‘I hope you’re right for your sake. What about a fail-safe?’
‘Fail-safe?’
‘What if he can’t locate him?’
Hough hesitated. The term fail-safe was laughable, unless you were talking about taking sharp instruments away from three-year-olds. Hough hadn’t been briefed on precisely what Ferris was supposed to have seen, save that it was archived material. In spite of having been thoroughly debriefed following the discovery, someone must have raised the suspicion that he might now sell whatever he’d seen to an ‘unfriendly’ buyer. With the current state of the world, that made Ferris the holder of the Willy Wonka Golden Ticket of tradeable secrets. But that was all Hough knew. Judging by the excited reaction of this over-fed fool, who seemed to know more about it than he did, the information was potentially damaging enough to haul Ferris back in. If they could find him.
‘The only fall-back situation,’ he corrected the other man, ‘would be used only in extremis.’ He was sure Colmyer knew what that was; every minister at cabinet level was briefed on the government’s various resources, soft and hard. But he didn’t want to encourage Colmyer to start salivating at the idea and demanding the attack hounds be sent after Ferris.
‘Go on.’ Colmyer’s eyebrows lifted expectantly.
‘If Tate comes up dry, we’ll have to consider spreading the load. The problem there is that the wider you spread the information, keeping it under wraps becomes tenuous.’
‘You mean the press?’
‘Yes. They’d get very excited if they heard we’d got a team out looking for a specific individual. It makes them visualize big headlines, huge sales and world-wide scoops.’
‘So tell them it’s terrorist-related. We do it all the time and the public never questions it.’
And nobody in authority pays much attention, Hough wanted to say, until some bugger with a body-belt or a holdall loaded with explosives and a pile of nuts and bolts from B&Q gets shot trying to kill innocent kids at a pop concert. Then the shit hits the fan and there are more Independent Police Complaint Commission enquiries than ticks on a dog.
‘This is different. Jump too early on a suspected terrorist and we get the anti-racist bodies on our necks. That sells newspapers. But go after an unnamed former member of the security or intelligence services and that’s like lighting the blue touch-paper for every spy-obsessed nut-job in the country.’
‘Well, clamp down on the editors. Hit them with a D-notice. That should make them pull their heads in.’
Hough counted to five. If Colmyer really believed that, he was seriously deluded. He was tempted to correct the misuse of the term D-Notice but decided against it. The original D or Defence Notice, used as a means to prevent the media reporting on sensitive issues, was now called a Defence and Security Media Advisory Notice (DSMA), and split into five categories. No doubt some wonk must have thought using more letters gave the issue greater gravitas. He wasn’t sure which category applied to a former spook who’d reportedly gone off the rails with some rib-tickling information which nobody was talking about, but issuing any one of them would have media bosses wetting themselves with anticipation. And something told Hough that there must be a story in there somewhere, if this man was showing such an interest. He might, of course, merely be playing what he considered a responsible hands-on position before taking up the lead chair in the JIO, but somehow he doubted it. Colmyer wasn’t that kind of politician.
He told Colmyer what the reaction to DSMAs would be and how counter-productive it would turn out, but he could tell by his sour expression that he wasn’t convinced, merely momentarily assuaged.
‘We have to allow Tate time to do his job,’ he concluded. ‘I’ll keep you advised of progress.’ He got to his feet and scooped up the buff folder that was his briefing document. ‘Of course,’ he suggested, turning at the door, ‘we could get GCHQ onto it. They might be able to track Ferris by following his past cyber contacts and activities.’
‘No.’ Like the three-second rule of falling food, Colmyer barely allowed the suggestion to hit the floor. ‘I don’t want them involved.’
Hough nodded and closed the door behind him.
He returned to his office with a serious sense of unease. In the world of intelligence operations, it was as important to look for what you weren’t being told as much as what you were. Everybody had something to trade and nobody laid out all their knowledge like fish on a slab; invariably something was held back for later, a teaser saved for appeasement or encouragement.
