Operative 66 : A Novel

by McDermott, Andy

  ‘Are they as good as you?’

  ‘They’ll have had the same training.’

  ‘But you just beat people with the same training,’ she pointed out. ‘Besides, I wasn’t planning to break into this guy’s secret lair. I’m a nurse, not a spy.’

  ‘I’m not a spy either,’ he replied.

  Connie arched an amused eyebrow. ‘That’s actually the most you’ve told me about what you do. Even if it’s what you don’t do.’

  ‘Well, you know the saying. If I told you what I do . . . ’

  ‘ . . . you’d have to kill me?’ she finished. ‘There’s gratitude for you.’

  Reeve grinned. ‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t hurt you. And I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt.’

  ‘So you want me to come?’

  ‘You can come, yeah.’

  ‘That’s not quite the question I asked, is it?’ But she was still happy with his reply. ‘Okay, what happens next?’

  He indicated her laptop. ‘I’ll book us both on to Le Shuttle. I already looked up where we’re going. Montsalier, in Provence – it’s about a nine-hour drive from Calais. If we take the first train, we should get there by late afternoon. Hopefully we’ll be able to find a hotel. Oh,’ he added, ‘I’ll need your passport number to make the booking. You’ll have to go back home for it.’

  Her sly smile told him she had thought ahead. ‘No, I won’t,’ she said, producing the little book. ‘I’d already decided I was going with you.’

  Reeve took it. ‘You’re in the wrong line of work.’

  Night fell. Connie went to bed, Reeve lying on the sofa. The first train left Folkstone at 6AM; they would have to leave before dawn.

  Booking the journey had been no trouble. Using Jammer’s credit card had raised no apparent flags. People making reservations for other holidaymakers was common enough.

  It was their arrival at the terminal that concerned him. Would a booking at such short notice draw extra attention? And if it did, how far would any disguise get him? If the Border Force realised who he really was, SC9 would come for him . . .

  He felt optimistic, though. Even if Maxwell had set him up, he couldn’t have anticipated that he wasn’t alone. The authorities would be looking for a man travelling solo – as Connie had noted.

  He could get to Scott. He was sure of it. When he did . . . he would find out why Scott had ordered his death.

  And then discover who had framed him.

  CHAPTER 31

  The alarm on Connie’s phone warbled in the bedroom. Reeve glanced at Jammer’s phone. Three in the morning. He had already been up for an hour.

  She reluctantly emerged ten minutes later, finding him in the bathroom. ‘Morning,’ she said sleepily – before jolting awake. ‘Jesus!’ She took a closer look at him. ‘Oh, my God. I hardly recognised you.’

  Brownlow’s passport was open beside the mirror. Reeve had transformed himself into the face in its photograph. All he had used were simple stage makeup tricks – but they worked. Small dabs of liquid latex glue crinkled his skin into crow’s feet and creases. Connie’s makeup kit had also played its part. Powdered light and shade added eye bags, jowls, wrinkles. Cotton wool in his mouth puffed out the cheeks. His bleached hair had changed colour again, to ginger. He had swept it back to raise his hairline. Not only did he look two decades older, but he indeed resembled Brownlow.

  As with his earlier disguises, close inspection would reveal the truth. But in a car, from three metres away, he would pass.

  He hoped.

  Connie was still boggling at the change. ‘Wow. Are you wearing one of those Mission: Impossible masks?’

  ‘They’d make life a lot easier,’ Reeve replied. His voice was slightly muffled by the cotton. He pulled the damp pieces out. ‘Are you ready? We’ll need to go in thirty minutes.’

  She was wearing an oversized T-shirt with a picture of a cartoon unicorn, hair messy. ‘Do I look ready?’

  A joking grimace. ‘I’ll get out of the way.’

  Reeve collected his transformation tools and retreated into the lounge. He packed them; they would be needed for the return journey. ‘Where are your car keys?’

  ‘In my handbag, by the bed. Why?’

  ‘I want to start loading up.’ He found the keys, then collected the gun and spare ammo. Slipping it under his jacket, he left the flat.

