Terminal Black

by Adrian Magson

  It was the kind of job she was used to, undemanding unless one of her charges turned out to be a sworn enemy of the local mafiya or he decided to get a little too hands-on, which sometimes happened. Then it was down to using tact to dissuade the suggestive comments or the wandering mitts. If that didn’t work she was capable of snapping a finger or a wrist if it got too persistent, although she’d resisted that so far. Good-quality security work wasn’t that easy to get here in Belarus, and she didn’t want to find herself barred because of what the industry might regard as an over-enthusiastic display of #MeToo solidarity.

  She couldn’t see Debsen so she made her way to the security office overlooking the baggage carousels for a better view. She flashed her security pass, which Katya had arranged some time ago. It wasn’t her first time in here to check on a client; having established a degree of bona fides when escorting two important state visitors from China a couple of months ago, she was accepted without question. But she didn’t want to push her or Katya’s luck. Even a member of the Russian FSO on assignment was subject to certain restrictions.

  The crowd below was growing from a straggle into a mass. She waited, wondering if Debsen had gone to the bathroom. Then she spotted him, walking casually towards a carousel with flashing lights. The photo sent by his assistant was current and accurate. Debsen was fifty-three, according to the job file, coiffed, brushed and smartly dressed, married with three mini-Debsens and in the upper income bracket among his countrymen. A client to take care of and deliver back unsullied and with a smile on his face, business successfully completed. Just as long as he didn’t turn out to be a serial groper. Then Daddy Debsen might be going home with his arm in a sling.

  As he bent to pull a leather holdall from the belt, she turned and headed towards the arrivals point where she would impress him, not by holding up a grungy piece of cardboard with his name scrawled on it, but by recognition. First there would be a brief check of his itinerary to make sure he hadn’t made any last-minute changes, before making the 40-km drive into the Belarus capital.

  As she stepped aside to avoid a group of students being led at break-neck speed by a woman with a flag and a serious display of attitude, she felt a jolt go through her and stopped dead.

  A face had jumped out of the mêlée, unexpected and out of place. Not Debsen, but someone else. Someone she knew well. She stood still, stomach cold, scanning the crowd, her VIP client momentarily forgotten.

  Rik Ferris? It couldn’t be. A trick of the light, perhaps, or someone with a similar look. Ferris wasn’t the only deluded type who thought eye-wateringly bad Nirvana t-shirts and hair like a wire brush were cool. He might manage to blend in among a bunch of political activists or extreme gaming nerds, but down there among the or-dinary and business classes, not a chance.

  There. It was him, one of a number of people she was in no hurry to see again. She automatically scanned the faces around him. Ferris worked with a man named Harry Tate. Both former MI5 officers, they’d been thrown into the same snake-pit punishment posting as herself, guilty of mistakes and judged to be best hustled out of the way where the media couldn’t find them. Had their masters’ plans gone right, she reflected soberly, that’s how they – and she – would have stayed.

  Because dead makes you the most unfindable of all.

  Tate had been blamed for the death of two so-called innocents during a drugs bust, while Ferris had been caught snooping in classified MI6 archives. Her own mistake had been the opposite side of Katya’s honey-trap failure. You don’t fall for your target, ever. It’s one of the great unwritten rules of the entrapment game.

  There was no sign of Tate. Maybe they’d gone their separate ways and Ferris was operating solo. But doing what – and why here?

  She felt unsettled at having the memories stirred up after all this time. Ferris belonged to the past, along with Tate and all the others. Yet here he was, in the flesh. She reminded herself that she had no reason to fear him or to avoid him; their knowledge of each other had been brief and remarkable only because of the dangers they’d shared. But he was no threat. She studied his face, reading signs the way she’d been trained. He looked stressed, she thought, unlike the bumbling, no-worries IT-nerd he normally portrayed. Moving with the flow, he had a rigidity to his walk as if he was treading through a minefield, rather than the loose-limbed gait she remembered. A bit older since she’d last seen him and leaner, perhaps. Maybe he simply wasn’t ageing well.

