Fit For Purpose
Page 19
Kamenev took another long pull on his vodka. A good solider, he would comply with orders. But, he thought, if his career was going to effectively be over, he would settle the growing score with Tom Price before heading home to Moscow.
***
Tom woke and momentarily wondered where he was. The room itself was typical of a low to mid-priced international chain. He had been in such rooms before and they all looked and felt the same. It was comfortable and utilitarian but stale. It could have been New York, Toronto, Rome, or even, latterly, Moscow. The only difference would be the vista that lay behind the curtains and the type of prints that could be found on the room’s walls. After a night at the police station, Tom had been returned to his hotel at dawn and had grabbed a few hours’ sleep. Sunlight emerged through the gap in the curtains illuminating the room’s architectural prints of London landmarks. He ached for Nia. It felt odd for him to be in a hotel room without her. He felt even odder to have not been totally truthful with her.
Tom made a cup of coffee with the room’s Keurig machine. He recalled the police station’s desk sergeant furtively informing him that he would be contacted by the security services. He sipped his coffee and wondered what any potential meeting with MI5, or the security services, as they preferred to call themselves, would bring. He had encountered officers from the sister service, MI6, in Afghanistan and Iraq and Qatar. He respected them, they were all charming, but they were hard bastards and they played the game well. They’d had a lot of practice from the cold war, to hot wars, domestic terrorism, international terrorism, and the global war on terror. They had entered the twenty-first century with a renewed efficiency and greater degree of egalitarianism. There were still plenty of the public school, Oxbridge graduates and Guards officers but there was a growing cadre of men and women who had been educated in state schools, at red brick universities, and having served in less prestigious regiments. The new breed of professionals had been exposed to the bitter results of intelligence failures and had become harder men and women, more willing to get their hands dirty. Tom respected them but he didn’t necessarily like them. They tended to be overzealous in their commitment to the mission at hand, collateral damage be damned.
The phone rang, pulling Tom away from his reverie to the bedside phone.
“Hello,” he said.
“Major Thomas Price?” the voice said. “I’m Smith from err, from Thames House. I’m downstairs in the lobby. They sent me to pick you up.”
“Okay,” Tom said quietly. “Give me ten minutes.”
Tom hung up. He was suspicious. He found and called a number for MI5. A recorded voice asked him to leave a message. Tom quickly finished dressing. He chose his blue cords, country sports jacket, a fitted white cotton shirt, and a blue knit silk tie. He slipped on a pair of brown leather Chelsea boots. He carried his heavy winter overcoat over his arm.
The lift descended quickly and opened out on to an overly ornate and pretentious lobby. Tom quickly scanned the lobby area. He spied at least two hotel patrons who were definitely not patrons. Shit, he thought, this is not a polite invitation. Tom spotted a man, waiting nervously near the large revolving door. He was older and heavier than the two other men, the more experienced leader. The man smiled nonchalantly and waved Tom over. As Tom walked through the lobby, he noticed the two men taking up a covering position. For the first time since Afghanistan, Tom wished he was armed.
“Morning Major Price,” the man said holding out his hand. “I’m Smith. I’m from the Thames House.”
“Smith, why the cavalry?” Tom asked nodding towards the muscle.
“Standard procedure, Major Price. I’m afraid we need to bring you in for questioning. You’ll be a good chap, now won’t you?”
The question was rhetorical and there was a slight menace to the phrasing. Smith pushed the revolving door and Tom got into the space, pushed hard and found himself in the street. He thought about running but the three men who were quickly at his side disabused him of the notion. A black Range Rover pulled up at the curb with a screech of breaks. The rear door opened as if it was operated by remote.
“Can, I at least see some ID?” Tom asked.
“Please, Major Price, just get in,” Smith ordered rather than asked.
