He headed for the boarding gate. Passengers were already queueing. That was good; the officials would have less time to examine each face. He stood in line, exaggerating his yawns as he neared the front. His tiredness was no act, though. The trip from Avignon had been tense yet tedious. Several train changes, and the night in a shabby but overpriced hotel in Le Mans. The knowledge that the police were hunting for him hung overhead the whole time.
But he had made it this far.
The employee at the gate checked his boarding card and passport. Brief smalltalk as she did so. He replied with eyes downcast, shoulders slumped. Just another tired traveller wanting to get home. It seemed to work. She returned his documents and directed him through, already turning to the next passenger.
Passport control was next. The security check wasn’t a concern. The gun had been dumped, and his remaining money was below the notification limits. But a lone man travelling on short notice with no luggage, paying in cash? That could raise flags. If he was taken aside to be searched, his already weak disguise would fall apart. And if he was arrested, he was doomed . . .
He reached the checkpoint and presented his passport. The officer in the booth looked up at him. The moment of truth—
A sleepy-eyed flick between photo and face and back again, then the man shrugged. The passport was returned with a laconic ‘merci’. Another rosbif leaving France, so no longer his problem. Reeve caught his own reflection in the glass before moving off. His exhaustion had made him resemble Brownlow more than ever.
Finally, the security check. The phone and his few metal items went into a tray. Through the detector. No bleep. Would the officers pull him aside?
No. Like the man at the passport booth, they didn’t care. British tourists leaving the country were low priority for additional checks. He collected his belongings and moved on.
A bus took everyone to the ferry. The journey to Poole would take four and a half hours. Reeve’s choice of destination had not been random. Information on Connie’s car would have reached SC9 by now. Flynn and Stone had been to her house. The link between Connie and Brownlow therefore wouldn’t take long to discover. Ferry companies routinely forwarded each passenger list to the UK’s Border Force. Brownlow’s passport would almost certainly be flagged for detention on arrival.
But arriving in Poole had advantages. It was far enough from London that the Operatives might not arrive before the ferry. And even if they did, he had been there recently. He had seen the area. There were other possibilities for escape . . .
Connie. He had hardly thought about her, his mind on more immediate concerns. But her passport would be flagged too. Would she be detained? Would Operatives be waiting for her? Scott knew she had heard some of the discussion at the villa. Any knowledge of SC9 was a dark secret. Would they consider her a threat?
Guilt welled once more. She had done nothing but help him. But now her life was at risk. Someone else he’d failed to protect . . .
Locked in maudlin thought, he barely registered when the ferry started to move. The blast of its horns brought him back to full awareness. France slipped slowly away. In four and a half hours, he would reach England.
To face his pursuers.
‘Whoa, hey,’ said Parker, as a notification popped up on his laptop. ‘We’ve got something.’
His call brought all the other Operatives. ‘What is it?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Philip Brownlow’s passport just got flagged. Departing Cherbourg . . . no, departed Cherbourg. The passenger list only just came through. Heading to Poole by ferry. The ship arrives at 14:45.’
Maxwell checked his watch. ‘That’s in three and a half hours. Can we get there in time?’
‘Fucking right we can,’ growled Stone. ‘Flag our car with a national security notification so we don’t get pulled over. We’ll be there in two and a half.’
‘What about Connie Jones?’ asked Blake. ‘We know she’s arriving on the Eurostar. Do we still bag her?’
‘Yeah,’ Maxwell said, after brief consideration. ‘John, Harrison, meet her at St Pancras. Mark, Deirdre, get to Poole.’ Another moment of thought – then he smiled. ‘I know why he’s heading there. He’s going to jump off the ship! The entrance to Poole Bay is narrow; he’ll easily be able to swim ashore.’ Realisation from the others as they too remembered their recent visit. ‘Change of plans. John, go with them. One of you goes to the ferry terminal. If Alex is detained by the Border Force, make sure he doesn’t escape. The other two cover each side of the harbour entrance. Whichever way he goes, we’ll have him.’
