The London Cage

by Mark Leggatt

  “Montrose escaped, asshole. Why would he do that?”

  Arkangel widened his stance and shoved a hand in his pocket. He kept a tight hold of the Nokia phone. “Purley’s dead. Montrose’s lifeline is gone. There’s nowhere safe in London for him. This isn’t going to be like Julian Assange in the Ecuadorian Embassy. Any of those bastards think of sheltering him and we’ll choke their country dry overnight. But there’s one embassy that would take him in. Just like Warrender. The Russians. If that happens then we can be sure he’s turned. That’s why I want Spanish King. There are sections of Project Orbital still operational. The automatic flood gates closed off the other pipes. They’ve sent in divers to clear out the flooded section, but it will take a day. And the Russians are asking questions.”

  “Oh yeah? The Brits can clean up their own shit.”

  “Their wi-fi and phone traffic are still being monitored. If he goes over to the Russians, we can still pinpoint Montrose to one room. We can be surgical. We’ve practised this. It works.”

  “If he talks, if he knows, if they work it out. Too many ‘ifs’. You gotta do better than that, because what we are doing today will secure US dominance over the entire Middle East for generations. The Israelis will be crying out for help. And yeah, we might just help them, but as soon as the Iranians press the button, we’re out of there. They can blow the shit out of each other and we’ll sit back and watch. Egypt is ready to go. And Jordan, the Saudis and even the Iraqis. And the Israelis know every location of all the enemy forces, because we’ve told them. This is gonna be the mother of all battles. Maybe this is what the bible meant when they said Armageddon. But it’s on our terms. Then we march in with the Saudis as a UN Peace Force and clean up. Israel will be a scorched desert. So will Iran. It’s a win-win. We’re never gonna get another chance like this.”

  Kane’s throat was dry. “I understand, sir.”

  “What did Purley tell the Brits? What do they know?”

  “Only what we tell them. They didn’t know where Warrender was, only Purley did. MI5 have been directed by Downing Street to do what they’re told.”

  “Watch out for them. They’re the most devious bastards on the face of this planet. It was their weakness after World War II that led to the creation of Israel and the fucking madhouse it’s become. And since then they’ve sheltered religious lunatics like Khomeini that fed the fires for the Iranian revolution. All that shit in the Middle East, it leads right back to them.”

  “We’re watching them closely, since Purley...”

  “Fuck that traitor.” The Farmer stood up, the veins on his face pulsing and his jacket flapping around him like a marquee in a storm. “The body in the glacier? You know his name?”

  “We have evidence that points to...”

  “Michael MacPherson Pilgrim was his name. A goddamn hero. You might have been in high school jerking off at cheerleaders, but back then we were in a space race we could not afford to lose. Not some cock-jockey pilot walking on the moon. The satellites. We knew the Soviets were going to try to take over near space with attack satellites and when they did they could have blown us out of the sky any time they liked.

  “Michael Pilgrim was selected straight from MIT. He knew what he was getting into. And we knew we had to give a little to win a lot. We set him up as a defector, got him connected with agitators and known Soviet spies. He was well-trained. He knew what to do. He made the right connections. He let them know he was working on satellite control systems. And then he walked right into a honeytrap, just like we told him. So he started to hand over information and we reeled them in. We stole software from IBM and Pilgrim sold it to Moscow. You see, if they were using our software we knew what they could do. But the Soviets got nervous. They’re not stupid. So we had to go right to the wire. The Soviets told him to defect or they’d turn him over to the CIA. Pilgrim refused. He had a wife and a young family. The Soviets warned him that he stood to lose everything, but still he refused to defect. The Soviets knew he would be crucial to their program. Then they got really nervous. They played the endgame. So, they come bragging to us that Pilgrim is a double agent. Sure, we pretended to go crazy, but we smuggled Pilgrim to Germany, pretending that he was on the run and he handed himself over to the Soviets for protection.

  “The Soviets thought they’d won, but it was all part of the plan. Now we had our man on the inside. And he did what he had to do. And they put him right where we wanted. On their satellite program. After all, he was the expert in the software. The last message we got was that the Soviets were taking him off the program. Looked like they had got what they needed from him and he knew he was dead meat. That’s when we knew the Red Star was the real deal. Pilgrim knew what he had to do. He told us he was coming in. And then, nothing, until he turns up in a glacier in Norway.

