Falling in behind a group of fast-walking businessmen, undoubtedly racing to their nine am coffee meeting, she went over the presentation again in her head.
She broke free from the group – and the welcome shelter they had provided – just past the Ritz and turned right, walking down past the Beretta shop, its windows arrayed with the latest in aristocratic hunting apparel. When her father was still alive she had once bought him a sweater there as a Christmas present. It was a year after she had been accepted into the British Secret Intelligence Service, more commonly known as MI6. She remembered how her father had laughed at her for buying something with brown elbow pads. ‘I’m not that old!’ he had protested, laughing. He had died only six months later from inoperable lung cancer.
She crossed the top of Jermyn Street and walked past Davidoff, known as a purveyor of premium cigars. A pang of guilt assailed her as she passed; no doubt the cigars she had purchased for him there had contributed to her father’s demise.
As always, memories of that time inevitably led her back to Matt Rix. Barely six months after her father’s death, she had met Matt in Italy and fallen in love with him. It was a love affair that had never blossomed. She often thought about why she had ended it. She had told him it was because they were too different, that their lives were going in different directions – but, really, it was more to do with the detachment she sensed in him. Matt wouldn’t share his feelings with her; he could not even commit to a long-distance relationship. They’d remained friends, which was something, but she still regretted the lost opportunity; she had fallen hard for him and had hoped he might be her destiny.
But her misty memories would have to wait for another time, as she had arrived at 34 St James Street, the entrance to Cording House. From the street, it looked like any other high-end boutique office block in the area. The passive acoustic security monitors that were trained on everyone who entered were undetectable, as were the hidden cameras with facial recognition software that were in constant operation. The small department in which Rachel worked was deliberately hiding in plain sight, a move by MI6 to have its operators dispersed and away from the well-known headquarters in Vauxhall Cross that were monitored by other nation states and any number of threat groups.
Rachel removed her access card from her jacket pocket and held it against the swipe panel disguised as a doorbell that was to the left of the entrance. As she did she poked out her tongue at the hidden camera in the doorframe. There was a buzz and the door unlocked with a click. She pushed it open and stepped gratefully into the warmth generated by the under-floor heating. She strode towards the lift, undoing her mac as she went. Once inside, she pushed the button for the sixth floor, the offices for Transnational Cargo – Shipping and Tracking, an appropriate business alias considering their real occupation. She studied her reflection in the mirrored wall of the lift as it began to rise, running a hand through her long mousy brown hair, which was a bit dishevelled from the wind.
Stepping out of the elevator she found three of her colleagues standing in the foyer, the most prominent of whom was her boss, Milton Lewis, director of Global Pursuit – the MI6 cell responsible for tracking old Soviet bloc nuclear weapons. Sixty-year-old Milton had been a great support to Rachel when her father passed and she now regarded him as something of a father figure. Beside Milton was Tom Wilson, a short but handsome ex Royal Marine Officer. He had been seconded by MI6 as an expert on naval operations and his insights had proven valuable on many occasions. Rounding out the group was Sandra Fox, a strawberry blonde from Essex. She had been recruited in a bar twenty years ago, when the department still used honey traps as a way of eliciting information through pillow talk. However, over the years Sandra had proved her worth as much more than an object of male desire. She had taken part in some of the most dangerous state-on-state missions of the modern era. For her service to Queen and country she had been appointed Milton’s second-in-charge in what was surely her ceiling posting. Now in her early forties, she was known as a no-nonsense operations manager and was highly regarded by the senior ranks.
‘Ah, Rachel,’ said Milton. ‘I was just about to call you, save you the trouble of coming up. We’re ducking down to Franco’s for a spot of breakfast. Do you care to join us?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Rachel replied. ‘I’ll come down in a moment; I just need to grab some files. I have that rehearsal this afternoon for the presentation to the Secretary for Defence, I’m on standby to go and brief him and I just want to make sure that everything is ready to go.’