Tom found himself seated between two large men. He was so close that he could smell the men’s deodorant. Tom regretted that he hadn’t run for it, remembering the first few minutes of a capture are the best time to affect an escape. Fuck, he thought, as he sat between two MI5 men, if, indeed they were MI5 he thought. Could they be SVR, FSB or GRU? Gagnon, who was an intelligence officer, had run into trouble with some Russians and had opened his door to a potential assassin and Tom, the amateur, had allowed himself to get into the back of a Range Rover with unknown men. Smith sat in the front passenger seat, he turned to face Tom.
“Smith, this doesn’t feel like SOP. What’s up?” Tom asked.
“Well, Major Price. That’s what we’d like to find out. Not only did someone try to kill Jacques Gagnon last night, we think that Gagnon probably killed or badly wounded a Russian operative.”
“Shit,” Tom said.
“And, we’d like to know just what you know and what the bloody hell you’ve been up to in London,” continued Smith.
***
The FSB man who had followed Tom from Gagnon’s hotel then to the police station and finally to Tom’s hotel knew a forced pick up when he saw one. He turned quickly and jogged around the hotel to a service road marked for ‘Hotel Deliveries Only’. He took out his phone and called his embassy.
“I think the British just snatched Price,” he said.
“Did Price go willingly?” Kamenev asked.
“No, it looked like he was forced but no rough stuff. It looked like an arrest.”
“Police car?”
“No, black Range Rover. Security services maybe,” the watcher said. “They had enough heavies along in the lobby to stop him running.”
***
Tom sat in the middle of the back seat between the two gym-built MI5 men. They obviously weren’t covert operatives. Tom could feel his shirt sticking to his back as he sweated. He was in shock; Jacques Gagnon killed someone? He had a knife wound on his chest so he had obviously been in a fight, but what the hell happened? Then, he thought of Nia. If the Russians got to Gagnon they could get to Nia. The SVR, FSB and GRU were, contrary to Hollywood’s general impression, skilled and professional practitioners of the dark arts of espionage and intelligence. If they found Gagnon, there was a good chance that they knew of Tom and it didn’t take a genius to link Tom to Zalkind/ Kamenev at the BFI which meant a link to Nia.
“Smith,” Tom began. “I need to call someone, a civilian. Someone who may be in danger.”
“No. Impossible,” replied Smith. “There’s no call for you whatsoever.”
Tom’s fear for Nia became all-encompassing, all he could think of was his need to get out of this car and fast.
Tom brought his left hand up to his face as if to scratch his nose, but then lashed his arm out jamming the tip of his elbow into the face of the first heavy, breaking bone and cartilage before any of the men could react. He then turned to the right and attempted to elbow the second man who grabbed Tom’s right arm with both hands. Tom quickly countered with his left arm, punching hard and down into the man’s groin. The man doubled over and Tom hit him again across his temple putting him out. Smith finally reacted and turned to face the rear seat with a taser in hand. Tom kicked out, hitting Smith’s hand just as he discharged the taser. The taser hit the driver who shook involuntarily, made an odd, sustained, high growl like a small dog, and collapsed on to the steering wheel. The big Range Rover lurched to the left as Smith leant over from the passenger seat, grabbed the steering wheel, and fought to regain control. Smith attempted to steer the car and yanked at the handbrake sending the big vehicle into a slide. The SUV swung across the lane of traffic and was hit broadside by a transit van which stopped it.
“Patel, you won’t believe what just happened.”
Tom was operating on adrenaline and fear, fear not for himself but for Nia. He walked along the commercial street past the ubiquitous banks, coffee houses and shoe shops and found a cheap high street clothing store. Already the bloody shirt was encouraging disapproving glances and he buttoned up his jacket to hide it. In the store he picked up a new shirt and a cheap overcoat. He explained to the cashier he had a nosebleed problem. The cashier signalled that they couldn’t care less. In the shop’s toilets, Tom took off his tie and rolled up his bloody shirt. He dumped his shirt and tie in a public waste bin. He put on the new shirt, his jacket and then the new overcoat which he buttoned up to the collar. He exited the store and he moved casually up the street looking for the nearest Tube station. He caught a glance at his reflection as he passed a shop front window. The person who stared back could have been anyone.
