Sir Charles had been mere seconds away from calling the Irishman in when the message from Control came in: “We need to talk.”
The limousine’s tyres crunched gravel as it pulled up beside the main portico. The driver got out and circled around to open the rear door for him. For a moment, the man stared blankly at Sir Charles, then seemed to grasp what the wheelchair actually meant, and smoothly recovered, offering a hand to assist with the transfer into the darkened vehicle.
The old man allowed himself to be drawn up out of the chair. His legs were useless so he was wholly dependent upon the driver to seat him. The man apologised as he rather gracelessly manhandled him into the back seat.
Control remained silent, cloaked in shadow, until the door was closed.
The driver remained there, standing with his back to the car.
“You’ve really excelled yourself this time, dear boy. One might even say you’ve dipped your hand right into the beehive. Unfortunately there’s no honey in there, Charles.”
Sir Charles regarded the other man. Effeminate. Pale. Dressed like a Victorian toff. He was the most dangerous man he’d ever met. “Get to the point, Quentin. We’re not getting any younger.”
Quentin Carruthers sighed. His reedy voice sounded like the air whistling from a balloon. “There was an unfortunate incident in Kensington Gardens tonight. I believe you are aware of it? Shots fired, general panic, that sort of thing. Of course the official report will be some sort of crime spree. Something gang related so we don’t worry anyone unduly.”
“I know you well enough to know you didn’t come out here to make small talk, so how about I speed things up a bit. Ronan Frost was there. He took all the necessary measures to contain the situation. You know Frost, he’s not a loose cannon. If there’d been any other way, he’d have taken it.”
“As a matter of fact—”
“He was there to protect Anthony Denison from a hit squad. It was a personal request; they served together in Kosovo. But you already know all this, don’t you? Those are my cards, laid out on the table. Now tell me how Frost trying to save the life of a war hero has pissed in your cornflakes? Or do you want me to interpret it myself? I’m not sure you do. You see, you being here tells me that MI6 isn’t terribly keen on keeping Denison alive. One might even go so far as to think that perhaps they’re the ones who are trying to kill him. So, old boy, why don’t you cut the crap and just tell me how Anthony Denison became enemy of the Crown?”
Carruthers drummed the fingers of his right hand on his knee for a moment, seeming to think about what he was and wasn’t prepared to say, then leaned forward. “Have you ever heard of the Four Evangelists?”
Sir Charles sighed wearily. “Let’s dispense with the give and take. Just lay it out for me.”
For the first time, a hint of humour cracked Control’s dour demeanour. “I always thought you rather liked the drama, my friend. Indulge an old queen for a moment: The Four Evangelists?”
“Something from the Bible; Book of Revelation, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Human bodies, animal heads, messengers of God. Typical prophetic rubbish. They’re also called ‘the Four Living Creatures.’” He paused a moment. “Nothing else?”
Sir Charles shrugged. “Nothing comes to mind.”
“Hmmm. Well, I’m not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. It would seem this is one secret that Six has managed not to leak. The Four Evangelists are a secret society. Now, don’t roll your eyes like that Charles, such things really do exist outside the minds of conspiracy theorists. These aren’t the usual suspects, not the Freemasons or,” and this time it was Control who rolled his eyes, “the Illuminati. They are an interesting mob, using the Book of Revelation as a blueprint for, well, no one’s exactly sure what for. At least not the minutiae. Disrupt the global status quo, that sort of thing.”
“And I am to believe that Denison is a member of this group?”
“That’s what Six believes. We don’t go around murdering our own, Charles. You should know that. Six think that, whatever the Four Evangelists have planned, it’s going to happen soon.”
“You’re lying, Quentin.”
“I swear.”
“Konstantin killed two of Six’s men in Denison’s apartment about thirty minutes ago.”