‘Very good. Shall I order for you?’ Milton pulled on his coat, grabbed his blue umbrella from the stand, and indicated to the others that they should go on ahead of him into the lift.
‘No, I won’t be too long. I’ll meet you down there in ten minutes.’
‘Are you sure?’ Milton put a hand on Rachel’s shoulder. ‘I know you were here until past midnight last night – that’s the advantage of having our swipe system, Rachel.’
Rachel sighed. ‘Well, okay, sir, if you insist – order me a pot of tea, please.’ She ignored Milton’s subtle enquiry into her wellbeing.
‘Do you need me to tag along this afternoon?’ Sandra asked, holding the door of the lift open. ‘Is it the undersecretary that you’re briefing?’
‘I should be fine, thanks, ma’am,’ Rachel assured her. Sandra shook her head gently and smiled. Rachel knew she hated to be addressed in such a formal manner.
As the lift doors closed, Rachel pushed through the glass doors of their corner suite and went to her spacious office with its view over Jermyn Street. She loved the decor; the walls were painted a distinguished matt grey and the Herman Miller desk and chair were top of the range. She went to her safe and entered her pin number, then opened the door, removed the manila folder containing the presentation she had been working on and placed it in her leather attaché case. Firing up her computer, she waited for it to connect to the secure Intelligence Network Portal and logged in. She opened Microsoft Outlook and scanned her emails.
‘Fantastic,’ she said under her breath. She hit print, reading the email while she waited for the Epson to spit the copy out. Her agent in Switzerland, embedded within a subsidiary of UBS, suspected that a deal had been done between ISIS and the Russians. Forensic accounting was a powerful tool and ISIS had yet to work out how to money launder like the Russians, or the Mafia, for that matter; in this game the British and the Germans had the upper hand. This was the final piece of evidence required for her to set up her own specific mission; the resources and manpower would be assured. She felt excited to be making headway, even if she was only at the start of the trail of breadcrumbs, so to speak.
Her phone rang as she was grabbing the printout. Glancing at it as she shoved the email printout into the holdall on top of the folder, she was so surprised by the caller ID that she fumbled and nearly dropped the phone in her haste to answer it.
‘Matt, hello – hi – how are you?’ Her pulse began to race, as it always did when he rang.
‘Hey, I’m okay. How are you, Rachel?’
She could hear what sounded like traffic in the background. ‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘Pulling out of a service station just outside Canberra. Thought I’d grab a coffee; I’m feeling wrecked. I just needed to talk to you, to be honest. I’m not really sure who else to talk to.’
‘Is everything okay, Matt? I haven’t heard from you in a while. What’s going on?’ Picking up her attaché case, she walked slowly towards the lift and pushed the button.
‘I’ve been sent to a new job in Canberra, an office job – ammunition consignment, nine-to-five stuff.’ He trailed off and she heard his car accelerate. One advantage of being deployed for the better part of the last decade was the tax-free cash. Matt had invested most of his money wisely, she knew, putting it into property in Sydney’s buoyant market, but he had also purchased an Audi RS4, a guilty pleasure – basically a super car dressed down as a wagon, the only indication of its i
nsane performance being the small red RS4 badge on its boot.
‘You? With a desk job? Well, that’s just rubbish,’ Rachel declared, wondering what could have happened to cause the Australian army to waste the talents of one of its top commandos.
‘Yes, that’s one way to describe it,’ he said ruefully.
Knowing how disheartened he must be feeling, Rachel was touched that he’d felt the need to talk to her. Perhaps this career setback would prove to be the impetus he needed to step back and discover a softer side of himself. ‘How long for, do you know?’
‘The posting is until at least the end of this year, and then who knows? I mean, I’ve spent my entire career busting a gut and this is the thanks I get.’ He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more but had checked himself.
The lift arrived and she stepped in, holding the phone with her shoulder as she slipped into her coat.
