Operative 66 : A Novel

by McDermott, Andy

  He had other tricks, but would save them for if they were needed.

  Or when.

  Cold fear as he spotted Stone. The big man was hard to miss, head like a periscope above the tide. He was at the first corner north of the ground, watching everyone pass. Stationary at first – but now moving.

  Towards him.

  Reeve sidestepped behind a taller man. In the moment when he was blocked from Stone’s sight, he made his first change. The hat came off, revealing black hair beneath. A wig, bought from a fancy dress shop that morning. Cheap, not convincing under scrutiny – but it would give him the necessary seconds to disappear.

  He stayed low, and slowed. The crowd flowed past him. He resurfaced. Where was the Operative? He had lost track of him . . .

  There.

  Less than four metres away.

  Still advancing with determination, predatory anticipation in his eyes—

  Then past.

  Stone pushed onwards. Reeve glanced sideways. A man was shuffling along the pavement. Dirty, hair dishevelled, a grubby baseball hat shadowing his face. Drunk or on drugs, almost certainly homeless.

  A perfect disguise – or so Stone thought.

  Reeve kept moving as Stone slammed the homeless man against the fence. People nearby retreated from the sudden violence. Stone snatched away the hat, glaring at his victim – then swore. He mouthed something, more quietly. He was talking into a hidden mic. Reporting his mistake.

  To Maxwell.

  Reeve discounted the possibility that his mentor wouldn’t show himself. Maxwell would insist on being live bait. He wanted to draw out his target, maybe even kill him himself. So where was he – and where were his other minders?

  The fracas had drawn the stewards’ attention. That might get the police involved, taking one of his pursuers out of the game . . .

  No such luck. Stone produced something from a pocket. From the stewards’ reactions, Reeve guessed what it was. A Metropolitan Police warrant card. On British soil, Operatives could call upon all kinds of useful forged credentials. And if challenged, Stone’s police background would easily help him bluff his way out.

  But Reeve was now past him. A brief look back. Stone was still browbeating the stewards. One threat passed.

  But not eliminated. And there would be others. Reeve surveyed the crowd ahead as he approached the north turnstiles. He couldn’t see Maxwell. Or Flynn, or Locke, Parker or Blake. But if Stone was here, they would be too.

  The fans slowed to join the queues. More came from the south. Reeve twisted through the crush. Too many people. If he missed Maxwell—

  The thought was blown away as he saw another familiar face. Flynn, against the high wall opposite the ground. She was looking away from him. Reeve tried to follow her gaze. Was she watching Maxwell?

  She said something under her breath – then turned.

  Reeve hunched lower. For one chilling moment it seemed her eyes had met his. But then she looked in Stone’s direction. Reeve angled away from her, head down as he squeezed through the crowd.

  ‘Stone’s bullshitted the stewards,’ Flynn said, in Maxwell’s earpiece. ‘They’re moving off.’

  Stone himself spoke a moment later. ‘It was just some fucking homeless skank,’ he growled. ‘Fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Don’t take any action until you have a positive ID,’ Maxwell chided quietly. ‘Okay, I’m almost at the gate.’ He followed other fans towards his turnstile.

  Neither he nor Reeve realised, but they had passed just six feet from each other.

  Reeve continued with the crowd to the ground’s southern end.

  Still no sign of Maxwell. Nor any of the other Operatives – but they had to be there. Stone and Flynn were covering one end, so someone would be watching the other.

  He reached the turnstiles. Concern rose. Three passes, up and down, and he still hadn’t seen his target. The odds that he would be spotted would only keep increasing. Kick-off was thirty minutes away. The crowd was probably at its peak. From here, it would start to thin out as everyone found their seats.

  He risked rising to his full height. Was Maxwell in sight? No – but Locke was. About thirty metres away, near the park entrance. The blond man was wearing a sling; he’d survived being stabbed, then. Reeve dropped back down. Parker and Blake could be nearby as well.