Control rubbed at his face. When his hand came away it looked as though it had lifted away the last layer of calm with it. “Okay. Okay. Yes. We outsourced the hit on Denison. A complete bollock job, and in no small part that is down to your men. Frost and now Khavin. This isn’t a game, Charles. I can’t hold Six off. They’ve killed at least three of Her Majesty’s men. You do realise what that means, don’t you?”
“It means I have to look after my people.” There was an accusatory note in Sir Charles’ voice.
“It’s all about damage control now.” Carruthers shifted in his seat. “There’s nothing for Ogmios here, Charles. Leave it alone.”
“I have men in the field.”
Control shook his head. “Frost is compromised. He’s with Denison, now. You can’t help him. Khavin, perhaps, but honestly, Six won’t let either of them walk away from this. You have to let them sink.”
“Like Hell I do.”
“You aren’t listening to me, Charles. You don’t have a choice. If you interfere with this operation, you’re finished. Ogmios is finished. We’re talking treason.”
The old man bit back another retort even as it formed on his lips. It wasn’t within Carruthers’ authority to order him to do anything; that was the very essence of Ogmios’ deniability. His role was merely to act as a conduit, supplying information about situations that were beyond the reach of the sanctioned government agencies, not to give them their marching orders. Nevertheless, the threat was explicit. Ogmios could not escape the chains that defined its existence. Through clenched teeth, he said: “Are you finished?”
There was another uncomfortable pause. Carruthers shook his head. “No. You have to give up Frost. Six can use him to locate Denison and finish this. It ends tonight.”
Sir Charles stared at him.
“You’re asking me to sacrifice him? That’s not going to happen. Not now. Not ever. Let me talk to Ronan; explain it to him. I’ll have him bring Denison in. Everyone wins.”
“It’s too late for that. We can’t trust that Frost won’t put friendship ahead of duty. You should be grateful we’re not demanding Khavin’s head on a plate. You contact Frost, you’ll only tip our hand.” Carruthers shook his head again. “No interference. No warning calls. No negotiation. No contact whatsoever. You know how the game is played. A pawn sacrifice.”
“Frost isn’t a pawn. None of my people are.”
“Charles...”
“Write this down because I’ll only say it once.” He rattled off Frost’s mobile number, not caring if the former spymaster was ready for it. “We both know that I won’t throw him under the bus. I am going to do everything in my power to protect Frost. You need to tell your people that. Make sure they know that if they come after him they are going to get hurt.”
He reached for the door handle.
“There’s nothing you can do for him now,” Carruthers persisted. “If you care about your people, about Ogmios, then you have to back away, Charles. This isn’t a game. No tit for tat bargaining. Frost’s a dead man walking.”
“I doubt that very much, Quentin. But then I’ve known Ronan a lot longer than you have, and I’d back him to take down anything that Six could throw at him. He’s not some grunt.” He pushed open the door.
Sir Charles said nothing as he struggled into the waiting wheelchair, but before he slammed the door on the conversation, he leaned his head back into the car. “After everything, you really don’t understand what I’ve built here, do you? They stay with me because they know we are a team. We stand together. We fall together. You want to take one down, you have to take us all down.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, but brusquely slammed the door
shut.
Refusing any further assistance, he wheeled the chair around and, fuelled by black anger, propelled himself across the portico to where Maxwell held the door open. Sir Charles didn’t slow down, he pushed down on the wheels, keeping them spinning, intent on reaching the control room.
“Sir, please.” Maxwell protested, four steps behind him. “Allow me.”
Something about the manservant’s tone—not his usual subtle sarcasm, but rather sincere concern—reached through the dark cloud, and Sir Charles drew up short, pulling back on the wheels and then raising his hands in surrender. Affecting his gruffest manner to spare them both a maudlin display of sentimentality, he growled: “Fine. Take me to Lethe. You won’t believe what that bastard wants me to do. Well I won’t do it, Maxwell. Put on a pot of coffee. It’s going to be a long night.”
“Of course, sir. If you need anything don’t hesitate, no matter what the hour.”