There was something he wasn’t being told about this business. He’d spent years in various parts of the world as a spy hunter digging under stones for intelligence titbits and listening to expert liars pretend they knew nothing while displaying just a glimmer of anxiety or desperation. It had given him an ear for a bad echo and he was hearing one now. Still, it wasn’t his job to second-guess the vested interests or agendas of politicians; that was a quick way to get his fingers burned. Right now it was time to get out of here before this idiot called for a rapid reaction force and air cover to begin spraying the planet with gunfire.
NINE
‘You should eat. Being hungry will not help you.’
At the sound of the woman’s voice Rik Ferris lifted his head and felt the skin of his face stretch where the blood had dried. He had no idea how much he’d bled, but he could feel the stiffness of a crust around the neck of his t-shirt. How long had it been since she’d hit him? It felt like he’d been out for a few hours, but he put that down to his sense of disorientation. He sat up, remembering that he’d had enough energy after her last visit to leave the chair and kip down on the mattress, dragging the blanket around him against the cold. After that, darkness and lights out, and the enveloping silence of a prison.
He sniffed and detected a faint burnt smell in the air. He looked around but could see nothing to give him a sense of time. Hours or days, he had no clue. The windows looked slightly darker, the gloom thicker, but that might be his vision playing tricks.
The woman, whose name he still didn’t know, was standing by the chair. She beckoned him over. He levered himself upright, his legs rigid with cold, and walked to the chair and sat down. She was close enough for him to have tried something, but he felt too weak. He didn’t need the added humiliation of her beating him to a pulp with one hand behind her back.
‘A bit of warmth would help,’ he said, a shiver beginning to build up in his shoulders. ‘You don’t want me to die of hypothermia, do you? I’m sure your bosses wouldn’t like that.’
The woman sneered. ‘You think this is cold? Is nothing. Where I come from, is so cold people freeze to death in their homes.’
‘What, no double-glazing in the Urals? I thought things in the Rodina were much better since Uncle Vladimir took over.’
She looked as if she was about to respond but didn’t. Instead she gestured to a spot behind her, where an electric heater now stood, buzzing quietly. It explained the burnt smell. ‘See how we are looking after you? We don’t want you to get cold. But don’t try using it for anything else.’
Rik shrugged. ‘What am I going to do – build a hover-board and fly out of here?’
She stepped closer and pushed a plastic plate under his nose, the kind his mother used on picnics when he was a kid; soft enough to resist childish clumsiness but just rigid enough to keep its shape in the hurly-burly of holiday packing. Not much good as a weapon, though.
He felt surprised at the thought, wondering at what point he’d begun to think strategically about getting out of here. Not that he was going to be able to do much. But still.
He looked down at the plate. It held a few thick slices of sausage, grey and unappetising, and a pile of bean mix and three boiled potatoes. The aroma of garlic from the sausage made him want to throw up. He shook his head.
‘No thanks.’
‘Is no matter. More will be arriving soon.’ She dropped the plate on the floor, the slap on the concrete echoing around the r
oom. The food, a semi-congealed mess, didn’t even bounce. She bent and put a hand to his face, the one with the ring knuckle-duster, fingertips ghosting along the open skin of his cheek. ‘Perhaps you would like one like this on the other side? You think the girls like a man with a scar? Find it sexy?’
‘Whatever turns you on, sister.’
She cuffed him with her other hand, the blow coming out of nowhere. She put hardly any effort into it but it was vicious enough to make his head ring.
‘Great forehand,’ he muttered, and instinctively pulled his head away as she lifted her hand again. But it was a feint. She stopped and gave him a cool smile. ‘I did, once. I wanted to play in your Wimbledon and …’ she hesitated, snapping her fingers as she searched for the name, ‘… Arthur Ashe Stadium in New York. But they would not let me do it.’
‘They? Your family?’ Get them talking, find out as much as you could, he thought. Information was key.
