Terminal Black

by Adrian Magson

  Hough’s face didn’t change, but there was a momentary shift there, deep in his eyes. ‘Cicada? The insect?’

  Cramer said mildly, ‘I think you know it’s not. One of Ferris’s interrogators mentioned it in relation to the files he was alleged to have seen. It sounded too specific to Tate – and I agree. Someone’s been prompted.’ He waited for Hough to say something, but the older man looked blank.

  ‘Sorry. Doesn’t mean anything. I’ll ask around, see if it raises any eyebrows.’

  Cramer turned to leave, then paused. ‘You know what we say in the military when you can’t see an obvious enemy?’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘Look behind you.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Hough watched Cramer walk away across the Square, silhouetted against the low sunlight, the limp evident but not slowing him down. It made him realize that by comparison he’d been very lucky in his professional life. One or two close scrapes here and there, some uncomfortable periods where daily life had bordered on the bleak, being forced to live undercover while every hand around was guaranteed to be against him. There was a brief spell in an Egyptian prison cell once, when he’d been scooped up by pure chance during an operation. They’d let him go, choosing to believe his cover story of a visiting professor on a study visit. Worse had been the loss of a couple of colleagues and the end of his marriage, each victims of the job in different ways. But he hadn’t lost a limb or come even close. The advantage of living in the shadows was, if you were sufficiently good at it, you got by with more psychological stress lines than physical ones. And he’d been very good.

  He glanced around, eyeing the tourists, the birds, the passers-by. Nothing out of the ordinary, although he’d always relied on passing as ordinary when his life had depended on it, so what did he know?

  Sir Geoffrey Bull, he was thinking bleakly. The buck began and stopped right there. He was still the nominal head of the JIO, sick or not, and a man whose history of the secret world was even longer than his own. He felt a twinge of sadness at the thought, and wondered what other details he hadn’t been briefed on.

  Like Cicada.

  He checked his phone for any urgent messages but there were none. He dialled a number for a researcher in the Russian section and gave her the names of the two GRU members, then considered the quickest route to Bull’s location in a private hospital near the British Museum. A taxi would be best. It was time to get some answers instead of blindly following orders.

  He arrived at the hospital and checked in. Private it might be and a touch more select in décor compared to public units, but it still wore the aura of a place people came to die. At least it was quieter, Hough reflected; more like an upmarket hotel than the hectic bustle of an NHS institution, which was probably where he’d end up when mind or body decided to give up the fight.

  He found Bull lying back against his pillows, attached to tubes and wires leading to an impossibly complex-looking monitor Hough neither recognized nor cared about. The man looked like shit, he thought sombrely. A book on Roman history lay across his belly and looked heavy in content and size. Bull opened his eyes as the door squeaked and marked his page with a slip of paper. He snapped it shut and dropped it on the bed beside him with a sigh. Hough got the impression his boss wasn’t too pleased to see him. The skin on his face and throat looked loose, devoid of colour, and the area round his eyes had deepened since Hough had last seen him.

  Hough used the action of placing a small box of Medjool dates on the bedside cabinet to mask his shock at Bull’s appearance.

  ‘I recall you once expressed a fondness,’ he explained vaguely. ‘You probably need the sugar, anyway.’

  ‘How kind.’ Bull’s voice had none of its customary authority, as if it had been drained away by being confined in this place, and his eyes looked a little unfocussed. ‘What brings you here, Richard?’

  At least he hadn’t lost his ability to get to the point, Hough thought, and drew up a chair. ‘Well, first of all, how are you? I’m sorry I haven’t been before, but things have been a little hectic.’

  ‘Things are always hectic. You don’t have to make excuses. As for me, I’m trying to read this bloody book in the faint hope that I might finish it before it finishes me. I don’t think my consultant rates my chances, though. Get to the point, old chap.’

  Hough nodded. ‘I have a question. Well, probably more than one.’

  ‘If it’s about your retirement party, you’ll have to excuse me but I don’t feel in the mood for drinks and nibbles.’