  When he returned ten minutes later, Connie was dressed and brushing her hair. ‘I made you some coffee,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks. You look nice.’ The compliment slipped out.

  She beamed. ‘Thank you. But you should see me when I make an effort.’ She glanced at his bag, still on the table. ‘I thought you were loading the car?’

  ‘Preparing it, really. Want some toast?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Another smile. ‘This is all very domestic, isn’t it? Even as we’re about to go to France on a spy mission.’

  ‘Life’s full of surprises.’ Jammer had a large chromed toaster. He put in four slices of bread and pushed them down.

  Twenty minutes later, they had eaten and collected their belongings. ‘Ready?’ Reeve asked.

  Connie nodded. She was more pensive now. ‘I hope this works.’

  ‘So do I. But if anything goes wrong, just tell them I kidnapped you.’

  ‘Not funny.’ They headed for the car.

  Early on a Sunday, even London’s traffic was minimal. They cleared the capital and were on the M2 motorway in an hour. Connie stayed at the speed limit, not wanting to draw attention. On to the M20, heading south-east towards the coast. They reached the Eurotunnel terminal after an hour and forty minutes. An automated check-in at a barrier printed out their ticket. Jammer’s credit card had been accepted, as had Connie’s registration. One hurdle overcome. The next few would be bigger, though . . .

  They stopped at the terminal building. ‘You okay?’ Reeve asked. Connie had become increasingly taciturn as the journey progressed.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, fine,’ she said, a little too quickly. ‘I’m just . . . nervous.’

  ‘It’ll work. You know what to say.’ They had rehearsed responses to potential questions during the drive. ‘Just sound friendly, and don’t talk too much.’

  Reeve put more cotton in his cheeks, then they entered the terminal. Despite his assurances to Connie, he felt tense himself. The building was dotted with CCTV cameras. There were also numerous security guards. If his disguise triggered anyone’s curiosity, he would very quickly be exposed.

  But no one paid him any notice. He used the toilet and waited for Connie. Departure boards told him their train would leave in forty minutes. Boarding would start in fifteen; they had time.

  As long as they cleared customs.

  Reeve’s tension rose further as they drove to border control. There were two checks a hundred metres apart; British and French. The former concerned him more. If SC9 had issued an alert, his picture would be there. There was also another worry. ‘See those yellow boxes?’ he said.

  Connie looked ahead. Between each lane were tall, thin metal cabinets. The road alongside each was marked with yellow hatchings: no stopping. ‘What are they?’

  ‘Millimetre-wave scanners. Like X-ray machines.’

  She blinked in alarm. ‘They X-ray every car? What, without even warning anyone? But that’s really dangerous. The radiation exposure—’

  ‘They’re more like radar. But they can see inside the car. They use them to look for contraband. Right now, I’m hoping they won’t spot Jammer’s gun.’

  ‘What? You brought a gun?’

  ‘It’s spread through the car. I completely dismantled it. I don’t think they’ll recognise all the bits.’

  ‘But – but what if they do?’

  ‘You tell them I kidnapped you.’

  She huffed. ‘Still not funny.’

&
nbsp; The cars ahead cleared the first customs post. Connie gave Reeve an unhappy glare, then drove past the scanner. They soon reached the checkpoint. A uniformed woman gestured for Connie to lower her window. She did so. ‘Can I see your passports and travel documents, please,’ the officer drawled. Connie handed them over. The woman checked them, then passed them to someone behind. ‘Going on holiday?’

  ‘Afraid not,’ Connie replied. Reeve could hear her nervousness; could the officer? ‘We’ve got a sick relative. Going to see her.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ was the rote reply. The officer peered into the Saxo. ‘Just the two of you?’

  ‘Yes, yeah,’ said Connie, nodding. Reeve masked his concern. The woman was paying him more attention than he’d expected . . .

  The person behind her spoke. She turned; an exchange followed. Reeve forced himself not to clench his fists. The car was trapped. Another vehicle blocked the way behind, and the barrier was reinforced. If he had to flee, it would be on foot. And there were dozens of armed Border Force personnel nearby—

  The officer turned back to them. She looked at Reeve, at the passport, at him . . .

