Konstantin Khavin moved with the purposefulness of someone who had every right to be there.
He approached one of the doors and placed a hand on the doorknob.
He examined the lock set into the plate just above it: a simple five-pin residential lock. Beyond the exclusive and elaborate electronic locks guarding the main building, the actual locks on the individual doors were laughably inadequate. But that was what security did for you; it gave you a false sense of safety.
He took a slim leather wallet from a pocket and opened it to reveal an array of lock picking tools, including a locksmith’s trigger activated picking device.
He considered utilising the latter, then decided on a simpler approach.
He selected a filed key blank that matched the lock on the door and slid it home. Though the key did not turn, he maintained steady torque on the head as he deftly pounded on the latch plate. Once, twice, three times. To the residents of the adjacent flats, it would sound like someone knocking, but the vibration of his fists against the door jostled the pins inside the mechanism, causing them to move up and down. On the third blow, the bump key turned and the lock popped open.
Konstantin removed the blank from the lock, and turned the knob, opening the way into Brigadier Tony Denison’s Knightsbridge residence.
He had accomplished a lot in the twenty minutes since he’d hung up on Lethe.
The call itself had taken nearly as long, or so it had seemed to Konstantin; Jude Lethe’s hyperactive, ironic, terminally hip babble could never be accused of bluntness. The man couldn’t find a point if he tried. But the salient fact was: Frost’s former commanding officer had become a target for persons currently unknown. Nothing else Lethe had to say mattered.
Like Frost, Khavin was one of Sir Charles Wyndham’s Ogmios soldiers, but that was where the similarities ended. Khavin was a spook from an era that existed for the others merely as a paragraph in the history books. A classic cold warrior, he had defected to the West in ’88. His reasons for doing so were deeply personal and in a world defined by the opposing polar forces of avarice and ideology, his abrupt change in allegiance had been viewed with great distrust by the members of the intelligence community in his new homeland. Because he had not been a high ranking member of a KGB directorate, but rather a field operator—someone used to doing the heavy lifting and the dirty work—his defection was not a coup. He would have served the cause better by remaining in the East, acting as a double-agent to be pushed around on their chessboard. Only Sir Charles had recognised his value, and at great personal cost, had given Konstantin Khavin his new life in the West, and more importantly, a purpose to go with it.
Despite his bluntness and sardonic, typically Russian, demeanour, Konstantin was a fiercely loyal and deeply honourable man. Sir Charles had earned his loyalty in a way that few would ever comprehend. The big Russian respected Frost for wanting to help Denison. It spoke volumes about the man in a language he could understand.
Frost was tagged for protection detail, but the question of why Denison had become a target was Konstantin’s job. And the best place to start looking for answers was with the man himself.
Konstantin stood in the darkened interior of Denison’s flat, giving himself a moment for his eyes to adjust. He’d seen part of the front room, tasteful if masculine décor, lots of black and chrome, but very little to offer any unique personal insights beyond the fact he obviously lived alone. He heard the distinct ticking of a clock, smelled the aroma of...cinnamon? And then he caught a trace of something else, not subtle but it still took him a moment to identify the cheap cologne that wasn’t quite strong enough to mask the musk of body odour, and the sweet, faintly chemical smell of all purpose gun oil.
Neither smell would have lingered long after the offending source had left, meaning he wasn’t alone.
Konstantin tensed, hyper-alert to the rooms around him.
His entry hadn’t been silent.
They knew he was here.
An handheld electric torch flared across the room, picking out the sharp angles of the furniture before it speared towards him.
Adrenaline flooded through Konstantin, distorting his perception of time so badly he felt cold and numb and paralyzed all at once. But in reality he didn’t hesitate. He threw himself forward and down, hitting the floor hard on his shoulder, and tucked into a tight roll. He came out of the roll close to the source of the light, but the move seemed to take an eternity.
He heard the unmistakable whump of a suppressed shot, followed instantaneously by the sound of the 9mm parabellum punching into the door. It would have opened a hole in his head if he hadn’t thrown himself to the floor. The cone of light lanced through the dark apartment, chasing him, but Konstantin didn’t stop moving. Not even for a second. He pushed up out of the crouch and lunged at the shadow where the gunshot had originated. The sulphur-smell of burnt gunpowder stung his nose. It was fitting that the room smelled of Hell, because that was exactly where his would-be killer was going.
Konstantin barrelled into the gunman and took his legs clean out from under him.
He heard the muffled grunt as the breath punched out of the gunman as he slammed down on his back. He hit the polished hardwood floor hard, but before Konstantin could press home the advantage and finish the man off, pain exploded through the Russian’s head. He took the blow on the temple. He threw up his left hand to ward off another blow, and barely deflecting the second attacker’s gun hand. The force of the impact shivered the length of his arm—but that was better than through the bones of his head.
It was life and death: the Russian’s favourite stakes.
He gave his body over to violence, seeming to see each move and each blow a fraction of a second before they landed, meaning he could anticipate, act and react with punishing brutality. He blocked a desperate swing on his left arm, turning it aside and stepping into the retaliation driving his elbow into the middle of his attacker’s face. Bone and gristle crunched as the second man’s nose ruptured and a shard of cheekbone drove back into his brain. There was no fight left in him after that.