‘Shall I still meet the woman?’ asked Locke.
Maxwell nodded. ‘We need to question her. The boss thinks she heard him and Reeve talking. We have to find out how much she knows.’
‘If she knows anything, she’s a potential threat,’ Locke said. ‘She should be eliminated.’
‘Like I said,’ Maxwell replied firmly, ‘we’ll question her.’ He turned to Parker. ‘Craig, I know you’ve got your own assignment. Will you be available if we need you?’
Parker nodded. ‘I have to recce a location. But if it means taking down Reeve, I’ll do what I can to be there.’
‘Good. Okay, everyone get moving.’ Maxwell clenched a fist. ‘Alex is coming home. Let’s give him a welcome.’
CHAPTER 45
The ferry ploughed across the Channel, grey waves smacking against its prow. England’s southern coast grew larger on the horizon. Reeve regarded it through the windows of the ship’s buffet restaurant. He was glad the saying ‘Never swim after eating’ was only an old wives’ tale. In about thirty minutes, he would be putting it to the test.
He finished his meal, then headed aft. He had already worked out his plan. Poole Bay was one of the world’s largest natural harbours. Despite that, its mouth was less than three hundred metres wide. There was an exterior stairway near the stern. He would leap from it as the ship entered the bay. Land was a short swim away. Once ashore, he could head around the bay to Poole. From there, he was only a train ride from London.
If SC9 wasn’t lying in wait.
Someone would be watching for him at the port. But had they also predicted his escape plan? The odds were worryingly high. He knew how they thought; they knew how he thought. Operatives could be positioned on each side of the harbour mouth, armed and ready—
Armed and ready.
The words hit like a thunderbolt. They had roiled in his subconscious ever since he had fled Mordencroft. His mind had been trying to tell him something. But he hadn’t known what.
Now he did.
He knew who had framed him.
Reeve flashed back to his fateful meeting with Maxwell. His mentor had drawn a gun to shoot him in the back of the head. He had sensed the movement and instinctively dodged. A fight, then he had run from the room. Parker had been right outside . . .
Armed and ready.
Why would he have been armed? Weapons were not routinely carried at the training facility. And Parker had been ready for trouble. Why? As far as he knew, Maxwell was telling Reeve if he had become an Operative. Yet he had reacted to the gunshot within moments.
He could have been working with Maxwell, Reeve knew. He had been the first to meet him; they could have planned the kill together. But Maxwell had said nothing about it on the Tube. And everything he had said was true. There was no reason for him to conceal that one point . . .
Parker was the mole.
He had set Reeve up. If Maxwell failed, he had been ready to make the kill himself.
Certainty, as solid as the steel bulkheads around him. Parker, the quiet, amiable one. The observer, always watching, listening. The computer expert. The one with the skill to break into SC9’s servers undetected and alter the profiles. And the finesse to deliberately fail another hacking attempt to frame his patsy.
He had aimed SC9 at Reeve
like a rifle bullet to divert attention from himself. Why? What was his goal?
Reeve thought back to Scott’s accusations. The hacker had been helped by Russian software. The Russians would gain enormously if SC9 was exposed and Britain revealed as a hypocrite. The country claiming to be an exemplar of law and order, carrying out extrajudicial assassinations? Of its own citizens, as well as those of its enemies – and allies?
The diplomatic damage would be huge, humiliating. An already weakened power would become a pariah. Divide and rule, break up opposing alliances piece by piece. Russian orthodoxy. Britain was already out of the European Union. This might see it driven from NATO, from other organisations. Rather than protecting the country, SC9’s own actions would cripple it.