  Shit. He had gambled, and – for now – lost. Even if Maxwell wasn’t already inside, staying on the street was becoming too risky. He would soon lose his cover. He put the hat back on, then turned. Merging into the northwards flow, he headed back up the street.

  Flynn had moved, but not far. He stayed in the middle of the crowd until he passed her. Now things would get more difficult; he was past the turnstiles. Moving against the tide would make him stand out. And Stone was here, somewhere.

  The Thames Path resumed some ten metres beyond the last turnstile. It was his first available escape route – and the most obvious place to watch. A confined space, no way out if he became trapped. Too risky. He would have to continue along the road.

  Only a few people were going north. He followed them. The turn to the Thames Path was just ahead. Reeve glanced down it as he passed.

  Stone was there.

  The ex-cop lurked around the corner, watching everyone pass. His eyes flicked to the man going against the flow—

  Recognition.

  Reeve veered deeper into the oncoming fans, but Stone was already moving. He ducked, removing the hat, and this time the glasses. A rapid half-turn and he straightened again. His change of direction would confuse Stone – briefly. But he would already be warning his comrades—

  ‘Police! Out of the fucking way!’ Stone bellowed, barging through the crowd. He was now behind Reeve, heading for where he expected him to be. It would take him only seconds to realise his prey wasn’t there.

  Reeve made full use of the brief moment. Another turn, and he ducked into the Thames Path’s entrance. A huge risk – if Stone had a partner there, he was screwed . . .

  But everyone ahead was heading for the match. He slipped between them until he reached the Thames, following the path northwards. His heart thumped, adrenalin flooding his system. No sign of pursuit, but he had taken the obvious escape route. He had to get clear.

  Reeve continued past a complex of tower blocks. A wall linked it and a cluster of smaller buildings. He quickly scaled the obstacle and jumped over. A woman shouted ‘Hey!’ behind him, but he was gone.

  A small garden. He hurried through, squeezing around a bush. Below was a ramp leading to an underground car park. He dropped down and hurried between the buildings. Ahead, more fans streamed towards Craven Cottage. He rejoined Stevenage Road and headed north.

  The adrenalin shot subsided as he realised he had evaded his pursuers. But it had been close. And he had lost his first chance to find Maxwell. There would only be one more: when the game ended.

  But now SC9 had seen him. They would be ready.

  CHAPTER 27

  The final whistle blew. Maxwell rose as the black-and-white mass around him jumped up in celebration. A song began: ‘One-nil, one-niiiil!’ Not the most exciting match ever, but a win was a win. He allowed himself a moment to punch the air in victory.

  But he hadn’t been able to concentrate on the game. Stone had been certain – again – that he’d seen Reeve. This time, Maxwell believed him. That he hadn’t grabbed a suspect was, perversely, confirmation. If it had been mistaken identity, the unlucky lookalike wouldn’t have disappeared.

  So what would Reeve do, knowing SC9 were on to him? Abandon his mission? Or continue despite the increased danger?

  Continue. Maxwell was certain. Reeve’s mere presence proved he had been right. His former trainee wanted answers. Top marks for determination, then. Maxwell would have given him a lower score for good sense, except . . .

  Wel
l, Reeve wasn’t dead yet. He couldn’t fault his survival skills.

  ‘I’m on my way out,’ he said into his mic. ‘Is everyone in position?’ All replies were in the affirmative.

  He joined the herd heading for the exits. It took a few minutes to reach the street. It had been dry under the stand, but now the rain caught him again. Flynn and Blake were across the street. They would take up positions a short way ahead. The others would shadow him at a greater distance from behind.

  No sign of Reeve. He wasn’t surprised. He was probably some way off – watching the watchers. When they moved, he would know their boss was moving too. He would also know that they knew that he knew (that they knew that he) . . .

  Maxwell smiled as the cycle repeatedly endlessly in his mind. In intelligence work, it was too easy to overthink things. To assume an opponent had anticipated your every move. On this occasion, he was playing it straight. Reeve wanted to find him; he wanted to draw Reeve to him. A pure battle of wits. In theory, Maxwell had the advantage – simply of numbers. In practice, Reeve had already beaten worse odds.

