Daria had agreed to the deputy director’s plan of, essentially, using herself as bait. Daria had called her agent and suggested a meet with the Irish daily that had expressed an interest in publishing the Russian’s work. The DD hoped that such a ploy would lure out the red-headed assassin and her Russian support team. Like clockwork, Daria’s agent called her and suggested a meet with the Irish journalist at a rather popular pub in Brighton. Daria said that, as she was about to move to a new house, she was fine with meeting the journalist at her Ditchling cottage if the Irish newspaper sent some information on their journalist. MI5 had thought it safer for Daria and the local civilian populations if the Russian could be contained in an area where there wouldn’t be any chance of collateral damage. Within minutes of her agent’s call, Daria received an email with a short biography, links to some online pieces, and a photo of the journalist. She was petite, pretty, with long red hair.
At Thames House, the DD was alerted to the email.
“Right, Patel,” she said. “Looks like we’re a go. Alert the onsite team.”
Patel nodded and took notes on her tablet.
“Also trace the incoming information from the newspaper, they obviously have a bad actor in their midst aiding and abetting our little ginger assassin.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It was dusk when the first MI5 agent at one of the Ditchling observation posts radioed an alert about a suspicious vehicle. Its make, colour and number plate didn’t match any of the local cars and didn’t match any of the visiting vehicles that had recently been through the village and the subsequent vetting. Several pairs of MI5 eyes were on the vehicle, a grey Ford Focus, as it drove past Daria’s cottage. It didn’t slow suspiciously but the MI5 watchers noticed that both the driver and passenger observed the little house intently as they drove by. Photographs of car and occupants were taken by hi-resolution optics and sent to Thames House for analysis.
“We’ve got movement behind the cottage,” a voice came over the radio. Through binoculars the MI5 agent on observation duty at the rear of Daria’s house had spotted a couple of figures taking up tactical positions in the meadow behind Daria’s house. The security service had planned for such an eventuality and moved an outlying team into position behind the two men they now considered active Russian agents.
“Two cars stopping, adjacent street,” another voice came over the secure communication system, surprisingly calmly. “Look like Audi Q5s, black.”
The DD listened into the conversations and observed movements in Ditchling through real-time hi-def video from an operations centre in the bowels of Thames House. Patel sat next to her.
“Two people leaving the first car,” the radio voice continued. “Visual confirmation: petite, redhead. Repeat: petite redhead. Accompanied by unidentified male carrying large camera bag, probably a gun bag.”
Patel’s fingers flew across her keyboard pulling up a still photo of the Russian with the bag and cross-referencing it against faces in MI5’s extensive database.
“Got an ID, ma’am,” she said excitedly. “One of the Holyhead Russians.”
“This is all coming together, isn’t it?” the DD asked rhetorically. “Shit. Alert the team. Weapons hot.”
The DD passed on that information to the agent in charge.
As the redhead and her faux cameraman approached Daria’s cottage, MI5 vehicles slowly and quietly moved into place blocking all the entry and exit roads into the little village. Effectively locking down Ditchling.
The Russian agent with the camera bag dropped back allowing the redhead to get a house length in front of him. He slowed and knelt and opened the bag and he appeared to be rummaging around in it. In the body of the bag, the agent chambered a round in the small Skorpian machine pistol and moved the safety catch to off. He nodded to the redhead. The assassin approached Daria’s front door and knocked loudly. She moved her hand into a deep coat pocket and flipped the safety catch of her Walther PPK/S to off.
“I’m in the kitchen,” Daria shouted from inside the house. “Can you come round the back?”
The redhead tentatively tried the door handle, locked, and then stepped back from the door. She thought for a moment, assessing her options. Then, she gestured with her head for the camara bag agent to follow her and moved to the side of the house. She made her way slowly around to the back of the cottage. There, she noticed Daria’s motorbike, and smiled. So, the Russian bitch was indeed in, she thought. She tried the back door, again locked. She knocked.