  ‘No. Not that.’ Hough had been rehearsing his words all the way across town, but now found it oddly difficult to begin, like explaining to his headmaster why his academic performance during the term hadn’t been better.

  ‘You have too many questions,’ Bull said, appearing not to have heard him, ‘which I do not have time to answer. Have you seen Colmyer’s file? No, of course you haven’t. Silly of me.’ He hitched one shoulder up and said, ‘I’m only going to tell you this once, then I’m going to forget it so listen carefully.’

  Hough nodded. Was this going to be easier than he’d thought?

  ‘What do you know about Colmyer?’

  ‘Only what’s in the press. The son of an investment banker and industrialist, but that’s about it.’

  Bull smiled dryly and closed his eyes. ‘Well, just so you know, I am very familiar with his record. It makes interesting reading. You’re correct, he’s from a wealthy background, a good education and on his way up in the government. He has lots of important connections. Not all of them in this country.’

  Hough found himself holding his breath. Where was this going?

  ‘His father had leftist leanings, although his son claims his own are more centrist. He’s made a substantial fortune based on his inheritance, which came mostly from Colmyer senior’s successful investments many years ago … mainly in Russia and the surrounding territories.’

  ‘Russia?’ Out of all the words, that one seemed to drop into the room and hang there, oddly out of place in this medicated atmosphere.

  ‘His father saw opportunities where others did not. Mining, oil, energy … in other words, industries which friend Putin has since taken on wholeheartedly with his close friends, the oligarchs, and moulded into a vast gift that keeps on giving.’

  ‘And it was never questioned?’

  Bull moved his thin shoulders in what might have been a shrug. ‘He wasn’t the only one. Canadians, Americans, Scandinavians … all blue-sky thinkers with a long-term view. In Colmyer’s case, all he did was inherit, so no fault, no penalty. However, there have been questions over a sudden influx of money attached to a holding company in Ukraine. Colmyer claims he’s not a controlling partner, merely a recipient of his father’s investments. It seemed to satisfy those in the know and allowed him to escape any accusations of conflicts of interest.’

  ‘Lucky for him.’

  ‘Almost. However, he has other sources of income which he does control and which in some quarters are rumoured to be in breach of international sanctions led by the US …’

  ‘So he’s a player.’

  ‘Oh, yes. And we’re not talking piggy-bank cash. This is millions, paid into an account held by his eighteen-year-old son, Mark … who has no investment links whatsoever and as far as I can tell has the financial acumen of a rabbit.’

  ‘So, money from the east and the west. Clever.’

  ‘Clever but dangerous. I’m not sure he sees it.’

  ‘I’m surprised none of this has come out,’ said Hough, ‘in view of his next job.’

  Bull gave a faint splutter of mirth, or maybe cynicism. He coughed slightly, the effort overcoming him. ‘Sorry. Can’t seem to get any vitality back.’ He pawed at the bed cover in a vague way and said, ‘What was I saying?’

  ‘Colmyer. No scandal.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. That.’

  Hough’s ears prickled. ‘Do tell.’

  ‘Someone was shielding Colmyer f
rom investigation for a long time – and his father before him. That shield was removed a few years ago. But back then it didn’t matter because Colmyer was on his way through the system. He had momentum and credibility and nobody was going to stop him. And it was only money.’

  Hough felt sure there was a message behind Bull’s words, as if the older man couldn’t quite bring himself to get to the point, a legacy of his training. All he had to do was tease it out. ‘Legally?’

  ‘It’s only illegal if someone can prove it. The morality, however, is certainly questionable.’

  Hough set that aside. Penetrating the financial history of someone like Colmyer wasn’t something he could even begin to attempt. That was down to experts capable of peeling away the layers of his life like an onion. Instead he asked, ‘This shield. Do you have a name?’

  There was a long silence, and he thought he’d blown it. Bull’s eyes closed again for a moment, and the older man uttered a lengthy sigh. Then he cleared his throat as if he’d come to a decision.