  It would be an interesting challenge. Okay, “interesting” in the sense of the Chinese curse. His life was at risk. He could have misjudged Reeve; he might just be out for revenge . . .

  Time to find out. ‘Heading for the station,’ he reported. He turned south towards Bishops Park.

  His shadows followed.

  Reeve took a calculated gamble when he returned to Craven Cottage. His efforts before the match had concentrated on the stadium’s north end. He hadn’t seen Maxwell there – so he moved to the south.

  He followed a circuitous route to Bishops Park. His hope that Maxwell’s watchers had stayed near the grounds paid off. Locke was opposite the closest entrance, looking thoroughly pissed off. If any more Operatives were in the park, they were well hidden. That didn’t seem likely. So far, they had been in the open.

  He took up position amongst trees fifty metres from the gate and waited. The white triangle of Locke’s sling was visible beyond the fence. Eventually a great roar came from the football ground. The final whistle; he guessed the home team had won. Supporters were already leaving, wanting to dodge the crush. Sure enough, less than a minute later the trickle of fans became a tsunami.

  Reeve risked clambering on to a small brick plinth to keep line of sight on Locke. Before long, the blond man moved. Heading south down Stevenage Road – no, into the park. Reeve started to climb down. He couldn’t risk being spotted—

  Wait; Locke had stopped inside the gate. Reeve paused, watching. The striped masses flowed past Locke; blue-and-white miserable, black-and-white celebrating. Was he waiting for . . .

  Maxwell.

  Reeve recognised his mentor instantly. His baseball cap and glasses would hopefully prevent the reverse. He had swapped the Fulham hat for the former; Stone had seen him in it.

  No sign of Stone – but he did see Blake and Flynn. They entered the park ahead of Maxwell. Blake took the path towards the river, Flynn the one that would pass Reeve’s position.

  He dropped down, crouching behind the plinth. Flynn came towards him, Maxwell about twenty metres behind. A glance through the trees across the park. Blake was still heading for the Thames Path. Reeve was in cover; he wouldn’t be seen.

  Nevertheless, he slipped his right hand into the coat. Jammer’s suppressed gun was inside. Practice while Connie slept had assured him he could draw it in under a second.

  But eliminating his enemies was, in this case, a losing outcome. If he killed anyone, even in self-defence, he would have to flee. Too many witnesses and cops nearby. He would lose his one chance to reach Maxwell.

  He waited. Fans marched past—

  There went Flynn. Another fifteen, twenty seconds and he should see Maxwell . . .

  Twenty seconds, almost on the dot. Maxwell was in no hurry. Now he had to wait for Locke – and watch for Stone and Parker. Another check across the park. Blake was walking along the riverside.

  Their most likely destination was Putney Bridge station, about half a mile away. Reeve had reconnoitred it the day before. He knew the route – and the choke points. There were places where he would be at risk of being trapped. That was probably why his target was going that way.

  But he had also found ways to avoid them.

  Locke’s turn to go past. Reeve waited until he was ten metres clear, then peered out. No sign of the other Operatives. He moved up the shallow slope to join the crowded path.

  Maxwell and his protectors continued through the park. Reeve followed, regularly checking behind. He finally saw Stone on Stevenage Road, beyond the fence. Standard surveillance technique: cover the routes on each side of the target. Stone was some thirty metres back. Parker was presumably the rearguard, but the crowd obscured him.

  Reeve looked ahead again, keeping pace with Locke. Locke in turn maintained his distance behind Maxwell. Impatient fans flowed past Reeve, wanting to beat the rush at the station. Concern; by matching Maxwell’s speed, he was moving slower than most. It would make him stand out. Another check to the rear. Still nobody in sight. To the side—

  Stone had closed, just fifteen metres away. He was looking over the fence at the people inside the park. Reeve turned away. If Stone drew level, there was little he could do to disguise his profile. He had to stay ahead of him. But if he went faster, he would be too close to Maxwell . . .