‘Maybe you could take some leave, come stay with me in London for a few weeks?’ she suggested. ‘We could brave the weather and go down to Dartmoor or even up to Scotland, if you fancy it. I have some days owing to me, so that wouldn’t be a problem. Think big fires and even bigger glasses of red.’
‘That sounds really good. Let me think about it. I have to get set up in Canberra first, but that shouldn’t take too long, I suppose.’
‘Matt, I’m sorry, I really have to go. Can we speak again on Friday night, like we used to?’ She waited anxiously for his response to her suggestion that they resume the pattern they’d established back in the days when they were still together. His silence did little to reassure her.
‘Sorry, I missed that, Rachel – the line dropped out for a second. How about if I ring you on Friday night, at the usual time? Is that okay?’
Rachel felt a rush of delight. As she stepped out into the cold air, it didn’t feel quite so cold anymore. ‘That would be great, Matt. I’d love to hear from you.’
‘Okay, I’ll call you then.’ Matt sighed again. ‘Have a great week.’
‘Thanks – you too. And Matt? It’s really wonderful to hear your—’ She stopped as she heard the phone click. Oh well, that’s progress, she thought.
Rachel rounded the corner into Jermyn Street and crossed the road towards Franco’s. She strode across the street quickly to get out of the rain that had begun to fall steadily. The door was opened from inside by the ever-alert waitress and Rachel stepped onto the red carpet. The 1940s cafe had maintained its old-world ambience, and Rachel found the atmosphere soothing. It was also the perfect place for discreet conversations, and unbeknownst to the Hambro family, who owned the establishment, the cafe had been the location of many a secret decision pertaining to the tracking of weapons of mass destruction.
‘Hello again – they’re around the corner at Milton’s usual table,’ said the waitress as she helped Rachel out of her coat and hung it on a hook next to the cash register.
‘Thank you, Pippa,’ Rachel said. She turned and walked towards her colleagues.
‘There she is,’ said Milton, getting up from his seat to pull out Rachel’s chair before she reached the table. ‘We were just discussing the best way to update the database of suspect vessels leaving Croatian ports. Tom thinks that this will be the most likely route for any larger weapons to move out and down towards the Middle East – if that is indeed what we will be seeing coming through the Ukraine.’
‘Right, yes, well that makes sense,’ Rachel said absently, looking out the window. It had been so good to hear Matt’s voice again. What did this sudden desire to talk to her mean? she wondered.
‘Yes, my plan is to paint all the suspect ships bright red and the good ones a light blue colour,’ said Tom. ‘You know, to make it easier to track them on the satellites.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ said Rachel. Had Matt been missing her as much as she missed him? She couldn’t wait for Friday to talk to him again.
‘Good, it’s settled then. We’ll leave tomorrow for Croatia. I’ll organise the delivery of the paint and if you could get, say, around ten-thousand Polish painters from around the Bristol area we can get cracking immediately.’
‘What?’ Rachel snapped back to reality and laughed. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Tom?’
‘I’m just teasing you. What’s going on? You were off with the fairies for a minute there.’
‘Oh, yes – sorry. I just had a phone call from Matt; I guess it just surprised me. I’m okay now. So, Croatia: what’s happening there?’ She picked up the glass of water in front of her and took a small sip.
‘That’s great news, Rachel.’ Milton raised his eyebrows at her in query as he poured her tea. ‘It is good news, isn’t it? Matt calling, I mean.’
They all knew about her brief but intense relationship with the special forces officer from Australia. She had been required to declare it as one of the requirements of her job. She had sold Matt her cover story of working for a not-for-profit magazine that highlighted poverty and other issues in Africa. Then, when her department had moved to St James Street, she told Matt she’d taken a job as the marketing manager for a transnational shipping and tracking company. Matt believed her unquestioningly. She hoped to tell him the truth one day, but until then he could continue to assume that she was just some pretty office manager who worked in the centre of London and lived for fashion.
‘Yes, it is good.’ She shot Milton a wry smile and then looked across at Tom. ‘So how do we track these ships, Tom? What are you thinking?’