‘My work. I was in the military.’ She said it with a degree of pride, and he wondered what part of the military and who for. Before he could ask she continued, ‘In any case I did not make the grade.’ She waved a hand to dismiss the past. ‘That was long ago. But now I suggest you tell us what you know. It will make things easier for you.’
‘Really? I don’t know who you think I am or what I can tell you. You’re making a mistake.’
She put a fingernail against his septum and forced his nose upwards. The pain was excruciating and made his eyes water.
‘Don’t insult our intelligence,’ she hissed. ‘We know you work for MI5, the British Security Services.’ She took her finger away, allowing his head to drop.
Rik hesitated. Give a little, hold back a lot. ‘I used to. They fired me.’
She nodded and her eyelids dropped momentarily, a sign of satisfaction at the response. ‘We know that, too. We also know why.’
He shrugged. ‘Then you know they won’t want me back. So if it’s a ransom demand you’re planning, you might as well shoot me now and save us both a lot of time. They won’t give a bugger.’
She frowned. ‘Ransom? We don’t want a ransom. What was that, that last word?’
‘Bugger. It’s the same as damn. They won’t give one.’ Before he could stop himself he added, ‘They already tried knocking me off once after my debrief, so if you’re expecting any help from that quarter, forget it. I’m no longer relevant. In their eyes I’m damaged goods.’ He sounded bitter, even to himself. ‘They must have taken lessons from Mr Putin on how to deal with failures. Is that the next step, a dose of something from the poison cabinet?’
Her head cocked to one side, bird-like. There was no reaction to the name of the Russian president. ‘Doesn’t that make you angry? Your own side turning against you?’
‘A bit. Believe me, if I had anything they hadn’t already screwed out of me and sanitized the hell out of, I’d tell you about it. But I don’t.’
She nodded. ‘So what will you do when … you leave here? Will you go back?’
‘Not me. They’d likely arrest me on arrival just for the fun of it.’
‘Why should they do that? It’s been a long time since your … debrief.’
‘Because someone with my record who drops off the planet with no explanation causes a mild panic. They’ll already be wondering where I am and what I’m up to. God knows why, though.’
‘Even though you know nothing?’
‘It’s standard procedure. They’re a bunch of control freaks who get their tits in a twist when someone does the unexpected.’
The woman scowled, heavier this time. ‘What does that mean? Are you being discourteous to women?’
Rik stared at her. Christ, was she serious? He’d got himself a feminist interrogator. ‘Calm down, lady. It’s just an expression. Anyway, men have tits, too. And most of the pen-pushers at the top of Five are the biggest tits going.’
She appeared to accept that. ‘I see. Of course. English idiom. So you say if you had anything to tell us, you would do so?’
He nodded. ‘Why not? I’ve got nothing to hide, not after the way I’ve been treated. And since we’re putting cards on the table and all that, what are you, KGB – sorry, FSB?’
She shook her head, the halo of hair moving like a live thing. ‘You British are so obsessed by FSB. Why?’
Rik smiled. Information at last. A fragment, but useful. So, if not FSB – who? Before he could reply the metal door rattled and a figure entered. Rik expected to see the tall bruiser, but it was another man, shorter and more thickset. He was carrying a tray covered in a cloth and moved hesitantly, as if unsteady on his feet. Rik wondered what was on the tray and felt his bowels shrink at the thought. Probably a selection of dentistry tools. Had to be. First the slap, then the food, now for the rough stuff.
‘More food,’ the woman said, as if reading his mind. ‘Although I doubt you will want it. We don’t have a varied menu.’ She gestured for the man to come forward and place the tray on the floor, which he did.
‘Thanks,’ Rik said to the man. ‘I don’t suppose you have a little Merlot to go with that, do you?’
The newcomer glanced uncertainly at Rik, then at the woman, before picking up the plate holding the uneaten food and backing away. He had a large tattoo of a bird across the side of his throat. A phoenix … or was it a bad drawing of an eagle? It was hard to tell.
‘Leave us,’ the woman said, without turning her head. The man turned and walked out without looking back.