“Just a moment,” Daria shouted from inside and she was instantly pulled upstairs by the MI5 agents.
The redhead stood outside the door for a moment and then stepped back. In one fluid movement, she pulled her gun out of her coat and kicked at the door. The door lock splintered, and she moved quickly and smoothly into the kitchen, pistol at the ready. Her adrenalin flowed and she was on heightened alert to any movement but what she saw as she entered the kitchen was unexpected. She hesitated a moment before she raised her gun towards one of the two figures that greeted her in black combat fatigues. Her eyes widened, mouth opened, and her breath paused, she dove to her right, firing and hitting one of the dark figures low in the chest. She hit the kitchen floor hard and attempted to roll while bringing her gun up to sight on the other figure in black fatigues. A red pinprick of a laser sight jostled on her rolling body until it momentarily settled on her forehead. The bullet that followed killed her before she could pull her own trigger a second time.
The MI5 shooter went over to the red-headed assassin’s body and kicked the Walther out of the prostrate woman’s reach. It was just procedure; the shooter knew his round had killed her instantly. Once satisfied that the red-headed assassin would kill no more, the MI5 agent radioed that the assassin was down and dead. He then went to his colleague who was sitting up a little uncomfortably rubbing a spot below his left ribs.
“Shit,” he said. “She was bloody fast. I’ve never been shot before.”
“Good thing she went for a torso shot,” the standing shooter replied with a smile. “Your vest saved you.” He put out an arm to help his slightly embarrassed colleague up.
On the street in front of the cottage, the Russian with the camera bag reacted to the sound of suppressed gun shots. He appeared to hesitate for a moment before he pulled the Skorpion sub-machine gun out of the bag and made a move towards the cottage. Before his first foot fall, he was brought down by a single head shot from the MI5 sniper from the upper floor of a cottage on the other side of the street.
The two Russian agents observing the events from the field behind the cottage knew the mission had gone pear shaped. They retreated under cover of the field to their car only to be apprehended by the waiting MI5 snatch team. The Russians, outflanked and outgunned, surrendered meekly.
Kamenev, in one of the Audis that accompanied the redhead, knew from his team’s radio chatter and hearing the gunfire that the simple assassination mission had gone seriously wrong. He radioed the drivers of both Q5s to get out of the village as quickly as possible. The first FSB driver was a good one. He immediately put his big Q5 in reverse and accelerated, executing a textbook J turn. He slammed the car into first gear and headed out of town. Kamenev’s Audi followed close behind. A police BMW and an MI5 Range Rover formed a roadblock on the Audis’ egress road. Kamenev radioed the first driver to ram the roadblock. The driver gunned the motor as he approached the security services’ vehicles. He accelerated, aiming his SUV for the front noses of the blockading vehicles. The Audi crumpled into the Range Rover before cartwheeling over the Rover’s bonnet and landing on its roof. The police BMW had been pushed perpendicularly into the curb and Kamenev’s driver swerved up on to the right-side pavement clipping the police car and forcing enough room between the BMW and a cottage’s hedge to speed past. The Russian driver floored it. Kamenev lay across the rear seat fearing British bullets entering the back of the Audi. None came and the driver accelerated out of the village and on to a larger
B road. Traffic speed cameras flashed as the car sped past.
On the video screen at Thames House, the DD stood as she watched in real time as the Q5 made its escape.
“I want eyes on that car,” she ordered. “Get a chopper in the air. I want chase vehicles and roadblocks. I want that bastard.”
Kamenev’s driver followed an emergency contingency plan. Before MI5 eyes had caught them, the Audi had been swapped for a small, silver Ford Focus. Kamenev lay across the Focus’ rear seat while the driver headed for London. Kamenev quickly radioed one of his most trusted men still at the embassy to make arrangements. His secure mobile began to light up with messages from the embassy as well as from Moscow. He ignored them all. He was going rogue. He could imagine that communiqués were already being prepared disavowing any recognition of Kamenev’s mission. He knew that Ditchling’s failure well and truly meant not just the ignominious end to this career but probably arrest, deportation and execution. As his car sped north towards London on the M25, Kamenev imagined that Moscow’s plans for his own fatal accident would already be on the President’s desk awaiting approval. His disappointment, frustration and anger were distilled into only one thought: revenge upon Tom Price.