He pulled his Glock from the holster beneath his left arm and pulled back on the slide. One in the chamber. He levelled the gun on the man on the floor and asked, “Who are you working for?”
The man looked up at him. He was on one elbow. His comrade lay dead on the floor beside him. He knew how this was going to play out.
Konstantin waited.
The man didn’t say anything.
“You’re not going to tell me are you?”
Nothing.
Konstantin squeezed down on the trigger. The gunman tried to throw himself out of the way but only succeeded in moving the cause of death by about six inches as Konstantin’s bullet tore open his throat.
It was messy.
And loud.
Konstantin stood stock still. The only sound in Denison’s apartment was the harsh in-out rasp as he regulated his breathing.
So they’d sent two gunmen for Denison; that made things a bit more interesting. An attempted hit and run, gunmen in the park and assassins in his apartment. Whoever was after him, they had resources and manpower, doubling up on every job. That meant something.
He had killed both men—assassin and back-up, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a third member of their team, and that realisation snapped him out of his inertia. He took up the discarded torch and with it located the fallen pistols—both were SIG Sauer P226 Tactical 9-mm semi-automatics, and both were equipped with a suppressor.
He placed the torch alongside the barrel of his Glock and swept the room.
Nothing.
But he wasn’t about to relax. That wasn’t his way. He turned his attention back to the gunmen. Both were dead. A perfunctory search yielded a sheathed wrist knife and a spare magazine for the SIG, along with a ring of keys, but no wallets or identification. In the first shooter’s inside breast pocket, Khavin discovered an envelope, slightly crumpled and slick with arterial
blood from the neck-wound. It was stiff, heavy quality parchment. Denison’s name was inscribed on the front: hand-written calligraphy, but with almost machine-like precision. The squared-off flap was open, but it had been sealed with an elaborate red wax seal. The remnants of the seal were imprinted with a familiar looking symbol.
He pocketed the envelope and turned his attention to the second gunman.
Khavin took out his phone and with the torch shining on what was left of the man’s face, captured his bland likeness digitally. The shattered nose wouldn’t help facial recognition software but Lethe was good. He’d find a way to make it work. He took a shot of the other man, trying to get as little blood as possible in it. Then he put the earbud into his left ear and double-pressed on it, opening the line to Lethe in Nonesuch.
“I’m in,” he said, not giving Lethe time to say anything. “Gate crashed quite the party.”
“You didn’t get any blood on your suit, I hope?”
“I’m sending you a couple of pictures. There’s not much of the guys left, but hopefully you can work your magic. I’ll call when I have something more.” He ended the call before Lethe could reply then forwarded the images to Nonesuch.
Still utilising only the torch, he moved from room to room. He was alone. He made a mental map of the flat then went through to Denison’s study.
The study was sparsely decorated, a working space with a computer on the desk and several bookshelves lining the walls. He’d been expecting old-school money, leather-bound books, antique bookcases, leather-topped desk, but this room was very much in keeping with the black and chrome bachelor chic of the rest of the place. Konstantin took note of the titles of the books that lay on the desk: military strategy and tactics, current events. On the glass shelves above the desk there were a few trashy thrillers, and numerous copies of Denison’s own published books. Did that mean Denison considered them on par with the trashy thrillers? Or was he reading too much into the room?
Konstantin took a seat at the desk and booted up the computer. He really didn’t like the fact that the entire world was becoming so reliant upon computers, mainly because he really didn’t like computers. Of course, it was password protected.
He called Lethe again.
“Jesus, Koni,” the young man said, “I’ve only just got the photos into the facial recognition program. I’m good, but I’m not that good. Even I need half a minute. ”
“I need you to get into Denison’s computer. It’s password protected.”
“Ah, why didn’t you just say so? Right. Plug your phone into the USB port, just like I showed you, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Already done.” He switched the phone to speaker mode and set it on the desktop.
The advent of personal computers had completely changed the spy business. Instead of sneaking into a target’s home, picking the lock on their file cabinet, photographing everything with a camera concealed in a cigarette pack, and hoping you survived long enough to get the film developed, or smuggling state secrets out on micro-dots, now it was all wireless. It wasn’t even necessary to crack the password; Lethe could clone the hard drive and sort through the security protocols at his leisure back home in Nonesuch without getting his hands dirty.
Konstantin was old school though; there was value in the old fashioned approach. While Lethe droned on in the background, he took out the envelope he had taken from the dead gunman. There was no question that it had been Denison’s, and given the fact the assassin had pocketed it, it was equally obvious that its contents were connected to the attempt on his life. Motive? Loose end? He opened the envelope and drew out a piece of crisp parchment, folded in thirds.
“Well that’s a little... unexpected,” Jude Lethe said suddenly. He blew out a sharp breath. “Okay. Got something on your party guests.”
“Do tell.” The Russian’s reply was automatic. He wasn’t paying attention. He was riveted by the document in his hands.
“The chap works for Universal Exports.”