  ‘It won’t do you any good,’ he murmured. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘I’d still like to hear it.’

  ‘Persistent little bugger, aren’t you?’

  ‘I try.’

  ‘Anthony Bellingham.’

  Hough felt his mouth drop open. He couldn’t help it. That name again. The former MI6 Operations Director who’d met a nasty end at the hands of Clare Jardine, the Red Station bounce-back.

  ‘That’s some shield.’ Then he said with an awful feeling of apprehension, ‘Who is Cicada?’

  Bull didn’t answer. But he seemed to sink back on the pillow with a lengthy sigh.

  ‘Cicada,’ Hough repeated. ‘One of Ferris’s captors appears to be GRU and mentioned the name.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have no idea,’ Bull said.

  ‘Really? You mean you never heard the rumours? I gather it was generally regarded as a scam … a disinformation exercise coming out of Moscow.’

  Bull remained silent so Hough continued. ‘I later heard that it was attributed to a long-term mole aimed at gaining high-level access to the security and intelligence services. It was aborted when an attaché from the Russian embassy was caught handing a large amount of money to a mid-level official in the MOD. The attaché was expelled along with half a dozen others and the official sentenced to a hefty jail term. There were questions in the House for a while. Then silence.’

  ‘What’s your point, Richard?’

  ‘Maybe Cicada wasn’t aborted after all. Maybe,’ he added heavily, ‘there was a disinformation exercise to make us all look the wrong way.’

  Still no response, so he said, ‘Is there something in the files Ferris accessed that might throw some light on the subject?’

  ‘You’re like a bloody mongoose going after a snake, d’you know that?’ Bull reached for his book and took out the slip of paper marking his page. ‘There’s an oddly thin line between loyalty and treachery. So thin you can easily step over it without realizing. Before you know it, it’s too late.’ He held the piece of paper out. ‘I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time, Richard, but lacked … well, something meaningful in the way of courage. Now it no longer matters … to me, at least. But I think the time has come to do something. And maybe this Ferris thing is the ideal catalyst.’

  Hough turned over the slip of paper. It held a single word in a shaky scrawl.

  Colmyer.

  Hough looked at his boss, waiting for more and wondering if he was in danger of over-reaching. Did this mean what he thought? But Bull seemed to have run dry.

  ‘Can I get you some water?’ he asked.

  No response.

  He flapped the piece of paper. ‘Is this him? Cicada?’ Hough’s voice was a whisper, layered with expectation and insistence.

  Nothing. Just the sound of the older man’s breathing, light as butterfly wings.

  ‘Which one is Cicada?’ he insisted. ‘Bellingham or Colmyer?’

  But Bull was no longer listening. With morbid timing, the book on Roman history, as if finding its hold on the reader lost, slid off the bed and hit the floor with a loud smack. Simultaneously the screen on the monitor lit up and an electronic alarm began bleeping urgently, followed by voices and hurrying footsteps.

  Hough turned and walked out, his presence no longer required, his head in a spin. He was relieved to be out in the fresh air and away from the aura of impending death. He had to speak to Cramer again – and soon. But first he needed to take a look at some files.

  Gaining access to the archives proved tougher than he’d expected, involving a number of sign-offs. But given that he was already involved in the search for Ferris, there was little the gatekeepers could do to resist his demands. And faced by a former field officer with a reputation who suspected there was a rotten apple in the barrel, most gave their signature and beat a hasty retreat, uneasy at being too close to the whiff of treason.

  He travelled down to the basement archives and opened up the digital files. It didn’t take long, now he knew where to look. Joining up dots was always simpler once you had a start and a finish point.

  With a faint sense of nausea on seeing the clarity of the picture before him, he closed the files and signed out, not relishing the report he was going to have to make. It would end one person’s job for certain, which was only to be expected. But the seismic shock waves felt throughout the intelligence and security communities would be profound.

  Locking himself away, he wrote up his findings in triplicate complete with copies of documentary evidence, sealed three envelopes addressed to the heads of MI5, MI6 and GCHQ and sent them out.

