Rain drowns everyone in a sheet of grey and people still continue to run for buses and for shelter. I pull my hoodie tight over my head and run back to the Premier Inn.
Inside my room, I unzip my jacket and my hoodie, peel them off, and chuck them over the chair. I reach into the bag and pull out the JD and mixers. Pulling off the top, I tip a good measure into a glass. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I take a big slug. The liquor heats my throat and slips down with a smooth glide. I close my eyes and give myself a moment to relax.
I’m not given long.
A sharp tap at the door brings me back into rapid focus. With senses alert and primed, I snatch my Sig from my jacket, check the magazine and slide back the action. I hold the gun down in my right hand behind the door and cautiously, I open it. I never, ever use the spy hole. A hawk sighted assassin sees a darkening over the hole and that’s it, I’d be welcoming a bullet straight through my eye. It would send me into the afterlife before I had the chance to fire a single shot.
And how do I know this? It’s what I do when I’m wet-working.
“Come on, mate. Open it.”
Hearing Sam’s deep, husky tones brings a grin to my face, and I open the door.
Maneuvering around me, Sam clocks the Sig.
“Expecting someone else?”
“Always. And so should you.”
Sam shrugs, ignoring my sly dig, and picks up the JD. He pours a healthy two-finger measure and sits down on the chair.
“Seen the intel?”
Sam takes a long gulp of whisky.
I nod, reaching into my jacket for my Passport, but my hand brushes against the bug detector. Although I’d swept earlier, I’ve been out since then. I draw out the lighter and fire it up, and the bar hovers in the green zone.
“Haven’t you done that already?”
I fix him back a steely glance.
“Yes, naturally, but I’ve been out.”
I sweep the lighter across the room, taking in the usual suspects, the unders and overs of things, and then I proceed to sweep the bathroom.
“You’re too bloody paranoid.”
“But I’m alive,” I respond, emerging from the bathroom. “And you know what the old adage says, only the paranoid-”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Sam knocks back more of Tennessee’s finest, and without asking, pours himself another. “Thanks for giving me rule 101 in tradecraft!”
“One day, Sam, you may thank me. Never forget, sweeping saves lives.”
“God, Matt, you’re getting more like Maide every day.”
“Maybe. But he’s alive to tell us what to do. That’s the point.”
“Oh, well, if we’re talking about rules, I shouldn’t even be here.”
Sam’s eyebrow rises with mocking inference.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Give me the phone and I’ll fuck off.”
Sam grins and puts out his hand. I place my ‘home’ phone in his palm, and he shoves it inside his pocket.
“I’ll keep it at my flat until you’re back.”
“Don’t you want to talk about tomorrow? Run through the intel together?”
“No. Done talking.”
“Sure?”
“Yep. It’s gonna work or not. More talking isn’t gonna make any difference.”
Sam’s right. We’ve talked ourselves blue over this. It’s all down to me, and whether fate plays us a good hand tomorrow.
Sam slugs back the last bit of whisky and places the glass down on the desk.
“Matt, get some rest. Make sure those bright blue eyes are sparkling tomorrow for Miss S!”
I nod, stand up, and then hold onto Sam’s puffer jacket.
“Are you scared?”
I’m not sure why I suddenly ask Sam the question. I never have on any other mission. We’re always laughing and fired up. It’s as if my voice has reached inside me and spoken my darkest thoughts. Sam remains immobile. No jesting or smiling.
He turns, and, in his eyes, I can see silent, sad recognition of all he can lose.
Sam doesn’t answer but rubs my arm in a brotherly gesture.
“See you tomorrow, mate.”
He slips around the door and is gone.
Chapter 7
I awake with a musty heaviness. The stress of everything coupled with the JD (I’d forgotten about the mixers) had knocked me out. I’ve slept for a good three hours. I wake minutes before the alarm I’d set on my phone goes off.