The more Tom walked, the more nervous and anxious he became. He felt his limp singled him out, every glance his way became pregnant with suspicion. He wanted to look behind him fully expecting more heavies giving chase. He entered the Tube station and eyed the mass of people on the platform suspiciously, but he could mark no one as Russian or British security services. He was anxious to sit down in the train, take a breather, clear his mind and think. As he took his seat, he eyed his fellow passengers in the train’s compartment. Mostly mothers, a few school children and students, and some pensioners, no one appeared to be a threat. He put his air pods in but selected no music and rested his head on the thick window and the only sight he could see now was his reflection and it looked tired. The adrenalin rush of the fight and the escape had dissipated leaving him exhausted and the constant, melodic rocking of the train was soporifically soothing. What the hell was he doing, he thought?
Calm now, Tom concentrated on his next move. The train pulled in and out of stations until it pulled into Marble Arch. The platform was busier here, full with shoppers, tourists and businessmen and women, Tom began to feel uncomfortable again. He stood as the train lurched to a stop at one of Marble Arch’s platforms and waited for the pneumatic hiss of the doors to open. They did and he stepped out on to the station platform deep within the bowels of London. He immediately noticed the smell; damp earth, old lubricating grease and electricity. Reflexively he stopped and kneeled to tie a shoelace while scanning the platform. There, about two carriages down the platform, a tall man in a three-piece suit and slicked hair, about thirty, stopped too, pretending to read an advertising poster. How did they pick him up again so quickly, Tom wondered?
There was a hiss behind him as the doors closed and Tom immediately jumped back into the carriage, his shadow did the same. The doors closed further, and Tom stuck his foot in the door, pulled them apart and jumped back on the platform. It had been a basic evasion technique and it failed. The tall shadow stood two carriages away, smiling. Tom ran for the stairs. The long escalators were packed but the wide staircase between the up and down escalators was empty and Tom took the steps two and three at a time, his right leg painful and on the edge of buckling. The bland faces of the people on his left and right stole momentarily glances without suspicion or fear. People were often running up and down desperate to catch a train or to get to some pressing appointment in the city. The stairs opened onto a crowded concourse complete with another series of platforms and another escalator and stairwell. Again, Tom made for the stairs, he wanted to get to the streets. Now, with each leap his leg screamed. He glanced backwards and caught a glimpse of the shadow apparently taking the steps two at a time with ease. The shadow was smiling. Tom wondered whether the tail would risk shooting him and his shoulders involuntarily tensed as if expecting a bullet to rip through his back, but none came. The stairs opened out into the main concourse of the station. People queued to get through the ticket gates while others milled around the ticket machines and small newspaper and confectionary kiosks. Without slowing to a trot, Tom sprinted the last couple of steps and then vaulted over the turnstile. He immediately drew attention from a stern looking ticket collector. Tom heard disapproving shouts behind him as the chase man pushed through the lines and vaulted the gates in pursuit.
With some space to run, Tom turned on his heels and ran for the Oxford Street exit. The street was full of lunchtime shoppers and tourists and Tom quickly limped into the river of bodies. He knew he couldn’t go far. His leg ached like hell, and sirens began to blare behind him and from somewhere in front. He turned to see if he was being followed, he was; smiling boy.
The siren in front was getting closer. Tom was glancing over his shoulder when he stepped out on to the street in front of the wailing police car. The police Volvo’s brakes squealed but stopped the car inches from Tom. Before the policemen could get out of their car, Tom had limped around to the rear door, opened it, and sat down. The two officers turned to face him with surprise and questions.
“My name’s Tom Price and I’m being chased either by the FSB or MI5. And I didn’t pay for my last Tube trip.”