  She followed his progress through the glass, keeping well back in case he looked up and recognized her. Not that he’d find it easy. Her brown hair was shorter than it used to be, she was thinner in the face and body, partly because of the new diet forced on her by a gunshot injury more than – what, five years ago now. The regular gym sessions and judo classes had helped keep her weight below its level before the shooting by a Bosnian gunman, but she wasn’t complaining.

  And, she reflected, Katya liked her new look so that was good enough for her.

  Apart from that, getting shot had reminded her that being fit and ready to meet whatever challenges might crop up was a vital and necessary habit.

  She checked her watch. Debsen still had a way to go, unless he ran into a passport problem or was carrying a couple of kilos of sniffing dust in his bag, in which case the dogs would have him.

  She stayed back from the windows and made her way through to a spot overlooking the escalators. All passengers would have to funnel through this point leading to the exit, giving her a chance to see if he was accompanied or being met. A couple of security guards armed with KBP 9A-91 assault rifles gave her a familiar nod. They had seen her on numerous occasions collecting or delivering clients, and she nodded back. They wouldn’t be any trouble. The only direction that might come from was whoever Ferris was here to see, especially if they were past or current members of the British Intelligence community. One look from someone who knew her face and her goose would be cooked.

  She scanned the crowd of greeters, using a pillar as cover. Drivers, family members, work colleagues and unnameable others, but no face springing out at her from years ago. Nobody with that look of a Security Service or embassy-attached watcher who would see her and ping the news to the bulletin board geeks in Thames House, London.

  The tension began to drain away as the passengers flooded out, heading at speed for the main exit. Debsen appeared, looking unruffled and smooth. He’d made the transition faster than expected. Probably the aura of money and importance that surrounded men like him. Ferris must still be making his way through, his t-shirt alone enough to have him hauled aside for a chat and, if the gods were feeling playful, a full body-search.

  But Ferris would have to keep for later. She wondered if she should mention it to Katya. No doubt her partner would be concerned at his re-appearance and what it might mean, but she felt an instinct to downplay the news. One thing was certain: there was no way she would rest easy until she found out where he was going and what he was doing here.

  As she greeted Debsen and gestured towards the exit, where a smart BMW 5 series was parked just outside in the restricted zone, she caught a glimpse of Ferris coming through the arrivals exit. He was looking the other way and didn’t see her. Then her gaze skipped across two passengers walking not far behind him. A man and a woman, casually dressed in jeans and warm-weather jackets and carrying sports bags. Fit-looking, like athletes; not business types or family members waiting to be greeted with flowers by a loving Aunt Polina or Uncle Konstantin and hustled away to a crowded apartment in the city centre.

  She did a double-take to be sure. There was something in their demeanour that rang bells. They were pretending not to watch Ferris but keeping their eyes firmly fixed on him. Clare had seen that body language too many times before to be mistaken.

  And Ferris didn’t seem to have a clue they were there.

  FOUR

  ‘I sense that you’re not happy, Iain. Care to tell me why?’

  The speaker was one of two men se
ated in a small and exclusive meeting room off Whitehall, which had been swept electronically just minutes before to ensure absolute confidentiality.

  Sir Geoffrey Bull, current head of the Joint Intelligence Organisation or JIO, was accustomed to secrecy, as he had been all his working life. When you spend your days dealing with matters of the utmost sensitivity to the nation, it becomes ingrained in your very soul.

  ‘Bloody right I’m not happy, Bull,’ came the reply. ‘I read my file as you suggested and I’m definitely not happy.’

  ‘Actually,’ Bull replied coolly, ‘it was your request and my agreement, Colmyer. I did say you might not like it.’ He reached out for his tea, his hand showing a slight tremor. It was due to his body giving out on him with increasing rapidity rather than the status of the man seated across from him. Sir Iain Colmyer, Government Chief Whip whose official title was Parliamentary Secretary to the Treasury, was not a man to cross. But Bull had seen and met far worse, and while his physical self was diminishing for reasons he preferred not to divulge to anyone save his physician, his mental defences were not.

