The figure shifted – then finally retreated indoors.
Reeve reacted immediately. ‘Come! Come!’ he said, rustling the paper. All three dogs congregated around him. ‘Good boy. Good girl.’ He handed out the remaining pieces. From the wagging tails, the animals were delighted by the gifts. He stroked them. Labradors weren’t used as guard dogs for a very good reason: they were too friendly.
He waited, giving Scott time to resume whatever he had been doing. Then he made his way to the edge of the trees. One dog followed, the others sniffing the discarded paper. No movement at the house.
Go.
His recce had picked out the route least exposed to cameras. Hunched low, he scurried uphill to the terrace’s lower wall. He found cover against it. The dog lost interest and ambled back down the lawn to rejoin the others. Reeve glanced up the stone steps, checking the house. A white globe on one wall overlooked its corner. He sidestepped to halfway across the terrace, then climbed up. Another camera on the house’s far side. He was between their fields of view. Bent low, he moved to the villa’s wall and waited. Seconds passed. No alarms, no sounds of movement.
Reeve moved cautiously to the open door and drew his gun. A peek inside. White walls, tiled terracotta floor. Several interior doors, and a flight of stairs. Scott could be anywhere. Walther ready, he slipped inside.
The house was pleasantly cool. A faint thrum from a doorway to his left; a fridge. The kitchen was empty. He moved on, checking each door in turn. A dining room overlooking the terrace, a small bathroom, a library—
Light in the next opening. Not noonday sunlight, but artificial. He crept to it. An office; filing cabinets, bookshelves. Some sixth sense warned he was not alone. He raised the gun – then swept fluidly around the door.
Sir Simon Scott sat before him.
Reeve kept the weapon fixed upon him as he approached. The head of SC9 was in his sixties; balding, paunchy, pink rather than tanned. Far from the fearsome figure he had imagined. He was behind a desk, a large laptop open. ‘Hands up,’ Reeve ordered. Scott obeyed, raising them to shoulder level. ‘Move away from the desk.’
Scott warily rolled back his chair. ‘Well, well.’ His voice was clipped, expensively educated, condescending. ‘Alex Reeve.’
Reeve gestured with the gun for him to stand and retreat. The older man was a full head shorter. Once the way was clear, Reeve went behind the desk. A glance at the laptop – just in time to see an application close and vanish. Scott had shut down his work before it could be seen. He had known Reeve was coming. Another program revealed how. The villa’s CCTV cameras were streaming straight to Scott’s computer. The Labradors’ barks had made him suspicious. Reeve realised at a glance that there were more cameras than he’d thought. The obvious ones were backed up by concealed devices at every entrance. He had walked right under one.
A rapid check of the desk’s drawers turned up a Glock handgun. Reeve thumbed the magazine eject. The loaded mag clunked out. ‘You didn’t use it?’
‘There wouldn’t be much point, would there?’ Scott replied. ‘I know exactly how good you are. And that you’d kill me if I posed a threat.’
‘I’m not here to kill you.’
‘Then what are you here for?’ The older man scowled. ‘How did you find me?’
‘Like you said, you know how good I am.’ Maxwell had helped him; Reeve decided to return the favour by hiding the truth. ‘I’m here for answers. Why are SC9 trying to kill me? Why did you declare me Fox Red?’
The response was not what he expected. Scott grew visibly more angry, sun-pinkened face reddening. ‘You know damn well why,’ he spat. ‘You’re a traitor! Don’t even try to deny it. The evidence was incontrovertible. Someone at Mordencroft tried to hack into SC9’s servers in London. Tried, but failed. Our security was up to the task. But that started us looking at the recruits. You covered your tracks well, but not well enough.’
‘I didn’t “cover my tracks”, because I didn’t do it,’ Reeve insisted.
Scott ignored him. ‘You used Russian software to help with the hack. Unluckily for you, it also told us who was backing you. The program is apparently very distinctive. Have you been working for the Russians the whole time, or were you recently turned?’
‘I’m not working for the Russians,’ he snapped. ‘I work for SC9 – for Britain.’