Why Parker had done it, he didn’t know. Were the attitudes attributed to Reeve in the profiles really his? An anti-authority streak, a hatred of the British establishment? Reeve had no particular love for the so-called ruling classes himself. But nor did he actively seek to destroy them; he felt antipathy, at most. They were just there. But Scott represented one extreme end of the spectrum of feeling about them. Perhaps Parker was secretly at the other . . .
It didn’t matter. He would force the truth from Parker if he found him. When he found him. More hard-cast certainty. He had a new mission, a new target. He was going to hunt down Craig Parker – the traitor.
But first, he had to escape the rogue Operative’s comrades.
The coast was now ten minutes away. He resumed his journey towards the stern, heading downwards. Deck five marked the top of the ferry’s hull, everything below enclosed. He went to the starboard-side aft stairs, at the superstructure’s rear. They were directly behind one of the funnels, foul diesel fumes wafting over him. Trucks and cars were parked on the open main deck beside their foot. He faced away from the vehicles, towards the sea.
The coastline stretched away eastwards. The Isle of Wight was a featureless grey mass in the distance. Closer was the town of Bournemouth, pier jutting into the Channel. Nearer still was the elongated spit of Sandbanks, sheltering Poole Bay. It was home to some of the country’s most expensive real estate.
It was also where Reeve intended to make shore. A beach ran almost to the natural harbour’s mouth. The ferry followed a dredged channel through its centre. When he jumped, his swim would be at most a hundred and fifty metres. Despite the conditions, he could do it in three minutes, even injured.
Enough time to make shore before SC9 reached him? He would be a helpless target in the final metres before reaching the beach.
But he had to try. If he stayed aboard until the ship docked, he would need to pass through customs. A confined space, with blanket CCTV coverage and armed guards. With SC9 waiting, a death trap.
It was swim – or die.
The coastline rolled closer. He saw the expensive houses and apartments along the spit and on its wider end. Pricey architecture wasn’t what interested him, though. It was the stretch of concrete extending into the harbour mouth itself. One terminus of the chain ferry crossing the gap, saving drivers a twenty-mile detour. It was also the closest point of approach for his own ship. The quickest place for him to get ashore – and an obvious lookout point for SC9.
Reeve weighed his options. Every metre closer would save precious seconds in the water. But he would be more visible. Even in this weather, tourists would be waving at the passing ferry. Someone jumping off would be instantly spotted.
He watched the approaching spit. The sea was choppy, striated with whitecaps. Three minutes now looked like a minimum, not a maximum. The water should be calmer within the bay. But waiting until he entered it would take him further from land. More time swimming. More vulnerable. Shit. What to do . . .
The ship slowed, following the narrow channel through the gap. Small craft, yachts and motorboats, cleared from its path like scattering bugs. The terminus came into clearer view. The chain ferry itself was out of sight, somewhere to port. Reeve could see cars lined up waiting for their crossing. People too, as the ship drew ever closer—
A sudden chill. Even from a distance, he recognised someone.
Only a handful of people were on the ramp leading into the water. All but one wore hi-vis vests. The only man who didn’t was big, straw-blond, eyes fixed on the incoming ferry.
Stone.
Reeve guessed he had waved some fake ID to enter the restricted area. He wanted to be at the ship’s point of closest approach, correctly guessing Reeve’s intent.
Stone had a long bag slung from one shoulder. It would contain a rifle. The Londoner was as blunt and brute-force as ever. Was he willing to open fire on his target in front of civilians?
If he wanted Reeve dead badly enough: yes.
The bow drew level with the beach. The ramp was two hundred metres away, less. Reeve looked past it. A row of waterfront mansions, some with their own jetties. Tightly packed, no public roads or paths between them. The shore curved around, Poole Bay opening out beyond. More small boats and even windsurfers dotted the shallows. The ferry approached the ramp. Reeve pulled back into cover, peering out at Stone. The Operative was scanning the ship’s flank. Anyone going overboard would become his immediate target.