  Colmyer flushed at the correction but said nothing. He had the smooth appearance of a US senator rather than a British cabinet member, with an expensive tan, neat hair and the glaring confidence that dared anyone to challenge him. It was in stark contrast to Bull, whose skin looked paper-thin and grey and his silvery hair lay lank around his head as if he’d just emerged from a steam room. Rumour had it that he wasn’t long for this world, but Bull had so far done nothing to confirm or deny it. Colmyer didn’t care one way or another: he knew that he was a frontrunner to occupy Bull’s chair and was prepared to give up his post as a politician to fill it.

  ‘You told me that nobody would ever see my file,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Yet now I see someone has seen it. Ferris or whatever his fucking name is. A low-level mouse of an IT worker in MI5, no less. I thought those archives were beyond restricted.’

  Bull winced, although whether at the obscenity or the inaccurate level of secrecy was unclear. ‘Ferris is no longer in play. He was canned years ago and last heard of doing private security work. Besides,’ he looked up and said with near silky slyness, ‘what’s your worry? Is there something you haven’t told me?’

  Colmyer leaned forward, jogging the table. ‘There’s nothing else – you know that! My business interests in Moscow are all in the past, over and done.’

  ‘Indeed, you’ve been very frank about your connections there. And I’ve spent a lot of time speaking up for you on that subject, as did Sir Anthony Bellingham for your father before me.’ He gave the faintest of smiles, adding, ‘But friends in high places can only do so much.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘It means, Colmyer, that you’re running out of reasons to be cheerful. You benefitted from your father’s business acumen in Russia and elsewhere, but you’ve also – what’s the term … oh, yes, you’ve also played off two suitors, one against the other.’

  Colmyer stared at him, his tan fading slightly. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s true, you’ve explained fully your past financial interests over in the east, and apart from one or two small matters remaining, it’s done and dusted. But did you honestly think you could use the Americans for the same purposes … and nobody would find out?’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Colmyer snapped. ‘Those were strictly social meetings.’

  Bull pulled a buff-coloured folder towards him and flipped it open. It seemed to require a great effort and he took a deep breath. ‘Yes, they were,’ he agreed. ‘Very social. But will your friends in Moscow think so?’ He flicked a photo out of the folder. It skidded across the cloth and made a tink sound as it hit the side of Colmyer’s saucer. ‘That’s you at a meeting three years ago with Jameson Skinner, currently National Security Advisor to the White House. Back then he was Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. In the background is his then Operations Director, Barney Pressley, and alongside him the head of the NSA, the National Security Agency.’

  Colmyer’s face had turned red and he began to get up. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Please sit down,’ Bull murmured. ‘This is for your own good, not mine. And where we got it makes no difference. It came to light, that’s all you need to know.’ He passed across another photo. This one was a little grainy but clearly showed five men seated at a restaurant table. The atmosphere seemed to be one of good humour with full glasses and empty bottles.

  Colmyer waved an angry hand, trying to brush it off. ‘That was taken in Moscow years ago … a private function. So what?’

  ‘At least three of the faces around that particular table have since been suborned by the CIA, using information that could only have come from someone close to them. Further, following your meetings in Washington with Skinner and Pressley, your business interests in the States were subsequently given an unexplained easy passage.’ Bull closed the folder. ‘These photos are on your file, the first one a recent addition. You evidently didn’t see it … and neither would Ferris who, it appears, has suddenly disappeared for no apparent reason.’

  ‘So there’s no problem.’

  ‘There shouldn’t be … until you learn that the “low-level mouse”, as you called him, has recently been in communication with a hacker known to have Russian connections. See where I’m going with this?’

  ‘I’m not stupid!’ Colmyer retorted angrily. ‘How did he get to see the file in the first place?’