The older man’s fury rose. ‘Don’t you dare try to claim you’re a patriot, you treacherous little bastard.’ That he had a gun pointed at him did not lessen his outrage. ‘It took a couple of weeks to pin you down as a mole. All the data we accumulated during training narrowed down the suspects. As well as the instructors’ reports, the computers compiled your psychological profile.’ He glanced at the laptop as if the information were on-screen. Perhaps it just had been. ‘Anti-authoritarian tendencies. Anti-establishment tendencies. Solitary and secretive. Coldness of behaviour. You say you work for Britain, but you never expressed any particular love for it.’
‘Says the man with a second home in France,’ Reeve shot back.
Scott’s eyes blazed. ‘And then there was the deciding factor. The polygraph test.’ Reeve remembered it; a surprise sprung on the trainees two weeks prior. ‘The others probably thought it was just another exercise. But we were using it to catch you. And we did. The results confirmed you were hiding something. That you’d been concealing something from us the whole time, even in the army. Were you working for the Russians even back then?’
Reeve’s anger grew. ‘I am not a fucking Russian spy.’
‘So you deny you were hiding something from us?’
‘Yes.’
‘Untrue. You probably thought you could fool the test. Polygraphs aren’t perfect, we all know that. But there are some things you can’t hide. We know you lied to us, Reeve. You are hiding a secret so ingrained that duplicity about it is automatic. But it is still duplicity.’ Each word came as a sharp, accusing bark. ‘And that is how we knew we had our traitor.’
Reeve couldn’t respond immediately. He knew what the polygraph had really uncovered. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell Scott. The secret he had never revealed to anyone; the necessary lie . . . ‘Someone altered the profiles,’ he finally said. ‘They hacked them to make it look like I was the mole.’
Scott let out a sarcastic laugh. ‘The hack failed, Reeve. It’s how we caught you.’
‘But you need to talk—’ If he revealed how he knew about the amended profiles, it would expose Maxwell. ‘Talk to the instructors, rather than relying on what the computers say,’ he managed instead. ‘Get them to check their own notes. They’ll see things have been changed. Whoever did it is trying to frame me. I want to prove that I’m innocent.’
‘And then what?’ Scott mockingly exclaimed. ‘Do you really think I would let you back into my agency after all this?’
‘How else am I supposed to prove my loyalty? Let SC9 kill me?’
The answer was presented as if it were self-evident. ‘Yes.’
CHAPTER 39
All Reeve could manage in reply was a despairing laugh. Scott’s eyes narrowed with a cruel half-smile. He was about to say more when both men heard a noise. Distant, a sudden, scraping thud . . .
Reeve’s heart rose as he realised what it was. Scott, however, continued. ‘Do you know the significance of the term “Fox Red”?’ he asked, almost conversational. Reeve shook his head. ‘As you no doubt noticed, I breed Labradors. My family always has, actually. Marvellous animals. Not much use as guard dogs, as your presence attests. But strong, dedicated, intelligent, reliable – and loyal.’ A pointedness to that last word.
Not knowing where he was leading, Reeve said nothing. Scott gave him a disparaging look and carried on. ‘The traditional Labrador colours are yellow, black and chocolate. “Yellow” can mean from white to butterscotch, but within a certain range. Proper breeders,’ a faint emphasis, �
��recognise these colours as signs of a strong, pure bloodline. The best lineages can be traced back to the early nineteenth century. But the so-called “fox red” Labrador,’ his disdain was audible, ‘is relatively new. It’s the result of crosses with other bloodlines. It’s impure, and for some breeders, unacceptable.’
‘And that’s where SC9’s code comes from?’
‘Our dark little secret. Fox-red pups are killed at birth so as not to further pollute the bloodline. And also to preserve the financial value of the whole litter.’ A humourless smile. ‘My private joke. Anyone declared Fox Red is a threat to SC9’s integrity. They’re eliminated to protect the whole.’