I review the hotel schematics and other vital mission intel, such as Dan Carter’s background, until my lids started to close. Sam’s long since left me, and we’ll have no further contact until after the mission.
From Al Nadir’s viewpoint, Team Aphrodite will be the baddies, working for the UK Government, and I will be the goodie, working against the UK Government. As Sam said before, it’s so easy to capture on paper, but a nightmare waiting to happen in reality.
Dan’s file is still live when I pick up the Passport. He’s been in the job for just over a year. He’d been a Royal Navy engineer before. His training scores were high, and his psyche evaluation was solid. No loose wires. No pressure cooker issues. He’s still a newbie with little real field experience. There’s nothing in his file that vindicates Maide’s decision to put him on this mission. With repugnance, I have to accept that Maide sees Dan’s role as mission fodder. His purpose is to take the action, and probably the bullets, and give me time to make my play with Sabena.
I look at my watch. I’m restless to get going. I empty the last of the JD and tip in a full can of ginger ale. I figure a little dilution is called for after what I’ve put into my system over the last few hours.
We’ve kept all the arrangements between the four of us. No strategic support or admin. I’ve booked my own travel and made the reservation directly with the hotel. I need to get there soon. ISR on the ground gave me some of the story but I am a hands-on guy; I have to see for myself what I’m dealing with, not interpret through an analyst.
Zipping up my hoodie and jacket, I brave the consistent torrent and headed to Putney Station. I still have my traveler in the wardrobe in the Park Plaza. I take a surreptitious sniff downward toward my armpits. A change of clothes is definitely required! I walk up the high street, keeping in from the curb, not only to avoid massive puddles, but also to avoid sudden snatching actions from cars and vans. Slide-opening vans are the worst for people snatching. Done in seconds, a good driver can be out of the kidnap zone faster than the time it took for people to process what actually happened.
Even in Putney, with no visible tail or sign of a possible hostile, I’m alert, primed and always watching everything, the shop windows, cars, pedestrians. The world around me has an ebb and flow, and I’ve learnt over the many years of being an agent what to look out for. Things that don’t chime, don’t feel right. I suppose it’s just human intuition and I’m trying to make it sound sophisticated. Whatever it is, it’s kept me alive.
I struggle through the driving rain, now propelled into my face by a strong wind. The weather doesn’t abate for a moment. As its force pelts my skin, I shiver. I’m cold, and all around me is tinged with a darkness of uncertainty. I think back to my question to Sam. I’m not religious; I can’t be doing what I do and believe in a faith. But for the first time in my life, I find myself praying to God to keep us all safe.
Boarding the train to Waterloo, I hold the prayer in my head and my heart.
I sit down on a window seat. I scan the carriage, but there’s no one I need to note. A few suits chatting, an odd-looking kid with a pierced nose, a floppy hat and long black cardigan, a teenage girl glued to her phone, a mother and double buggy, a guy working intently on a laptop, and by the way he’s so focused on his spreadsheets, I’m betting he’s a sales guy.
A pretty blonde woman in her late thirties steps on at Clapham and sits opposite me. I stare out the window, but I know she’s looking at me. I flip my head back in her direction and give her a leery smile.
That’s a calculated move. It either makes the ladies refrain from interrogation or want to know me more, depending upon their proclivities. The woman dives into her bag and pulls out a book. I can see she’s still interested, but at the same time, she’s wary. I ignore her and take in the scenes of Vauxhall as we approach my old stamping ground. Weird pierced kid gets up and steps out. Probably one of Maide’s band of new programmers!
Pretty woman shuffles in her seat and opens her bag again. She takes out her phone and begins to review something, moving her finger vigorously up the screen as she scrolls. Then she scowls. It’s quite unbecoming. She types fast with her thumb and forefinger, obviously annoyed about a posting or an email.