  ‘An error of judgement? Trusting someone who couldn’t resist poking his nose where he shouldn’t? The thing is, it doesn’t matter now – it’s done. I don’t care what you did in the name of financial expediency, but I’m here to warn you that your dinner contacts in Moscow probably won’t feel the same way if they hear you’ve been cosying up to the Americans. They have nasty, suspicious minds when it comes to “friends” talking to the CIA. Malicious, even.’

  Colmyer’s eyes went wide for a moment, then he recovered. ‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at.’

  ‘This is my last attempt at watching your back. You’ve done very well in the past, having Bellingham and me behind you, heading off enquiries and attacks. But no more. If you want this job after me, you had better make sure that nobody – nobody – can use any of this against you. There’s too much riding on it.’

  Colmyer said nothing for a long time, and Bull allowed him to stew. He had long ago lost all patience with the man, whom he had come to see as an overambitious, devious and ruthlessly astute power-player who used people for his own ends. But his private attempts at steering the selection panel away from this man’s candidature as head of the JIO had been foiled. So the best he could do was hope that Colmyer would clean up his own mess.

  ‘I’ll deal with it.’ Colmyer stood this time, his face rigid. ‘I take it I can use some resources?’

  ‘To find Ferris? Yes, you can. But limited. We don’t want to broadcast it. Someone will be in touch later today.’

  ‘You can trust me.’

  ‘I hope so, Iain.’ That quiet voice again, faint but with an edge of steel. ‘If Ferris decides to chat a little too loosely to his contact, who knows what he might reveal?’

  Fifteen minutes later, Colmyer barged into his office and barked at his secretary to hold all calls. He closed the door and took an encrypted mobile phone from his desk drawer. He hesitated momentarily over dialling the number from memory. He’d used it sparingly over the years, but there had never been an imperative like this one. He was so close to being able to exert some control over events that had long gone too much the other way. Now, on the brink of the next step in his career, he needed to dictate terms rather than being subjected to them. Anything else was unthinkable. He took a deep breath and dialled the number.

  The voice that answered was smoothly cosmopolitan with the faintest of accents. ‘Sir Iain,’ it said. ‘How pleasing to hear from you.’

  ‘Hello, Michael,’ he said, and winced. He’d so nearly sai
d Mikhail, the man’s original name, but stopped himself. Encryption notwithstanding, slips like that could be fatal. ‘I need your assistance.’

  ‘Of course. Is it urgent?’

  ‘Yes. A personal matter.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Colmyer kept it brief. He knew his words would be relayed all the way back from Michael’s base outside London to an office in the heart of Moscow. The thought gave him both a tremor of apprehension and a tight rush of excitement.

  When he was done Michael’s only response was, ‘Thank you. You did well to call me.’

  The call was disconnected before Colmyer could reply.

  FIVE

  Harry Tate wanted coffee and chocolate cake, and not necessarily in that order. He’d settle on the sugar rush and the caffeine hit as they came and be happy at the start of another new day.

  Idle thoughts for a happily idle mind. He was sitting in a first-floor restaurant in west London, where Chelsea bleeds into Fulham. It had a hard-wood floor, walls painted blue-grey and glass tables with comfortable chairs and bench seats with buttoned backs. The furniture and lighting were designed to make a leisurely meal easily bearable, with dome lights over each setting and sufficient space between the tables to provide privacy.

  It was Harry’s current favourite for taking coffee whenever he had the opportunity. Right now it was nearly ten a.m. and the place was empty, which suited him fine. The staff didn’t mind early customers, especially the easy-to-serve ones who knew what they wanted and possessed good manners.

  Their normal business clientele leaned towards loud start-up wannabes with venture capital money and a firm belief that the bubble couldn’t burst without warning because they were the new gods of the here and now and could foretell the future. Some were known to throw their weight around with anyone regarded as a menial, and probably spent more on tight pants and designer shirts than most of the restaurant staff could imagine. They also liked to use their smart phones as loud hailers calling up contacts in San Francisco, Munich or Rome to show how connected they were.