“And that should mean something to me?”
Lethe clucked. “I’m speaking metaphorically, Koni. I thought the KGB would have educated you on the popular culture of the United Kingdom. Universal Exports was something dreamed up by Ian Fleming. You do know about him, right?”
“James Bond.”
“Very good. Bond’s cover in both the books and the films was field agent for Universal Exports.”
It took a moment for the implications to sink in.
A cover story.
Universal Exports was make believe.
These guys worked for a make believe organisation?
No. He’d connected the dots wrong.
“The guy with no face is Jim Benning. He works for the Royal and General Bank.”
“And that’s a cover?”
“Most definitely. But not any old cover. The bank is routinely used to establish cover for MI6 spooks. I would say I hope you haven’t killed him, but I’ve seen the photos.”
When Khavin did not reply for a moment, Lethe continued in a more urgent voice. “I need to tell Sir Charles about this, but...I think it may be Vauxhall that’s after Denison.”
Khavin read the brief handwritten message on the page again:
Tony, I cannot express the depth of my gratitude. Your search for the sword is truly a hero’s quest... I daresay, a knight’s quest. Your efforts will not be forgotten.
The numbness returned. Two corpses. Both, almost certainly, spooks. He was in trouble. He needed to get out of there. He needed to get as far away from Denison’s apartment as he could as fast as he could, and he needed to warn Frost.
He picked up the phone, even though it was still in speaker mode, and held it to his ear. “I have got a lead here. I’m going to follow up. I’ll be going dark.”
“No, Koni.” Lethe’s voice was rock concert loud in his ear. “No leads, no rogue ops. You don’t do anything until I get word from the old man.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Khavin said, and clicked off.
He glanced at the paper once more before stuffing it into his pocket. It wasn’t the message that filled him with equal parts dread and disbelief but rather the distinctive crest rendered in full colour across the top of the page—the Crown and Castle of the House of Windsor—and the unfamiliar but still very legible signature scrawled beneath.
MI6 was targeting a British subject for termination, and Konstantin had a pretty good idea why. Proving it, however, would mean going places and doing things Sir Charles would most certainly not approve of.
So he was on his own.
3 Command and Control
Nonesuch Manor, Ashmoor—2020 UTC
“THANK YOU, MAXWELL.” Sir Charles folded his hands on his lap and gazed down the long gravel drive at the approaching limousine. The windows were tinted black. “If you’d be so kind as to wait inside.” It was an order, not a request, no matter how politely it was couched.
The butler made a disapproving noise, but released the wheelchair’s handgrips and turned on his heel to stride back inside the formidable manor house-cum-castle that was both the primary residence of Sir Charles Wyndham and the headquarters of Ogmios.
Ogmios.
The old man had named the team after a Celtic deity—the god of eloquence and persuasion—who oddly enough was often portrayed as the Gallic equivalent of the Greek demigod Herakles. Hercules. The comparison was no accident; the Celts rightly recognised strength as the most effective form of persuasion. But there was more to Ogmios than brute force. Ogmios the god was described as having chains that pierced his mouth—his smiling mouth—and tongue, and those chains extended to the ears of his followers. Sir Charles had always found this an intriguing notion; was persuasion, in the end, just another form of self-mortification?
And of course, Ogmios was supposed to stand against the herald, Mabus, and the Antichrist on judgment day.
It was fitting, if unconventional.
The team, of course, were no more
straightforward than the god.
Persuasive strength, in the form of four very deadly operatives—Ronan Frost, Konstantin Khavin, Orla Nyrén, and Noah Larkin—guided by his own years of experience both in the field, before the Docklands Bombing, and in the diplomatic field since, and funded by a deep black budget. They existed for one purpose: to defend the sovereignty of the realm. Not a terribly unique or original idea, but what set Ogmios apart from the other services was its manoeuvrability. Unfettered by bureaucracy, his team could react almost instantaneously to a threat. Any threat. The other side of that freedom was complete deniability. If anything went wrong, they could not claim the protections afforded to the official services; disavowal would be automatic, the cavalry would not charge in. There would be no rescue.
They were on their own out there, which suited Sir Charles just fine.
Set free from the hell of red tape and mandatory rimming of the Civil Service, Ogmios was in a position to actually accomplish some good in the world. Unfortunately, deep black and deniable did not mean that his team were completely off leash. Like its namesake, his team were chained, and the man that held the other end of the chain sat in the black limousine pulling to a stop in front of him.
Quentin Carruthers.
Onetime Vauxhall Cross spymaster, now Ogmios Control.
The team had only a vague understanding of this connection to Vauxhall. Both Sir Charles and Control intended to keep it that way. Face-to-face meetings were rare and usually conducted in a clandestine manner right out of the Cold War playbook. For Control to come to Nonesuch was unheard of.
Sir Charles considered what Lethe had just told him: two MI6 agents had been waiting in Denison’s apartment, and Konstantin had killed them after being fired upon. If the Service were behind the attempts on Denison’s life... the ramifications didn’t bear thinking about. One conclusion was inescapable, though: Frost had no idea what he was facing.
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