The ship passed the chain ferry terminal. Stone watched it go. The mansions slid by. Reeve judged distances, times. How long dare he wait before jumping? Too soon, and he would be an easy target . . .
The shoreline started to curve away. Out of time.
He climbed up on to the railing – and leapt off.
The drop was about ten metres. Reeve had tried to throw himself clear of the ship’s wake.
He didn’t make it.
CHAPTER 46
The bow wave’s rolling turbulence snatched Reeve up and flipped him over. Churning bubbles stung his eyes. Disoriented, blinded, he kicked, trying to find the surface. The noise of the ferry’s engines became a metallic roar. And there was something else – a hissing thrum, growing louder—
The propellers.
He felt their suction pulling at him. A rush of fear. This threat he couldn’t outwit or outfight. All he could do was avoid it.
Reeve aimed away from the force dragging him down. Powerful strokes with his arms, strong kicks with his legs.
No effect. It was like trying to swim up a waterfall. The propeller’s vortex relentlessly sucked him towards the whirling blades. He could hear them scything through the water. Cavitation bubbles hissed like steak on a skillet. And he would also be dead meat any second—
The hiss became a shriek – then the ship passed him.
The suction abruptly reversed, prop wash blasting him away. He tumbled again, flailing helplessly.
Finally, the swirling current eased. He managed to stabilise himself, then swam for the surface. His wounded left arm ached. Dizzied, his head broke the water. He looked around, panting. The shore of Sandbanks reeled into view. He was over a hundred metres from land, beyond the spit’s curving end.
Stone. Where was the Operative?
He looked back towards the chain ferry. The ramp was three hundred metres away, the people on it mere dots.
Reeve could see them clearly enough to pick out the one without hi-vis, though. He couldn’t tell if Stone was drawing his rifle – and wasn’t waiting to find out. He swam again, wounded arm aching. The shoreline was cluttered with jetties and boats and trees. If he could get further into the bay, Stone’s line of fire would be blocked.
A horn sounded. Three long blasts: man overboard. The ferry slowed, froth churning beneath its stern. His fall had been seen; people on deck were pointing in his direction. The ship’s crew would try to rescue him.
That was the last thing he wanted. He would be rushed to the terminal on arrival – straight into SC9’s hands. He angled away from the ship. A glance to his right. The ramp was still visible, but no gunshots had come from it. Stone had los
t sight of him. That, or even he was reluctant to blast away in front of dozens of witnesses.
But he would come after him.
Stone had been about to turn away when a figure leapt from the ship. Reeve.
His instant thought was to take out his rifle and shoot him when he surfaced. But he held off. Reeve had splashed down three hundred metres away. Only his head would be visible, bobbing in the waves. A tough shot. And right behind Stone were a couple of dozen cars waiting for the chain ferry. Lots of tourists; lots of phones and cameras. There was only one road out of Sandbanks. Even with his credentials, the police wouldn’t let him through. Not after opening up with an automatic weapon in front of civilians.
Instead he ran back up the ramp. The waterfront was inaccessible, high fences and walls blocking his path. He would have to go around the road inland of the millionaires’ mansions.
Stone leapt into his Discovery, parked on double yellow lines. He tore out of the ferry terminus on to the road. Expensive houses whipped by on both sides. He quickly reached the point where the road curved away from the harbour mouth. The Discovery skidded to a halt at a mansion’s gate. Bag in hand, he jumped out and vaulted the barrier. A large modernist house stood before him. He tore down its side to a waterside garden.
The ship was a great slab of steel beyond. It had stopped to search for the man overboard. Stone joined the hunt. People on the ship pointed into the water. He followed their lead, eyes scouring the waves—
There. Reeve had survived his jump. He was swimming – not for shore, but into the bay’s shallows. Stone realised why. Several small motor boats floated ahead of him. If he commandeered one, he could escape across the bay.
‘No you fucking don’t,’ the Londoner growled. He swung the bag from his shoulder and opened the zip—
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