‘It’s hypocritical,’ said Reeve, frowning. ‘You’re killing the ones that stand out – the obvious targets. But the fox-red genes are still in the whole litter.’
‘Hypocrisy is a necessary survival trait in society,’ was the pompous reply. ‘But the point stands. Traitors must be dealt with before they infect others. And in this business, any suspicion of treason must be regarded as proof. We can’t take any risks.’
Scott’s confidence rose as he spoke, almost to the point of smugness. Reeve decided it was time to turn the tables. ‘That’s all really interesting. And a nice long speech to keep me occupied. I suppose you’re expecting your minders from the hotel to arrive any minute.’
Scott reacted with surprise, then unease. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, I poured a load of diesel on that hairpin between here and town. Very slippery. That bang was their Range Rover skidding off at high speed. I expected you’d have some kind of emergency alert to call them.’
Scott’s mouth opened in shock – then his anger returned. ‘If there was any doubt you were a traitor, that just ended it.’
‘I just wanted to talk to you. Undisturbed.’
‘There’s nothing to talk about, Reeve. I know you’re working for the Russians. The technical aspects of your hack prove it.’ He glared at him. ‘Was that your goal? To worm your way into SC9 as the seemingly perfect recruit? Then hack our systems to steal records of our operations?’
‘Someone’s framed me. Why won’t you believe me?’
‘Because the evidence is overwhelming. If you’d succeeded, what would your next step have been, hmm? Leak our stolen files to the media? They’d have a field day. And Britain’s reputation would be catastrophically damaged. The diplomatic fallout from the revelation of a state-backed assassination unit would be enormous.’
‘That’s not what we do,’ Reeve protested. ‘I joined SC9 to protect Britain and its people.’
Scott almost laughed. ‘Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep soundly at night?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know full well what SC9’s true function is. Or were you asleep on the day of no return? You and the others were asked, very clearly, if you wanted to know the truth. You were also warned that, afterwards, there was no backing out.’
‘I remember,’ Reeve growled. It had come over six months into his training. Maxwell had been the one to ask the question. He had accepted without hesitation.
‘And what were you told?’
‘That SC9 eliminates threats to the British state, by any means necessary,’ he recited. ‘At home, or abroad. Even if this means breaking the law. And also that if we failed . . . we were on our own. We were all deniable assets. And I accepted that.’
‘So you were listening. But not clearly enough.’ Scott’s smugness returned – with a nastier edge. ‘Operatives must be willing to break any national and international law, yes. You were all recruited because you were proven killers, beyond conventional legality. But SC9’s purpose is to eliminate threats to the British establishment. Not the British state.’
‘They’re the same thing.’
‘They most certainly are not.’ Scott seemed almost offended. ‘The establishment is Britain, heart and soul – mind and money. Politicians are ephemeral, they come and go. The political pendulum swings from right, to left, and back again. Usually in balance, but sometimes, events push it to one side. The further the pendulum swings, the harder it eventually swings back. Unless someone puts their hand out to stop it. That’s my job. I send SC9 to correct matters. To protect the way things should be.’
Reeve felt his confidence crumbling. ‘That’s not what SC9 is about.’ Outside, the dogs barked again. Were Scott’s bodyguards here? No; they couldn’t have arrived on foot so quickly.
Scott’s sarcasm was palpable. ‘Oh, isn’t it? Let me tell you exactly what SC9 is about, Reeve. We deal with “turbulent priests” – I hope you understand the reference? You did go to a state school, after all.’
The snide comment prompted another shot of anger from Reeve. ‘Yeah. Thomas Becket. The king said, “Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?” He was speaking hypothetically, but some knights went out and killed Becket.’
‘Good. We deal with turbulent priests so our political masters,’ more sarcasm, ‘keep their hands clean. There are things it’s best mere fly-by-night politicians don’t know. The right kinds of politicians, that is. The wrong kind become our problem – our targets. And I don’t just mean in Parliament, either. The rot can set in at any level. Communists, socialists, Irish republicans, grubby little fascists, Muslims, peaceniks, feminists, tree-huggers . . . Now it’s these so-called “progressives”.’ Scott almost spat the word.