  Stevenage Road angled eastwards, most of the fans filing through a gate into the park. Reeve moved to the edge of the new crush, away from Stone. Operative 63 entered the park – now only ten metres behind him. Looking in Reeve’s direction. Suspicion rather than certainty on his face . . . but he was suspicious.

  The big man weaved through the throng towards him. Reeve moved faster, rounding a group of chanting men. He hunched down. Off with the baseball cap, back on with the Fulham hat. Staying low, he sidestepped, then rose again. A glance back. Stone was only five metres behind, searching for the cap. Reeve walked more quickly still. He would have to risk closing the distance to Maxwell. He matched the pace of the fans around him, joining the celebrations.

  Stone fell back slightly with evident frustration. Reeve saw his lips move. He was reporting his suspicions to Maxwell. A look ahead. Locke was fifteen metres away. Reeve was gaining. He would soon end up sandwiched between Locke and Stone. The park was also narrowing. Somewhere to the right, by the river, was Blake. He was running out of manoeuvring room . . .

  And a major choke point lay ahead. The road on to Putney Bridge, crossing the Thames, was elevated. A pedestrian tunnel ran beneath it. It was the most direct route to the Tube station.

  It was also a death trap.

  Stone’s alert would see Flynn or Blake, even both, wait at its far end. There was no way Reeve could avoid being seen as he emerged. If he followed Maxwell through, he would be killed.

  But if he didn’t, he might lose him.

  Decision point. Maxwell approached the tunnel, Locke not far behind. Another glance at Stone. He was gaining again.

  Maxwell vanished into shadow. Locke neared the tunnel entrance. To its left, brick stairs led up to street level. People ascended; there were bus stops above. Stone was five metres away. Reeve hunched lower, one striped hat lost amongst many. But this close, he couldn’t stay hidden for much longer—

  Locke entered the tunnel – and Reeve broke from the crowd.

  He didn’t run. That would have drawn instant attention. But he matched pace with a couple of men obviously worried about missing their bus. They started up the stairs. He followed closely. Two Fulham fans became three, all moving together.

  He didn’t dare look back. Stone would be watching the stairs as well as the tunnel. Would he pick out the cheap wig, remember the coat? Reeve’s hand found the Walther . . .

  Nothing happened. He kept climbing. Street level. Now he turned his head, gripping the gun—r />
  Stone wasn’t there.

  No time for relief. He had to move.

  The bridge was a major artery linking north and south London. The four-lane road was packed with cars and buses. The nearest pedestrian crossing was fifty metres away. Reeve didn’t have time to wait for the lights. He found a gap in the traffic and ran into it. A driver braked hard and blasted his horn as Reeve dodged his car. One last lane, and he was across.

  He broke into a full sprint. Down a side road, through a crossroads, and into a narrow, bus-only street. The elevated Tube line was ahead. Maxwell and the others would come from a road to the south. He had to reach the station before they did. The thought that it might have been staked out – where was Parker? – crossed his mind. Nothing he could do except react to whatever came at him . . .

  He rounded a corner and ran to the station entrance. Fans squeezed slowly inside; he joined them. Maxwell and his bodyguards hadn’t arrived yet. They would be here soon, though. He needed to get inside before they appeared so he could keep watch—

  Reeve passed through the threshold – and realised he had made a mistake.

  The day before, with Connie, he had explored the station. There had been only one route to the platforms. To his dismay, he now saw fans streaming up stairs that had previously been closed. The extra foot traffic on match day would otherwise cause massive logjams. Which way would Maxwell go? Reeve didn’t even know if he would take a northbound or southbound train.

  He used a travelcard to enter a gate, then went to the nearest stairs. Halfway up, he stopped and looked back. People pushed past him. The metallic rumble of a departing train came from above. He waited, watching . . .

  Blake entered the ticket hall.

  Reeve backed higher, tracking the Operative’s pricey coat to avoid eye contact. The crowd shuffled through the gates. Blake tapped a card to enter. Which way was he going? The northbound platform, or south?