  Then returned the documents. ‘Have a safe trip.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Connie replied. The barrier rose. She drove through. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ she gasped, once they were clear. ‘I thought she’d realised you weren’t Philip.’

  ‘She might have done if I’d been driving,’ he said. ‘So you were right. It’s a good job you came.’

  ‘Yes, good job,’ she echoed sarcastically. ‘It’s only going to give me a heart attack.’

  The French border check was no less tense. Since Brexit, the attention given to UK travellers’ documents had increased considerably. But again, Reeve’s disguise worked. Eight years was enough time for a person’s appearance to change from their passport photo. The male officer looked between Reeve and his picture, then shrugged. The gate opened.

  They were through.

  ‘Jesus,’ Connie muttered again as they headed for the train.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Reeve asked.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Just . . .’ She gave him a worried look. ‘It just sunk in that we were committing a crime.’

  ‘But we made it through,’ he said. ‘We did it once, we can do it again.’

  She turned away, unconsciously biting her lip. ‘I’m not planning on making a habit of it.’

  Reeve realised that, for now, nothing he said would help. He sat back as they joined the cars waiting to board the shuttle. The surroundings were joylessly functional, wet concrete and steel shrouded in particulate grime. Even the train was grey. He used Jammer’s phone to check conditions at their destination. ‘At least the weather’ll be nicer in Provence.’ His attempt to break the ice drew only a non-committal nod.

  Before long, they were directed aboard. They passed through several transporter carriages, stopping at the tail of the line of cars. Another vehicle pulled up behind them. Trapped again, and literally boxed in. Reeve knew they wouldn’t have been allowed to board had they raised any suspicion. Despite that, he still felt rising claustrophobia . . .

  But nothing happened. The train was soon fully loaded. Recorded safety warnings played, then, without fanfare, they set off.

  The truck was windowless. They only knew they had cleared the tunnel when the train slowed. A few minutes later, it stopped. The doors ahead opened, and Connie followed the other cars through the train’s length.

  And out. ‘Welcome to France,’ said Reeve, as the tyres met tarmac.

  She managed a half-smile. ‘We made it this far, then.’

  ‘We’ll make it all the way. And back. Trust me.’

  Signs guided them out of the Eurotunnel complex. ‘Drive on the right, on the right,’ Connie muttered. He smiled.

  The route was programmed into Jammer’s phone. Reeve directed her on to a slip road to the A16 autoroute. Nervous now for entirely different reasons, she increased speed. The time difference meant it was after eight o’clock, but the road wasn’t busy. ‘I should have got you to drive off the train,’ she said, knuckles white.

  ‘You’re doing fine,’ he said. ‘We’ll change over when we stop.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘Whenever we need to. It’s just over a thousand kilometres, so we’ll need to refuel at least once.’

  ‘Where’s the first place we can stop?’

  He laughed, then checked the phone. ‘There’s an aire – a service station – on the A26. Just over twenty kilometres.’

  ‘Great. Sorry, but you’ll be doing most of the driving.’

  ‘I don’t mind. Follow this road. When you see signs for the A26, head right. And remember, in rain the speed limit’s twenty kph lower.’

  As in England, it was still raining, but the clouds here seemed lighter. Reeve regarded the phone again. The estimated journey time was nine hours and thirty minutes. Longer in this weather; they would probably arrive around six. And then they still had to find a hotel . . .

  The motorway rolled by. Before long, signs appeared. A26/E15, Reims-Paris. Connie followed them. They merged on to a new autoroute.

  The long journey south through France had begun.

  And at its end was the man who had ordered Reeve’s death.

  CHAPTER 32

  Reeve took the wheel at the first aire. The sky brightened as they drove south. After an hour, the rain finally stopped. By the time they passed the city of Reims, the clouds had lifted. For what felt like the first time in years, he saw the sun.