As I watch her, I noticed her movements look a fraction too forced, like she’s almost acting. At first, she seems just irritated by what she’s read. But then, the pointed piercing of her phone screen by her fingers seems like she wants attention. In trade craft, this is counterintuitive psychology at its most overtly risky. A play to attract attention is made in order to force attention away. I’ve used it many times. But it takes a certain skill.
Gently, I take out my Passport, position it as if I’m checking something on the screen and press my thumb a little on the right-hand side. A number of photos are taken of the woman. I need to see her face again.
I cough. She looks up and smiles.
Snap! I take a photo burst of her, face on. I leer again and she smirks, no longer showing wariness but interest, and then she concentrates her focus back to her screen.
I shove my phone into my pocket and turn back to the window. I catch movement behind me in the reflection, and I gaze back across the carriage, checking out the passengers again. A toddler in one of the buggies starts to cry. The mother crouches down to try to placate the kid. I thought it was a boy, but as she brings the crying child out to rest against her, I see it’s a beautiful little girl.
Immediately, I feel my heart pull, and Lotte springs into my mind. I’m holding her close and kissing her forehead. Angie has just washed her, and she has an aroma of peaches and cream. So fresh, so pure. I feel her soft small hand reach out and touch my face. Such a delicate impact, but one that’s everlasting. Absently, I touch my face where Lotte had, and then realize I probably look a little strange. I push my fingers up as if to rub my eye and stifle a yawn.
The announcer on the train confirms Waterloo as the final stop. I leap up and out of the carriage at speed. I walk briskly through the barrier, and then stop, sensing someone following me. I carry on walking out of the station toward Westminster Bridge Road. My hackles are up. Someone’s definitely following me. Walking past parked cars, I scan the windows for a sight of who it is. I notice the blonde hair.
I continue until I reach the fork at Kennington Road, and then I head down Hercules Road to the hotel. The array of glass along the side of the lobby gives me ample view to see the woman behind me is the pretty woman from the train.
It may be a coincidence, but in my line, coincidences are rare.
I step into the entrance to the hotel, and then, as if I forgot something, I turn back sharply and slam directly into the pretty woman. My hands go against her as if to steady myself, but I’m feeling for weapons. Unless they are in her bag, she’s clean.
“Oh, hello. Sorry about that. I just realized I think I’m in the wrong hotel.”
My bright blue eyes sparkle with naughty seduction, and the woman flushes up, suddenly embarrassed.
“Oh, right, yes. No problem.”
“Are you staying here?”
“Erm, yes. I am.”
She hesitates. If she’s a pro, she wouldn’t. She’d have given me a line by now.
I regard her quizzically. “You’re sure?”
“Oh, yes. This is definitely where I need to be.”
“Well, good. I believe I should also be here.”
“Good.”
“Right, well, that’s all sorted, and we’re both where we should be. Excuse me.”
I leave the woman to regain her composure and head for the elevators. As the door closes, I see the woman at the desk, checking in. The receptionist busies himself with the reservation, while the woman looks up and stares with a mysterious half-smile at me.
Her grin makes me shudder, and I’m not sure why.
Inside my room, I grab my traveler. I quickly sweep the bedroom and bathroom. Nothing registers.
I take out my Passport and click on the mission intel. I home in again on Morricone’s face and save the image. I bring up the photo of the pretty blond woman. I request analysis on both photos. Within minutes, the AI analyzer at GCHQ comes back.
I stare at the result and my body ices over.
A ninety-five-point-eight percent probability the woman in front of me on the train to Waterloo was Sabena Sanantoni.
The Slayer is in my hotel.
Chapter 8
I know that colliding with her in the doorway was a mistake.
I’ve swept myself thoroughly, but Al Nadir have biotags, nanodot receivers and all kinds of RFIDs that could send back intel. Not taking any chances, I strip off all my clothes and place them in a pile in the wardrobe. I take my Sig into the bathroom and run the shower. Whilst under the water, I listen for every sound.