Chapter Twenty
Shropshire Union Canal, February 3rd
Tom woke to the sound of a tractor mowing on the other side of the towpath’s hedgerow. He checked his watch; it was seven a.m. Jack looked up expectantly from the foot of the bed. Tom had moored outside of the little Cheshire village of Wrenbury after a long trip the day before. He had tied up against the towpath on a lovely treelined spot where he and Jack had enjoyed a glorious sunset from the Periwinkle’s bow. Tom was back on very familiar territory.
Tom and Jack went through the regular morning. routine on the canal boat before Tom headed into Wrenbury to shop and resupply the Periwinkle with some essentials. He put Jack on her lead and popped in his air pods. He found one of the playlists Nia had created and hit play. Norah Jones’ Come Away With Me started and Tom smiled. Although they had talked the night before, Tom was excited by the prospect of seeing and holding her again. His step into the village was light.
Back from the short shopping trip, Tom took the Periwinkle down the canal under Wrenbury’s electrically powered swing bridge and then on his way to the village of Marbury just a short two-hour journey to the west. The canal meandered lazily through postcard-like Cheshire countryside. Tom had traversed this stretch of the canal numerous times over the last five years. He had enjoyed almost every trip through all kinds of weather but, on what was a beautiful late winter day, Tom was feeling a level of contentment that he had never really experienced. He steered the narrowboat reflexively, his thoughts very much on Nia.
Nia was on the 10.10 a.m. from London Euston. She would be in Crewe before noon and had already arranged a taxi from the station to her lunch date with Tom at the White Swan in the tiny Cheshire village of Marbury. She, too, was excited. She tried to read but found herself reading and re-reading the same page repeatedly. Her thoughts were very much on Tom. She was looking forward to a few days with him, Jack and the Periwinkle. Nia had become enamoured with her time on the canals and had specifically asked Tom for a trip back towards Llangollen to again experience the majesty of the countryside combined with the canal builders’ art.
Nia stretched out in the first-class seat and watched the countryside pass by at express speed. It wasn’t fast enough as she was anxious to be with the man she loved. She returned to her book, Hadfield’s Illustrated History of British Canals. It was rather dry and she was distracted. She was tired too, her latest role, the 1960s’ lesbian matron, had just wrapped. She had spent one night in her home before heading out for the rendezvous with Tom. She hadn’t noticed that the small white plumbing van had returned to her Georgian square or that it had followed her taxi to Euston station that morning. Nia had no idea that two carriages behind her a Russian SVR agent was reading the morning’s Daily Mail while occasionally updating his boss with texts.
***
Outskirts, London
The hotel was north-west of London on the outside of the capital city’s greenbelt. The hotel’s heyday, if it ever had one, had long since passed. It was threadbare, barely surviving on travellers with very limited budgets, the accidental passers-by needing a late-night check in with no other options available, or prostitutes booking in for a four-hour ‘nap’. Its selling points for Kamenev were that it took cash, indeed it was preferred, waived ID, and had no cameras. In a corner room on the first-floor, Kamenev sat on a single bed reading texts on his phone. He tapped out a short response and then put the phone back into his jacket pocket.
“Go gas up the car,” he ordered his driver. “It looks as if we are heading to a place called Crewe.”
The driver got off the room’s second single bed with a grunt. He was glad for an opportunity to get out of the shithole hotel they been cooped up in for the past few days. He grabbed his small hand grip, his go bag, that contained cash, three separate identities with passports and other identification, and a Skorpion. He left the room and headed out of an unalarmed emergency exit to the small car park and the silver Focus. Kamenev, too, was pleased that things were once again moving.