  “The only guy he spoke to, Roger Warrender, disappeared off the face of the earth. We looked for him for twenty years. So did the Brits. And the Soviets, but there was nothing. And that means someone was protecting him. That bitch in MI5. And when we do find him, he gets a hole in his head, just at the right time.” The Farmer got up from his chair. “You know why it’s called Spanish King?”

  “The English?”

  “Yeah. One of the best military moves in history. Called the ‘singeing of King Philip of Spain’s beard’, over three hundred years ago. The English burned his entire Armada before it could leave port. That means ‘get them before they get us’. Make no mistake, the authority now lies with you.”

  Kane gripped the Nokia hard as the adrenalin shot through his veins. “If Montrose goes over to the Russians, I’ll personally pull the trigger.”

  The Farmer leaned over the desk. “Don’t fuck up.”

  Chapter 22

  His ribs ached as he pulled on the T-shirt, banging his elbows on the side of the cubicle.

  “You okay in there?” said Kirsty, behind the partition.

  “Just about.” He tore open another disinfectant wipe and rubbed it against the scratches on his chest. Last thing I need is hepatitis from all that shit. The skin on his arms and legs was torn and specks of fresh blood appeared where the alcohol had soaked the wounds. I’ll live. The curve of a knife and the image of Zac flashed in his head. That’s not Kane’s work. No, he’d have just put a bullet through his head. Same result. A plastic bag appeared under the door.

  “Stick your wet stuff in there,” said Kirsty. “Leave it.”

  He shoved the stinking remnants of his jeans into the bag and threw them into the corner.

  “Connor?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Who did it? Who did that to Zac?”

  He tugged on the tight-fitting cycling shorts and pulled the messenger bag over his shoulders. The helicopter was going to a civilian airport. Not the roof of the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. “Kirsty, I don’t know.”

  “Then we’ll find out.”

  There’s only one other face in this game. Arkangel. And Kane let him go.

  “You ready?” she said.

  He looked into the full-length mirror on the back of the door, checking the cycling shorts, distressed T-shirt, cycle helmet and new sneakers. This could work. He pushed on a pair of wraparound shades. “Yeah. Kirsty? Tattoos?”

  “Covered.”

  He pulled open the door to find her holding two mountain bikes. She wore a long-sleeved baggy shirt, hi-vis vest and a white pollution mask hung around her neck.

  “Hold the bikes.” She pulled her iPad from the bag. “And put your mask on. They’ll be in Battersea soon. But we need to stop and get a new SIM card. I’ve used this one long enough. And a laptop. There’s only so much shit you can do on an iPad.” She popped the SIM card and flicked it into a bin full of cut-price clothing. “Don’t worry, I wiped it.” She took her bike back from Montrose and headed for the door. “Remember, you’re a cycle courier. That means you shout
at anybody in your way, ignore traffic lights, ride on the pavement and generally behave like a complete twat.”

  The assistant stopped them at the door. “You’re gonna need those helmets.”

  Kirsty turned. “Yeah?”

  “Just came on the BBC. There’s a satellite dropping out of the sky. Be lucky!”

  *

  “Move everything out of the way,” Arkangel ordered. The technicians pushed the antique furniture to the side of the room and others dumped their steel equipment cases onto a polished wooden table.

  “We have wi-fi,” said one. “It’s fast enough.”

  Arkangel checked the Nokia phone, but there was no message. He stepped over the body of the Iranian diplomat and looked out of the window to the gravel-covered drive and high-barred gate.

  A guard entered the room. “Perimeter secure.”

  Arkangel faced the men at the table. “This is the final phase. We await instructions for the next attack. When we are done, a car will take you to a USAF base in Surrey where a jet will be waiting for the flight to New York.” He pointed to the equipment. “Wipe everything down. Destroy all personal ID you carry. Your Swiss accounts have been created and will be credited this afternoon. Twenty million dollars. Passports will be handed out as you land.” He nodded to the guard. “Tell the others.”