‘Have you spoken to him before?’ The woman bent forward, placing her face directly in front of his, her breath warm and coffee-stale in his face. This close up, he could see she had bad skin and eyes like holes in the snow. If there was any warmth in their depths it was a long, long way down.
‘How could I?’ he replied. ‘I’ve never seen him before.’
She nodded, seemingly satisfied. ‘Good. Do not speak to him again. Me or my colleague only, but nobody else. Understand?’ The last word came out with a touch of ice.
‘Whatever you say, Helga.’
‘That is not my name. Why do you call me that?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s a just a name. I know your friend’s name is Kraush, but you haven’t told me yours.’ He decided not to tell her where the name came from. She probably wouldn’t react well to being compared to a fun German figure in a British wartime comedy series.
‘I am called Irina.’ The admission came suddenly, and he wondered if this was part of a softening-up process. Get friendly with the prisoner and he’ll blab like a parrot on steroids.
‘You should eat,’ she said, and looked down at the notepad on the floor at his feet. It was still blank. ‘You have not written anything.’
‘I don’t have anything to write,’ he replied. ‘You pumped me full of some shitty drug, remember? It’s scrambled my brains, along with the cold in this shithole. Drugs impair memory, in case you didn’t know.’ Then, because he didn’t want more beatings or taser treatment, he added, ‘You’ll have to be patient. How about Nebulus – has she eaten?’
Irina’s face moved, but it wasn’t a smile. The expression, whatever it meant, didn’t look good. ‘She is no longer of importance.’
‘Why? Your friend said you had some kind of agreement with her.’
‘It is true. We did. She brought you here. That was her job … in a way.’
‘What does that mean?’
This time the smile almost reached up her face to her eyes. ‘Is no matter. Now we have you, and this is your job.’
She turned and walked to the door. It made him think of getting on the outside away from this shitty place. Even for half an hour would be good. There was only one way to do that. ‘I need exercise,’ he shouted, just before the door closed. ‘I need to walk, or run. And some music. I need my iPod.’
The metal door closed firmly behind her, cutting off any reply. He didn’t know if she’d heard or even cared.
Christ. Sense of humour failure. But it had left him with
a deep sense of unease. The stuff about Nebulus sounded bad. What the hell had happened there? Worse was the fact that they knew he’d worked for Five. How? He racked his brain, trying to recall if he’d ever mentioned it to Nebulus, the only common factor between them. It was a possibility; they’d messaged back and forth for a while after meeting in an online forum for hackers. He’d been trying to impress her and she’d asked what he’d been doing, where he worked. She’d even expressed admiration for some of the things he’d talked about. How idiotic was that? For all he knew she could have really been a hairy male welder from Vladivostok … or an FSB agent. Harry Tate would have blown a gasket at the thought.
He bent and picked up the tray, trying not to think about him. That was a no-go area, if only because Harry wouldn’t have a clue about where he was, even had he been interested. He and Harry hadn’t so much fallen out as drifted apart, each busy following their own line of work after years of working together on and off. He wondered what the older fella was doing now. Probably close protection work for some big mover and shaker or running a security team in one of the world’s minor hot spots. He doubted it would be a war zone, though; Harry had done enough of that for three lifetimes, and now he’d hooked up with Jean he wasn’t going to be in a hurry to have that fall apart due to long absences.
He pulled the cloth to one side and saw the tray held more sausage, bean salad, and a hunk of bread this time instead of potatoes. The food hadn’t congealed yet so he picked up the single plastic spoon provided and began to eat. Another lesson from long ago: eat and sleep whenever the opportunity presents itself because hunger and exhaustion make you vulnerable. If they’d drugged the food with a truth drug to make him blab, they’d be wasting their time. All they’d get was meaningless rubbish.
While he ate he found himself thinking about Jean the flower-shop lady. She was nice. He hoped she and Harry were still together. The old fella was very different around her; somehow lighter and more laid-back for one, although he’d never admit it.
Terminal Black Page 6