“I appreciate that, Maxwell, but you’re no good to anyone if you don’t sleep.”
“I could say the same, sir.”
“You could, but I wouldn’t listen.”
By the time Maxwell rolled him into the Ogmios nerve centre, he felt he had the beginnings of a plan. It wasn’t a good plan, but it was something and right then something was better than nothing.
Jude Lethe jumped up from his workstation, a guilty look on his earnest face, as if he’d been caught doing something indiscreet. “Sir...”
That wasn’t a good sign.
Lethe was rarely formal and never at a loss for words.
“Go on.”
“It’s Konstantin. He’s gone black. He said he was going to follow a lead.”
Sir Charles nodded. “A lead. Good. That’s what we need. Have you unlocked Denison’s computer?”
”Only about thirty seconds after I cloned it. But that was the easy part. I haven’t had a chance to go through his files yet to see if I can find anything useful.”
“Look for any reference you can find to the Four Evangelists. And not just in Denison’s computers; look everywhere. Start with MI6. Pass along whatever you find to Mr Khavin.”
“He’s not answering,” Lethe repeated.
“Then put it somewhere he can find it when he needs to. Khavin knows what he’s doing.”
“And Frosty?”
Sir Charles pursed his lips. “Has he checked in?”
“Not yet. Should I call him?”
“No.” He took a deep breath. “Make no attempt to contact him, Mr Lethe. In fact, I want you to block all calls from him. You can do that, can’t you?”
Lethe’s eyes grew narrowed. His lips pursed. “Block?”
“No questions, Mr Lethe.”
“He’ll think we’ve abandoned him, sir. He’ll have no idea what’s going on.”
Sir Charles closed his eyes. No contact. Control had made that very clear. “Frost is on his own now. The sooner he realises that, the better, if he wants to see the sun rise.”
“Shit.”
“Very eloquently put, Mr Lethe. But yes. Shit.”
4 Knight’s Quest
London—2030 UTC
Frost picked out Denison and Lili loitering in the ‘Arrivals’ area, close to the Hertz desk. One thing about airports was that they were never empty. There was safety in numbers. They were also an infrastructure hub with the best access to major rail and road networks. He pulled the rented Volkswagen Passat parallel to the curb right in front of them and flashed the lights, one, two, three times, to catch their eye.
Even though he had only rung off with Denison a few minutes earlier—a brief call directing him to this rendezvous—he felt a measure of relief at seeing them.
Parting company had been a strategic risk.
But every risk was exactly that—a risk.
He didn’t think the men trying to kill Denison would be able to get ahead of them, but if by some chance they pulled off a hop-frog manoeuver, he’d gambled that the crowded Tube and the heightened security at the airport would offer a measure of protection if nothing else. But there were any number of ways things could have gone wrong. Not knowing who was behind the attempts on Denison’s life didn’t help. Different groups would have different thought patterns—and that meant different tactics. He needed to know who he was dealing with. It was as simple as that.
Denison climbed into the front passenger seat. Lili got into the back. Neither of them said a word as Frost pulled away from the kerbside pick-up point and back into the snake of traffic. Without indicating, he weaved between taxicabs and shuttle buses going to the Holiday Inn and Sheraton Skyline. Instead of turning into the lane that would lead them away from the airport complex towards the M25, he steered into one of the short-stay multi-storey car parks and accelerated up the ramp, changing up the gears as he pushed the VW faster and faster until they reached the open rooftop.
“Ronan?”
Frost ignored him, and yanked up on the handbrake, slewing the VW around tightly in a one-eighty to face back the way they’d just come. He killed the engine.
“What are you doing?” Lili barked from the back seat, her accent was even stronger than before—and eerily familiar in Frost’s ears. “We have to get to Saint Albans!”
“We’re going nowhere until you tell me what’s going on,” Frost countered. There was no deference in his tone. “I can’t protect you if I don’t even know who were fighting, Tony. It’s as simple as that. No secrets. Not if you want me to help you.”