Kamenev knew that as a rogue agent his time was short. The driver and the surveillance man had begun to question the total communications blackout with the embassy, the Rezident and Moscow. It wouldn’t be long before one of his team breached the radio silence and the British security services or, worse, the FSB or SVR tracked them down. He didn’t enjoy feeling like prey. His field craft was good enough to evade the forces aligned against him for some time but he much preferred being the hunter. He was focused on his own hunt and that hunt was now accelerating. The actress was now being followed and she would lead him to Tom Price. Then, at least, he would settle the account that began long ago and far away in Afghanistan. He grabbed his own go bag. He pulled out his heavy Makarov semi-automatic pistol and chambered a round.
***
Crewe
Nia’s prearranged taxi was waiting for her as soon as she exited Crewe station. She took a quick look at her watch to calculate the time it would take before she would see Tom again. She didn’t notice the man who had followed her out of the station nor the cab that tailed hers. She didn’t see the following taxi stop when hers pulled into the White Swan’s car park in Marbury. She failed to notice the man who got out of the taxi and shadowed her, at a distance, as she entered the pub.
Tom had arrived at the pub before Nia. He had chosen a table in the corner of the lounge, hard against a floor to ceiling bookshelf, that allowed him to tactically observe the pub’s main entrance. An exit was directly behind him. He saw Nia enter the pub and look around. She was elegant as usual. Her hair was tied back but looked as if it had been prepared by a stylist. She wore her new Barbour coat over a red wool jumper, a white tailored shirt and cropped jeans with brown Dr Martens. She was toting a smart leather weekend bag. Tom stood up as soon as Nia made eye contact with him. He felt her broad smile warm deep inside. They moved together and hugged as if they had been apart for months. Nia kissed Tom hard and he reciprocated. As they broke their kiss Tom noticed the entry of a pub patron who stared at them before he made his way to the bar. Tom ushered Nia to the corner table. Nia kissed him again as she sat down and removed her hat and coat. They quickly fell into conversation. As Nia talked quickly and excitedly about her recent acting role Tom caught the eye of the same pub patron in the bar back mirror. Instinctively, Tom assigned the patron’s facial features to memory, but he became quickly engaged in listening to Nia and her rapid fire, almost stream of consciousness conversation.
After lunch, Tom and Nia held hands as they walked through the high hedgerowed country lanes and down to the canal. They had enjoyed the excellent food served at the White Swan but were both looking forward to getting back on the Periwinkle. Nia was also looking forward to seeing Jack again. Out of their sightlines behind them, Kam
enev’s SVR man watched them through a small pair of binoculars. He moved stealthily through a farm field and lay down, hidden by the hedge that separated the field from the canal. Through his binoculars he watched Tom and Nia make their way down from a humpbacked road bridge and down onto the canal’s towpath. There was only one narrowboat moored on the bank and the Russian watched as Tom and Nia entered it. The Russian noted the boat’s name, the direction it was pointing, and texted Kamenev.
***
Periwinkle
Jack greeted Nia with her usual welcoming licking routine before the terrier rolled on her back in anticipation of a tummy rub. Once Jack was satisfied, she allowed Nia to unpack her bag in the narrowboat’s cabin. Tom had once again made space for her things in the cabin’s small cupboard and closet. Tom was on the stern deck going through the routine of engine starting while Nia was in the cabin folding her things. Tom had planned on letting the engine tick over for about twenty minutes before they headed off westward up the canal.
Tom came down the stern cabin’s steps whistling. The tune he was butchering stalled when he noticed that the cabin’s curtains were drawn, he recognised the sweet scent of Nia’s Floris No 89, and then he saw Nia was under the covers of the bed. He smiled.
“Well, hello,” Tom said in a posh louche accent.
Nia laughed and she pulled back the duvet. She was wearing a pink silk camisole set.
“C’mere,” she said with theatrical lasciviousness and patted the bed next to her.
“As you command,” Tom replied and began to slip out of his clothes.
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