The two officers turned to each other.
“Fucking hell,” said one.
***
Thames House
The deputy director and Patel observed Tom through reinforced one-way glass. Tom was handcuffed to a ring in the centre of a metal table that was bolted to the floor of the soulless room. Tom appeared to be staring at something on the table. The DD glanced at Patel.
“Seriously,” the DD said. “What the fuck was all that argy-bargy about?”
Patel shrugged her shoulders. “Smith did say that they didn’t show Major Price any ID, that Price was clearly shocked by the news of Gagnon possibly killing one of the Russian agents, but seemed to go crazy when informed he couldn’t call a friend in trouble.”
“The friend would be Nia Williams no doubt. So, the denial of the option to call her led Major Price to beat up two of my security agents, ruin one of my beautiful Range Rovers, and lead a posse of more of my security operatives on a mad dash across London?” the DD added.
“Yes, ma’am,” Patel said. “He managed to do all that and find time for a bit of shopping at Primark.”
The DD stared at Patel and then smirked. “Okay. I’ll deal with Smith later. Let’s bring some professionalism to this cock-up. Time for a chat with Major Price.”
Tom could sense he was being watched from behind what he clearly knew was a one-way mirror. So, this was Thames House, he thought, better than some holding cell at the Russian Embassy, or even the interview room at last night’s police station, but he was anxious to make sure Nia was safe. A lock was turned, and the door opened. Two women entered. One middle aged, expensive haircut and grey suit and a smaller, younger South Asian woman in blue slacks and cream blouse with dark, intelligent eyes. Both exuded no nonsense demeanours. He was surprised that there were no men present and then felt that Nia would have been disgusted by his apparent chauvinism. Tom had occasionally come across members of the intelligence services and members of the CIA at various times and various postings across the Middle East. He felt he knew what to expect.
He nodded to the two women.
“Major Price,” the DD began. “I’m sorry for the cuffs but my security team felt, that after your rather boisterous display this morning, you needed them, but I don’t think so, do you?”
Patel moved to the table and unlocked Tom’s handcuffs.
“Thank you,” he said and reflexively rubbed his wrists.
“I must apologise Major Price as I think my lads may have behaved a little too… operationally. I just wanted y
ou to come in for a chat this morning. We know you didn’t… assist Jacques Gagnon in last night’s tête-à-tête with the FSB but perhaps you know what the hell this is all about?”
Tom looked into the woman’s face opposite him. She was earnest and smart, he thought. Indistinct age, perhaps mid-fifties, more than a mid-career officer and, as she mentioned ‘my security team’, someone with authority. Instinctively, he felt he could trust her.
“Feodor Zalkind,” Tom said looking directly into the DD’s face.
The DD glanced sideways towards Patel who shrugged her shoulders as a negative response and began to type into her laptop searching for any records.
“And he is?” the DD asked.
“He’s currently a faux cultural attaché at the Russian Embassy going by the name of Kamenev. Gagnon and I ran into him in Afghan but then he was called Zalkind, ostensibly a major in the GRU. Probably SVR or FSB.”
The DD nodded. Patel continued to type, Tom wondering whether she was searching or taking notes. She looked as if she was capable of both simultaneously.
“About a decade ago he was running some arms for drugs mission with the Taliban, Haqqani Network, and al-Qaeda among other dirty things. Then I ran into him in London before Christmas while he was masquerading as Kamenev. I contacted Gagnon and let him know too. You probably know about Jacques.”
The DD nodded.
“Zalkind was responsible for the death of some of Jacques’ men in Afghan,” Tom continued. “I know Jacques is Canadian intelligence, so I thought he’d respond through regular channels, informing you guys from his official position, that type of thing, so I was bloody surprised when Gagnon arrived in London. We had dinner last night to talk about how best to approach the situation and when to bring in you guys or MI6.”
“And what had you decided about confronting Colonel Kamenev?” the DD asked.