  *

  He watched her weave through the traffic and his sneakers slipped on the pedals as he tried to keep up. The pollution mask was clamped tight to his face and felt hot as hell, but it served a purpose. Blue flashing lights appeared at the end of the road. He watched the policeman get out of a BMW and stand on the sidewalk, checking cars at the junction. Kirsty ignored them and swept through the traffic, then tore straight down the middle of the road.

  The policeman looked at her for a moment then glanced towards Montrose. He stepped hard on the pedals. Don’t look at them. Horns sounded and the policeman turned away. Kirsty took a left and stopped outside a row of shops. He pulled up beside her and tugged down his mask. “Where are we?”

  “Keep your mask up. There are cameras at the end of the street.” She handed him her bike. “Wait here. I need some kit.” She disappeared into the shop.

  He wiped his hands on his shorts and felt the sweat chill on his neck. The shop window was full of cheap watches and electrical goods with a TV for sale in one corner, showing the BBC News channel. The rolling strapline read ‘Second satellite falls to earth.’

  They’ve done it.

  Montrose stared down the street, listening to the police sirens. This isn’t going to stop here. This is way out of my league. I have to tell someone. Not Kane. No, go straight to the press. But who? If the British are working for Kane, they can slap down any newspaper they like. And the BBC will do what they are told. A police car screamed round the corner at the end of the road and roared towards him, the wail of sirens bouncing off the buildings and rattling windows. It shot past Montrose and squealed to a halt at the other end of the road. Three armed policeman got out and covered the junction.

  Montrose turned back to the TV. ‘Satellites will burn up in the atmosphere say NASA. Explosion seen from International Space Station. Unconfirmed reports say US satellite is missing.’

  He pulled the pollution mask aside for a moment and took a deep breath. Jesus, would Kane shoot down his own satellite? This is bullshit. I’ve got to get this out. Maybe the foreign newspapers. At the end of the street a truck full of soldiers pulled up and blocked the road. They’ve got the British in their pockets.

  Kirsty came out of the shop and handed him a plastic bag. “Take this.” She threw her bulging messenger bag across her shoulders. “Let’s see where they are now.”

  Montrose pointed to the TV. “There’s two satellites down. And the army are here.”

  Kirsty looked to the end of the street. “That isn’t good. They never call out the army. We’d better move.”

  “Listen to me, Kirsty, there’s two satellites down.”

  “Big deal.”

  “What? Look, this is bigger than just us.”

  “Really? Connor, the US lost a satellite earlier this year. Do you remember that?”

  “No, look...”

  “And the Chinese lost one a few years ago. The papers were only concerned about space junk littering the atmosphere. That kind of news rates lower than some vacuous celebrity with an arse the size of a planet getting her baps out on the internet. Which means we still have time.” She placed a new SIM card into the iPad. “Come on, you piece of shit.” She tapped the screen. “They’ve landed. And they still have Zac’s laptop. The signal is stronger.” She pointed to the map. “They’re crossing the Albert Bridge. They’re coming towards us.”

  “Okay, let me think.” If we find who killed Zac, I’m going straight to Al Jazeera. Then Russia Today. Then the French, the Germans and anyone else who will listen. That’ll shake the monkeys from the tree.

  “But why the Albert Bridge?” said Kirsty.

  “What? Kirsty, I don’t get you.”

  “If they were heading north they would take Battersea or Wandsworth Bridge. Those are the main roads. But maybe they don’t need the major roads to go north. And that means local. That means Chelsea or Kensington. Right here. Let’s go.”

  She was on the bike and halfway down the road before he hit the saddle.

  *

  Kane had expected Cabinet Office Briefing Room ‘A’ to be a wood-paneled fin-de-siècle salon, with hanging tapestries and high windows overlooking the Thames, but he guessed he’d been watching too many black and white movies. The COBRA had no windows, just a long, wide desk that almost filled the room, with plastic chairs jammed together around its edge. The far wall was covered in video screens and he heard a low buzz that was designed to prevent recording. Several cabinet office mandarins squeezed past him, papers clasped in their hands. Kane sat at the end of the table. On the video screen he saw the rolling news strapline confirming that the Space Station had seen another explosion. His hands trembled as he felt the adrenalin rush.

  One of the men approached and leaned over towards Kane. “I’m afraid, sir, that this chair is reserved for the Foreign Secretary, Mr. Gowrie.”