Denison sank back wearily in his seat. I long uncomfortable silence built between them before he finally met Frost’s gaze. “Lili’s right. Time is of the essence. I will tell you everything on the way, you have my word, but we must leave now.”
For a moment, Frost almost yielded to the insistent plea. Old habits died the hardest. He gripped the steering wheel tightly and shook his head. “No.” The word was no more than whisper. Simply saying it was enough to add steel to his resolve, though. “No, Tony. Not a inch until you answer two questions. Who is after you? And why?”
Lili muttered a harsh curse under her breath. He recognised the word immediately. It as Serbian. What is he doing with...? He jerked a thumb over one shoulder. “Why don’t you start with her?”
Denison actually seemed to brighten at the suggestion. “Of course. Where are my manners? Ronan, this is Dr. Lilijana Pavic. Lili, Ronan.”
Pavic? The name triggered a rush of memories. Before Ronan could act on any of them, Lili spoke. “Yes, we have already met, Mr Frost.” Her voice was flat, but now the accent was all too familiar. “You came to our house in Pristina. I remember you; the young man with the old man’s hair.”
Frost glanced at Denison who returned a knowing nod. “His daughter.”
Frost craned his head around and gazed at Lili. He looked past the attractive Slavic and sharp bones and saw the truth of Denison’s statement. This was, without a doubt, Kristijan Pavic’s daughter.
He had met Lili before. She had only been a teenager at the time, and the meeting had been brief; a perfunctory handshake and nod of the head before getting down to business. Kristijan Pavic, a regional Serbian police chief, had politely introduced his family to the delegation from the task force sent to investigate reports of crimes against humanity in Kosovo—crimes committed by Serbs against ethnic Albanians.
Thousands had been slaughtered, entire villages wiped out.
Women and even young girls had been raped, not merely as an act of violence, but as a systematic effort to eradicate a race of people.
It was the very worst humanity had to offer.
The international response, sluggish as such things always were, had arrived too late for many of the victims, but once some semblance of order had been restored, the task of identifying and prosecuting the ringleaders had begun. That was why Ronan was there. Kristijan Pavic, despite his Serbian heritage, had cooperated unhesitatingly in the effort to bring the monsters to justice. He was a good man. It wasn’t just some sense of national
guilt. He was a humanist, sick at the suffering of innocent people, and the first to come forward to help erase the collective stain of guilt that tainted all Serbs in the eyes of the world.
It had been a laborious, bottom-up process, modelled on the aftermath of the Holocaust. The men who had physically carried out the atrocities were connected by the chain of command to military officers and government officials, and while some of the latter believed themselves beyond the reach of prosecutors, including even Slobodan Milošević, the former President of Yugoslavia, men like Ronan Frost were there to make sure they weren’t.
Although public awareness of the pogrom faded with the passage of time, replaced by newer and more immediate tragedies, the investigation had continued relentlessly, reaching out like tendrils of ivy, insinuating into the concrete wall of silence that had for more than a decade protected the men ultimately responsible for the campaign of ethnic cleansing.
Frost had followed the news of the investigation, at least insofar as he was able to, given the diminishing level of media coverage, and had recognised the names of several of the accused men. The majority were local officials, men he had dealt with personally during Operation Agricola, and who had at the time seemed to offer full cooperation with NATO forces and international observers.
Men he had trusted.
That had taught him a valuable lesson about humanity.
Even so, Frost had been surprised by the news that Kristijan Pavic would be the next Serb brought before the World Court at The Hague to answer for crimes against humanity.
But that hadn’t been the end of the matter.
Pavic’s trial, which was still underway, hadn’t gone according to script.
The case laid out by the prosecution consisted mainly of hearsay: the testimony of men who stood to gain in some way by Pavic’s downfall. News pundits had begun openly calling the proceedings ‘a witch hunt’ and many believed that if Pavic was not completely exonerated, the credibility of the international court must be called into question.
WarGod Page 5