  If that didn’t cause stuff to hit the fan, he’d eat his copy of Civil Service World.

  Then he cleared his desk of all non-essentials, aware that the one maxim not always observed by the civil service was that one should not shoot the messenger of bad news.

  That done, he picked up the phone and rang Ben Cramer.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Harry woke early and went out in search of breakfast. It promised to be a long day and he wanted to get a decent meal inside him before he returned to the industrial zone. He was carrying his cover outfit in a large plastic laundry bag, and found a café which opened early where he wouldn’t attract attention and could eat with one eye on his phone. Nothing from Cramer yet about Mitchell’s arrival time and flight number, but that was likely down to military systems grinding slow.

  After an hour he got tired of waiting and tapped out a message. Sitrep on Mitchell?

  The response was swift. Soon. Waiting conf. Comms problem.

  He went for a walk. He was resisting the temptation to go back to the zone; balanced against the desire to keep an eye on Rik and his guards was the danger of being seen in the area too often and opening up the possibility of someone taking a closer look at him.

  It was close to eight-thirty when his phone beeped.

  Mitchl on BRU893, ETA 11.30 a.m. Minsk. Blonde, 30’s. Red rucksack. She will call U on arr.

  There was a second message, this one with a photo attachment. But it wasn’t of Mitchell; it was a head-and-shoulders shot of a man with short-cut hair and a thin face, and the blank stare of a file photo. Probably taken from his military record, Harry reasoned.

  The text read simply, Garth Perry. Treat as hostile.

  Things were moving, but not all of them good. If he didn’t get a handle on this situation Rik would be finished. It meant he had to prepare a plan of attack – and soon. In the meantime he had to hope that Cramer’s lines of communication were secure. If this Garth Perry was plugged in to the same lines as Cramer – and the likelihood was fairly high – then he wouldn’t be long in arriving in Minsk, eager to complete the job. If he wasn’t here already.

  He rang Clare and told her the location and name of the café.

  ‘I’ll be there in ten.’

  She was as good as her word and slid into the chair across from him just as a fresh coffee arrived. ‘Thanks. So
what’s the situation with Ferris?’ She poured sugar into the mug and stirred it. ‘I don’t normally use this stuff but I reckon I’m going to need the energy.’ She took a mouthful, then said, ‘Did I dream what you told me yesterday? GRU and a bloody bomb? For some crap information off an archive? Are they for real?’

  ‘Rik believes it. As for the device we won’t know if that’s real until we get it looked at.’

  ‘How will you do that?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been working on. There’s also another problem – potentially bigger. I didn’t mention it before but if Rik doesn’t come clean they’ve threatened to launch a cyber hit on the UK.’

  Her mouth dropped open. ‘No way.’

  ‘I don’t know whether they mean it but I believe they have the capability.’

  ‘But why? Christ, what is this information they’re after?’

  ‘I don’t know. But if we wait too long to find out they might just run out of patience.’

  ‘All right. What do you intend to do?’

  ‘Can you do a pick-up at the airport?’

  ‘It’s what I do most. Who and when?’

  He gave her Mitchell’s flight details and description. ‘She’s probably expecting me to meet her, so if there’s a problem call me.’

  Clare smirked. ‘Who is she – a girlfriend over for a romantic getaway?’

  ‘She’s a bomb-disposal tech.’

  The smirk disappeared. ‘Sorry. Bad joke.’ She was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Where do I take her?’

  ‘For now, take her to the hotel and wait for my call.’

  She looked askance at him. ‘You’re going to break him out.’

  ‘I can’t. It’s too risky. All they need to do if they hear me coming is press a button and he’ll be toast. But I’m working on a plan.’

  ‘Would they really do that if this thing he knows is so important to them? They seem to have invested a lot in trying to get hold of it … whatever it is.’

  ‘I can’t count on them not doing it, that’s the problem. If I can force them into a position where moving Rik is the only option, it might give us an opportunity to get at him.’