  “Fuck off.” The man recoiled and Kane watched the others enter, followed by the Prime Minister and a tall man with white hair who glowered at Kane.

  One of the men opened a notepad and addressed the meeting. “Thank you for coming. This is the third meeting of COBRA this year and I am the cabinet secretary, Mr. Beauchamp. I shall be…”

  Kane rapped his knuckles hard on the table. “Can we miss out the best man’s speech and just cut to the chase, yeah? There are fucking satellites dropping out of the sky. One of them belongs to the US and the other is Israeli. We have strong evidence that the Iranians are behind this and they are doing it right under your noses in London.”

  Gowrie leaned over the table and jabbed a finger at Kane. “Why is it always the Iranians with you?”

  “Ah, Foreign Secretary Einstein, who else is it gonna be? It’s not going to be fucking Belgium, is it? The Iranians have targeted us and the Israelis. There is no bigger enemy facing us. I mean, how shit do you have to be as a Foreign Secretary not to work it out?”

  “Of course,” replied Gowrie. “Your enemies. You spend so much time spreading love and peace around the globe, it’s difficult to keep track.”

  “Yeah, whatever. But our investigations point directly to the Iranians. Absolutely no doubt.”

  “So you have evidence, eh?” Gowrie leaned on the table. “Care to share it with us?”

  “No. This is a need-to-know basis. This is going no further.”

  “Really? And this evidence, of which you so eloquently speak, is it like chemical weapons plants in Iraq that turn out to be bicycle factories? That kind of evidence?”

  Kane leaned forward on the table. �
�It’s the goddamn Iranians and it’s happening right here in London because you let every fucking terrorist and religious nutjob into your country. All the Iranian presidents like Khomeini, Rafsanjani, they all built their power bases here. And the current president, whatever his name is, even went to university in your hometown. I won’t even mention the succession of Third World butchers you educated in your little kingdom.”

  “Either you’ve got a selective memory,” said Gowrie, “or you’re as thick as shit in the neck of a bottle. I’ll go for the second option. Your government asked that we bring them here, not us. Keep your enemies close, eh? We’ve had to put up with them so you can play your little spy games. And where is all this magnificent information coming from? Some more stellar journalism from Fox News? Or have you, as your compatriots say, just made this shit up so you can go charging around like a bunch of fucking cowboys?”

  “That is confidential. All you have to know is…”

  “All we have to know,” said Gowrie, “is what the fuck you are up to this time. Because I think you’re lying through your teeth.”

  “Enough!” The Prime Minister slammed a hand on the table.

  An electronic alarm sounded and the video screens lit up to reveal the US presidential seal.

  “Gentleman,” said the President. “I have some news.” They watched him open a folded piece of paper. “The Israelis have made it clear that any further attack on their satellites will be seen as an act of war. The Prime Minister and I have agreed that we will do all we can to prevent this occurring. The Israelis have fighter jets in the air and have activated their nuclear defense plan. We have assured them that we will help, but not if they go nuclear. I have to say, they are not in a mood to listen to reason. They are totally reliant upon those satellites for the operation of missiles, warplanes and the defense of their country. Therefore, they intend to initiate a pre-emptive strike if they think that those satellites are under any threat. So far we have kept the details of the attack suppressed, but we expect our enemies to brag about their success. When that happens, the US will state that it will support Israel if there is any further attack on US or Israeli assets. We hope this will bring the Israelis back from the nuclear option. Our military have allowed the Israelis access to several US satellites to cover their loss, but this will take some time as the primary satellite designed for this function was the first to be attacked. And that is not a coincidence. In addition, the Arab League is convening in Egypt and their countries have begun immediate mobilization into an attack formation directed at Israel if there is any attack on Iran. The major terrorist organizations in the region have said they will cease any military operations and join the fight against Israel.” The President folded the piece of paper and stared into the camera. “We are on a knife edge, gentlemen. Mr. Kane has supplied me with indisputable evidence that the operation is being conducted directly from London, by known Iranian assets. He assures me that he can nullify these assets and the threat, but he needs your immediate and complete cooperation. What we are about to do will not be pretty. But it will be absolutely necessary if we are to stop nuclear war in the Holy Land. Let us not flinch from our responsibilities. Let us do it and let’s do it now.”