, his gaze steady.

  “You’ll think of something.”

  Chapter 6

  After the call with Walter finished, Rose wandered out onto the balcony and stood in the sun, feeling the heat warming the soles of her feet. Southwards, the town spread out below, red and green with a distant glimpse of a glistening blue sea. The drying sand-encrusted towels gave off a faint smell of the beach. The only sounds were birdsong and the low hum of traffic.

  This operation needed to succeed. In his usual gentle manner, Walter had pushed her into a corner. Reluctant though she was, she wasn’t in a position to refuse him. She collected herself, went inside and did a little desk research on the internet. Getting up to go, she thought about the hot car, sitting in traffic on tarmac, the glare of the sun through the windscreen. Her eye fell on Yvonne’s crash helmet.

  A few minutes later she was on the moped, the wind in her face, the road passing just beneath her feet, the engine loud in her ears. She could see why Yvonne was so keen on the thing. She headed straight for the seafront at a steady pace, turning into the curves and weaving past slow-moving cars at junctions. The roads were quiet, the moped responsive, the sun warm, her journey short. All good.

  But not quite. Something was wrong. She slowed, travelling on an open stretch of road with no other traffic. That sixth sense, the one that came to be tuned to perfection in Moscow with FSB agents in constant watch, was suddenly awake and shouting in her ear. She kept going, all senses on high alert.

  There! In the mirror, another moped came into view round the corner, the rider in a black leather jacket, a man, she thought. The rational part of her brain was asking her what the problem was. Other people rode mopeds. If he’s coming the same way as you, it doesn’t mean he’s following you. Then why did she suddenly feel so cold, even in this heat? Trust your instincts, that was what she’d learned. She kept a steady pace, but slow enough that he would have to either pass her or deliberately hold back. He came past. She glanced across. Dark jeans with turn-ups, big boots, black helmet, stubble on his face. She tried to record all details in her head. In front, he turned right at traffic lights which then changed as she approached. She came to a halt at the junction. He’d disappeared up the road on the right. Gone.

  Probably nothing, Rose. In this game you could see things that weren’t there. She was approaching the seafront now and the streets were getting narrower and busier. Another set of lights stopped her. She relaxed, waiting, admiring the blue sky and the sea up ahead. A moped turned out of the side road in front of her. Dark jeans, black leather jacket. It was the same guy. He was riding away in front of her. The lights changed. Rose set off, all her focus on the rider ahead. Stay behind and follow, or overtake to check? They were almost at the seafront. She sped up and moved out beside him. She went past, looking across. He caught her eye just for a second, then looked away. It was definitely the same guy.

  What to do now? She’d reached the seafront and had to go left or right. Her destination was left. She went right. It was busy here, people enjoying the Promenade des Anglais, mean
dering, eating ice cream and gazing out to sea or at the chalk-white frontages on the other side of the road. Rose glanced in her mirror. No sign of the other rider. Strange. He must have gone left or right as well, but he wasn’t behind her and he wasn’t visible going the other way.

  A movement in front caught her eye. Someone was in the road. She jammed the brakes on hard. The front wheel skidded, the rear wheel veered out to the side. She lurched to the left but somehow stayed on her feet. In the road, inches in front, stood a woman in a flowery dress and a straw hat, facing the other way. A hand reached from the pavement and pulled her off the road, accompanied by a tirade in some European language. The woman turned and her mouth opened seeing Rose.

  “Désolée!”

  She was dragged into the crowd and disappeared.

  Heart thumping, Rose set off again. It took a few seconds to regain her alertness. The moped was gone. Not just gone, but disappeared. Could it already have passed beyond her mirror sights by the time she looked? She glanced again at the mirror. The promenade stretched back in an elegant curve, visible for quite some way.

  So where did it go? There was no other turning before the seafront. The only other explanation was that he suddenly stopped before reaching the junction. He must have been pretty quick about it and there was no particular reason to pull in there, no shops, no parking bays. And there was something about the way he had looked over at her.

  Trust your instincts. But instincts tended to assume everything was about you. Probably, it was just some guy going about his business. Maybe his phone rang or something. Still, Rose carried on going west, and went on an extensive tour of the outskirts of the town before double-backing and arriving from a different direction at her destination, which was the Hotel Negresco.

  She parked and sauntered into the lobby of Nice’s most famous (and expensive) hotel. She invented pretexts to hang around for a while – reading a restaurant menu, texting on her phone – until the person on the front desk was one of the older members of staff, most likely to be a manager. She caught the woman’s eye and strolled over, an envelope in her hand.