‘But they’re not a threat.’
A stern look. ‘Who are you to decide? But we’ll deal with them like all the rest. Take out a keystone, and the whole edifice crumbles. The threat is removed. The great British public can continue ambling peacefully through their suburban lives. And the politicians keep their hands clean. All thanks to SC9.’
The implications coalesced for Reeve. ‘The politicians don’t know what we do?’
‘The politicians don’t even know we exist. We are the blackest book of all, hidden inside the other black books. We realised the need for a completely deniable covert operations unit after Gibraltar, in 1988.’ Reeve knew the event. An undercover SAS unit had shot several IRA members suspected of planning a terrorist attack. Civilian witnesses revealed the suspects had been given no warning or chance to surrender. The British government was, as a result, accused of executing them without trial. ‘I proposed the creation of what would become SC9. All its funding was secretly syphoned off from other agencies. I’ve been in command since its formation in 1991.’
‘So who chooses the targets?’
‘Why, I do, of course.’ Scott’s hands had gradually lowered; he now clapped them to his chest. ‘I am SC9. I see the collated reports of all Britain’s other intelligence agencies. I see the growing threats, before they can flower.’ His voice hardened. ‘I decide which of these threats must be eliminated. At home or abroad.’
Reeve remained still, gun level – but internally he was reeling. He had known none of this. SC9 took extra-legal actions, yes – to defend and protect the country. Britain’s enemies weren’t hamstrung by laws. So nor were the Operatives. They fought fire with fire. That was what he had been told, what he believed . . .
But a new truth now stood before him. This unprepossessing man held the power of life or death. On nobody’s whim but his own, he could declare someone a threat to Britain. Not even to the country as a whole, just the establishment. And on that whim, SC9’s Operatives would hunt down that person – and execute them.
‘I’m not the traitor,’ he said at last. ‘You are. I’m defending the country. You’re . . .’ A moment to find the right word. ‘Debasing it.’
Despite the gun aimed at him, Scott actually laughed. ‘Do you expect me to believe you joined SC9 to become a noble white knight? A protector of the innocent? You’re an assassin, Reeve. A killer. You defied orders to kill a man in cold blood. That was why you were selected in the first place.’ His expression darkened. ‘But that
was the secret you were hiding from us, wasn’t it? You presented yourself as the perfect recruit so you could infiltrate SC9 for the Russians.’
‘That’s not what I’m hiding.’ It was the one thing he had sworn never to reveal. But now he was out of options. ‘What I’ve been hiding is . . . I lied in court to put my father in prison.’
Reeve briefly froze, shocked by his own confession. ‘I told everyone that I saw him kill my mum. I didn’t,’ he continued. ‘He did kill her; he made me see her body in the grave he dug. But I didn’t tell anyone until much later. And by that time, he’d made up an alibi. The police weren’t sure they could make the charge stick. So . . . I gave them what they needed. And they accepted it. I was thirteen, and I’d been so scared of my dad I hadn’t spoken up. Until I finally found the courage. At least, that’s how they took it.’ His gun hand quivered, slightly. The revelation had taken a physical toll on his emotions.
Scott regarded him impassively. ‘Ironically, that’s Operative-level thinking. But . . . it changes nothing.’ Reeve looked back in dismay. ‘If anything, it explains your actions. The British system failed to protect your mother, so you perverted it to get revenge. I would almost praise your ingenuity and determination. Unfortunately, it made you a prime recruitment target for our enemies. Did they blackmail you? Or did you volunteer for another chance to attack the system from within? If you assassinated someone and then were deliberately caught, you could expose SC9. Was that your plan?’
Before Reeve could respond, he heard movement, close by. He whipped around. But it wasn’t Scott’s minders. ‘Alex!’ Connie said from the hall.
‘In here.’ She appeared immediately. She’d been outside the doorway. The look she gave him was hard to read: shock? Disgust? How much had she heard?
Enough.
Operative 66 : A Novel Page 23