  Connie’s mood improved too. By a third of the way through the journey, she was her usual cheery self. Little red-roofed villages slipped by, quaint churches at the heart of each. ‘It’s really beautiful,’ she said. Rolling green farmland dotted with wind turbines was interspersed with woods.

  ‘Yeah, it is,’ Reeve replied, stifling a yawn. Despite its attractiveness, the landscape made for a monotonous drive.

  She noticed, despite his attempt to hide it. ‘I’ll drive again at the next aire.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘You’re tired. Probably,’ a cheeky smile, ‘because you’re so old.’

  He belatedly remembered he was still disguised. ‘Maybe I do need a refresher.’

  Rest stops were frequent on French motorways. Reeve pulled in to the next. It was little more than toilet facilities surrounded by trees, but would do. Connie went to a cubicle while Reeve used a washbasin. ‘Amazing the difference a bit of sun makes,’ she joked, when they met again. ‘It’s taken years off you.’ He had washed away the bags and wrinkles. ‘You look good.’

  He smiled. ‘Thanks. Are you sure you want to drive?’

  ‘Sure. You need a break. And I should practise.’

  The journey resumed. With the rain gone, they could travel at the full speed limit. At 130 kilometres per hour, even the little Saxo ate up the distance. They chatted about everything, and nothing. Reeve found that oddly liberating. It had been a long time since he’d just talked to someone. No ranks and hierarchy, no instructions and orders, no competitiveness over training – no seriousness. He enjoyed it. That in itself was a feeling he hadn’t had for a while.

  The conversation came around to Connie’s family. Both her parents were dead, he learned. Her father in her teens, her mother a few years ago. No siblings, but she had cousins in Italy. Also an Italian grandmother, Constantia . . .

  That prompted him to pick up her passport. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked – followed by a more urgent, ‘No, wait!’

  Too late. He had opened it. ‘So Connie’s short for Constantia? And your full name is—’ It was listed in the passport as Grace Constantia Jones. He couldn’t help but smile. ‘Grace Jones?’

  ‘Give me that!’ She snatched away the passport, half-annoyed, half-amused. ‘My parents didn’t think things through. They
named me after both my grandmothers. I’ve heard all the jokes. Go out dancing? “You’re a slave to the rhythm!” When I learned to drive, it was always “pull up to the bumper, baby”. So I started calling myself Connie.’

  ‘Not Constantia?’

  A resigned sigh. ‘Constantia Jones,’ she explained, ‘was an infamous eighteenth-century prostitute. My parents didn’t have Google when I was born. But it’s the first thing that comes up now. Hence, Connie. You have no idea how good it felt to get a new identity.’

  ‘Actually . . .’ He hesitated. But now Connie was regarding him with curiosity. ‘Actually, I do,’ he pressed on. ‘Alex Reeve isn’t my original name.’

  ‘It’s not your real name?’

  ‘It is – now. But I changed it after I joined my new unit. All the recruits did.’

  ‘Why did you choose Alex Reeve?’

  ‘It was just top of a list of options. I could have made something up – some of the others did. But I wasn’t bothered about sounding like some movie tough-guy.’ He knew that was exactly why Mark Stone had picked his new moniker. ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s my real name now. I never liked my old one anyway.’

  Connie’s interest was piqued. ‘What was it?’

  ‘I . . . can’t tell you.’

  ‘What? Oh, come on,’ she protested. ‘You can’t lead me on like that.’

  ‘It’s for security reasons. One of the rules.’

  ‘The rules of the people who are trying to kill you?’

  Reeve remained silent. He wanted to tell her, but SC9’s regulations were firmly engrained. On the other hand . . . he couldn’t dispute her point. His loyalty had definitely not been returned. And she was an ally, a friend. She had gone above and beyond to help him.

  What could it hurt?

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I used to be called . . .’ A moment to overcome his instinctual secrecy. ‘Dominic Finch.’

  Connie looked at him. ‘Yeah . . . you don’t seem like a Dominic. Were you named after a relative?’

  ‘No. It was a name my mum liked. I think it was a character on television.’ The thought of his mother changed his mood, as if the grey clouds had returned. The open landscape suddenly felt threatening.