‘Well, it’s not going to be easy; most of the ships are already registered on the Automatic Identification System and updated regularly. What we need to do is have a plan to track those vessels that meet certain risk criteria. There’s literally thousands of them though.’
Rachel looked up at the ceiling. ‘Well, I think it’s worth doing an analysis to gain an understanding of the profile that we should be looking at, at least to get us looking in the right ballpark. We can then provide that to the Royal Navy for their use.’
‘I agree,’ said Milton. ‘Let’s assemble some of the best and brightest from the navy and the Ministry of Defence some time next week through the Secretary’s official channel. We can convene a working group and war-game what it is we’re looking for.’
‘There is also another layer to this, sir,’ said Rachel, sensing an opportunity.
‘What’s that?’
The group fell quiet as four plates of piping-hot bacon and eggs and multiple baskets of warm bread and jam were distributed with military efficiency across the table.
‘I see you ordered for me, sir.’ Rachel smiled at Milton and then, when she was sure the waiters were out of earshot, continued, ‘My source inside UBS has confirmed that ten transactions occurred from a newly registered agricultural company based out of Turkey to an account that is linked to Milko Orelik, the Russian gun runner I’ve been tracking.’
Sandra began to cough.‘Sorry – my coffee went down the wrong way.’ Her face slightly red, she returned her focus to her food.
‘There’s not some information you wish to share, Sandra?’ Milton asked.
‘No, sir, not at this time.’ Sandra continued to stare at her plate.
‘Very well. So, tell us, Rachel, what are you thinking?’
‘Well, sir, the actual brief to the defence secretary is tomorrow morning. It’s meant to be about transnational networks and their distribution channels as we have so far determined them. Why don’t I hone in on this one piece of the network, see if we can gain approval to raise an MoD mission, MI6 lead and supported by Special Operations?’
Milton looked at the group gathered around the table and then over his shoulder to where the waiters where busy polishing cutlery at the back of the cafe. Finally, he nodded. ‘It’s certainly worth a shot. Consider it approved. What do you need from us?’
‘Well, perhaps Sandra could come along after all; I can pick her brains about Milko on the way there.’ Rachel shot her superior a knowing glance, biting on her bott
om lip.
‘I’d be delighted,’ Sandra said, a wry smile on her face. ‘I have a feeling that the information I have on him won’t be of much use to you, but I’ll tag along for giggles.’
‘Good, that’s the ticket.’ Milton picked up his knife and fork. ‘Tom and I will get on to the invites for the working group next week. Now let’s dig in – all this talk of money and espionage and the like has made me ravenous.’
6
CANBERRA
Steering the Audi into Macquarie Street, Matt saw that the inner-city Canberra suburb looked even more leafy and green than the real estate website had promised. The evening light was slowly fading and the street had a warm and welcoming feel to it. Pulling up behind the grey removal truck he could see that the removalists had already finished unloading.
Matt switched off the engine and got out of the car. Almost immediately he spotted a young man in a badly fitting suit half running, half falling down the stairs leading out of the Barton Apartments. Clearly this was the real estate agent who had promised over the phone to organise everything once he heard that the Department of Defence was paying the lease.
‘Hey, man, you must be Matt.’ The agent rushed over to the car, arm already extended for the handshake. ‘I’m Carl.’
‘Of course you are,’ said Matt.
He looked across at the modern apartment block and felt pleased with his choice. Behind him he could hear the sounds of kids jumping into a backyard swimming pool in one of the few houses that were interspersed within the new development. Google maps had indicated that the area comprised mostly apartment blocks, a modern hotel precinct and some big houses, all a stone’s throw from Parliament House and Lake Burley Griffin. The suburb was dotted with new bars and cafes, all within walking distance. Breathing in the smell of sausages cooking on a barbecue somewhere close by, mixed with the scent of recently cut grass, Matt thought that perhaps he wouldn’t mind a year here.
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