Quickly, I dry and change into my navy chinos, a light blue, check shirt and navy, cashmere sweater. I start to call Sam, and then I stop. It’s not mission protocol. I have to find out why she’s here. And whether she’s alone.
I shove my gun inside my jacket and grab my traveler bag in case I need a rapid exit. Then I head down to the lobby area. I need to get the woman’s room number.
“Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?”
The receptionist smiles affably at me, placing his hands gently on the counter to insinuate his eager attentiveness. I return the smile and flash my bright blue eyes. The receptionist catches my stare and I notice his Adam’s apple quavers as he looks at me.
Okay, now I know the lay of the land, I can go in blue-eyed weapons blazing.
“There was a woman in here a little earlier. Green dress, blonde hair, brown eyes, big Gucci handbag. Remember her?”
I place my hand on the counter and brush teasingly the tips of his fingers against mine. I lock him in a penetrating stare that holds an invitation if he answers my question.
“I’d be very grateful if you can help me.”
“Of course, sir. What can I do for you?”
Tips touch again, and my blue-eyed weapon has the receptionist in its sights.
“When we collided earlier, she accidentally dropped her phone. I’d like to return it to her. Do you know where she is?”
“I’m sorry, sir. It is not the policy of the hotel to give out such information.”
The receptionist pulls away abruptly.
Shit! Too quick on the target. I dial back on the need to see the woman and power up a stare that usually results with those on the receiving end landing on their back with a sultry ‘take me’ in their eyes.
“Of course it is. I wouldn’t have expected anything less in this hotel.”
The receptionist steps back as if to walk away.
“Look, I’ll be honest.” I reach out and touch the receptionist’s arm. He looks down at my hand grasping his suit jacket. Then he looks into my eyes and swallows hard.
“I need you to help me.” I stare at him, my baby-blues widening. “I’m out of options.”
The receptionist returns back to face me, giving me his undivided attention, concern in his face.
“Options?”
“She’s ruining my life. She’s taking the man I love away from me.”
Instantly, the receptionist’s eyes show recognition.
“I have to speak to her, and make one last plea before I lose him completely.”
The receptionist now leans forward, his hands back on the counter. I place my hand over his.
“If he leaves, that’s it for me. I just won’t be able to go
on. Helping me, you’ll be saving a life. My life. Can you help me?”
The receptionist casts his eyes downward. I can tell he’s processing a possible decision.
“Please. I can see you understand what I’m going through.”
I grasp hold of the receptionist’s hand across the counter and seek out his warm compassion beneath his professional, efficient exterior. He withdraws his hand from mine and writes swiftly on a post-it then slides it beneath my arched palm.
“Thank you,” I gush, my eyes sparkling with gratitude.
I turn away from the receptionist and sneak a glance at the paper.
Room 501
If it doesn’t work out, call me, 07772 188322
Andre
I look back at Andre and he fixes me with a look of encouragement and comradery. I enter the elevator and hit floor five. No suite. No luxury penthouse. No entourage or army of heavies.
Am I mad? Is the AI analyzer at GCHQ wrong?
I stand outside room 501.
What’s on the other side of that door can change the whole course of the mission. At this moment, I’ve run out of moves. I don’t know if Sabena is inside or if anyone else is there. Or is she relaxing in the Royal Suite just over one thousand miles from here?
I hate vacillating. Indecision is a killer.
I know being a spy involves risks. My goal is to become Al Nadir. How I get to that goal may change, and I have to adapt to the situation.
I stare at the door. I can’t stand around any longer. I need to know what is really going on. If Sabena is behind that door, why is she here and not in Florence as we’re all being led to believe?
I look at the number 501 on the door. It goads me. It seems to say shout, ‘Oi, check me out.’
Whatever, I’m going to face, I want to bring it on.
I’m done with waiting.
Chapter 9
My hand rises and raps on the door with solid meaning. I hear movement behind it and a lock turns with a heavy clicking force.
The door opens slowly.
Operation Snowdrop Page 4