Operative 66 : A Novel

by McDermott, Andy

  ‘Your mic’s disconnected,’ Blake told him, noticing the loose wire. ‘I’ll tell her.’

  ‘Good. Let’s move.’

  ‘He stole your fucking car,’ Stone told him angrily. ‘He could be going anywhere.’

  They ran around the mansion. ‘It’s an MI5 pool vehicle. It’s got a tracker,’ Maxwell reminded him. ‘We can follow him. But right now we need to go. Before any of your old mates turn up.’

  By the time they reached the second Discovery, Flynn had emerged from the house. She hurried to meet them. ‘Nobody still alive inside, far as I can tell.’

  Maxwell saw her damaged vest. ‘You’re hit.’

  ‘I’m okay. The guy who shot me’s dead.’ She hesitated, then: ‘Reeve killed him.’

  ‘What?’ snapped Blake as he took the wheel. ‘And he didn’t kill you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but: why not?’

  Stone laughed as he climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Fucking fancies her, doesn’t he?’

  Flynn scowled at him. ‘Wouldn’t touch him any more than I’d touch you.’

  Maxwell got into the back beside her. ‘That’s enough. John, go.’

  Blake brought the battered Discovery around. ‘The car’ll attract attention in this condition.’

  ‘Dump it near the closest Tube station. I’ll get MI5 to recover it.’

  Blake drove through the gate. A siren rose in the distance. ‘We picked the right time to leave.’

  ‘Drop me at the van,’ Maxwell ordered. ‘I’ll see you back at the safehouse.’

  Blake halted beside the Transit. Maxwell hopped out, and the Discovery headed off. He climbed into the van’s cab. Locke was already in the passenger seat, arm in its sling. ‘I’m glad you remembered me,’ he said spikily. ‘It was hard enough operating the drone with one hand. A manual is, quite literally, out of my grasp right now.’

  ‘Did you bring the drone back?’ Maxwell asked, starting the engine.

  ‘There wasn’t time. I triggered the self-destruct. It’s a good thing the house was already on fire. I imagine fifty grams of thermite would burn straight through the roof.’

  Maxwell pulled away. The gunfire and explosion had drawn onlookers from neighbouring homes. He would have to ditch the van in case its number had been noted. But there was something he needed to do first. ‘I’ll drop you at Highgate station. I’ll get rid of the van, then meet you at the house.’

  ‘Understood.’ A pregnant pause; Maxwell could tell he was eyeing him. ‘I saw the explosion from the drone,’ Locke eventually said.

  ‘I saw it from a lot closer.’

  ‘Amusing.’ No humour in his voice. ‘I also saw Reeve get the drop on you in the aftermath. Your microphone was cut off.’ The cold eyes turned fully towards him. ‘What did he say to you?’

  ‘Nothing of importance,’ Maxwell replied.

  ‘It’s hard to judge that without hearing for myself.’

  ‘I am the judge.’ He took his eyes off the road long enough to give Locke a stony stare. ‘I’m in charge here.’

  ‘Of course.’ The faintest hint of insolence.

  Maxwell didn’t care. ‘If you must know, he was pleading his innocence again. Claiming he was framed, trying to pass the buck on to someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Maybe it was you.’ Locke drew in a sharp breath, sounding almost offended. Maxwell let him stew for a moment. ‘It wasn’t.’

  ‘Then who did he accuse?’

  ‘Does it matter? You’re convinced he’s guilty.’

  ‘Are you?’

  Maxwell ignored the question, driving on.

  ‘Oi, oi,’ whispered a photographer. ‘Here’s that fucking bitch.’

  Cameras came up to track Elektra Curtis as she entered. Parker joined in so as not to stand out. He couldn’t deny she had a physical charisma most politicians lacked. Tall, confident, long dark hair drawn back in a loose ponytail. Eyes flashing with idealism and energy. She hadn’t yet been ground down by the system. It was almost a pity she never would.

  Almost.

  She strode past, giving even the men there to vilify her a bright, genuine smile. Such shots would not be used, of course. The picture editors wanted sneers, scowls, jabbing fingers. The more unscrupulous would fire up Photoshop to make her seem even more threatening. Curtis, as her first name suggested, had Greek ancestry. Certain newspapers routinely darkened her naturally olive-tinted skin still further. Anything to otherise her: she is one of Them. Not one of Us.

  The newspapers. He held back a scowl of his own. They were all part of the same rotten system. He remembered the picture they had used of his father. Always the same one. Eyes wide in anger, a snarl forming on his mouth. One moment, frozen in time for ever. And now it always represented him. An animal about to bite, a monster. One of Them. Not one of Us.

  But now one of Them was about to burn the whole country down. His revenge had finally come.

  Curtis was welcomed by men and women near the Great Hall. Some of the photographers kept shooting, hoping for the perfect unflattering image. Parker instead lowered his camera and took out his phone. The screen lit up as its facial recognition system identified him. He selected a mail app. Two emails were queued, ready to be sent on command – or at a specific time.

  He selected the first. It had a large attachment, close to the email’s limit. If he could have, he would have made it much larger. But it contained enough. More than enough.

  Send.

  A progress bar began its crawl as the mail was sent to multiple addresses. Some recipients were in the UK; more elsewhere around the world. All were major media outlets.

  The other email, from a different account, would have to wait. He couldn’t risk setting the timer until all his targets were here. Once they were, though . . .

  Britain would catch fire.

  CHAPTER 56

  ‘Go right,’ said Connie, pointing. ‘Once you’re around the corner, the uni’s on our left.’

  ‘You’re better than a satnav,’ Reeve told her. She had identified several shortcuts, shaving precious minutes from their journey.

  ‘I’ve lived in London all my life. Plus, my uncle was a cabbie. I think some of the Knowledge rubbed off.’

  He brought the Discovery around the Australian High Commission on to the Strand. Somewhere behind, he heard police sirens. Another thing shaving minutes from the trip had been his driving. Their speed had rarely dropped below fifty, the oncoming lanes used to overtake traffic. ‘Just in time. We need to get out.’

  He flashed past the brutalist Strand Building, then braked hard. The Land Rover skidded on to the pavement near the entrance to Somerset House. They both jumped out. ‘You don’t have to come with me,’ he told Connie as they ran.

  ‘Alex, you saved my life,’ she replied. ‘I want to help you stop this guy.’ He had summarised his theory about Parker during the journey.

  Reeve had objections, but there were bigger issues. ‘Shit.’

  Somerset House had three arched gateways, two for pedestrians and one for vehicles. All had security in place. He stopped. ‘They’ll never let me through – not looking like this.’ He was covered in blood and dirt and soot. ‘I need another way in.’

  He looked up at the neighbouring buildings. One a hundred metres away had scaffolding covering its front. If he scaled it, he could run around the roof—

  Connie had a better idea. ‘Back here, quick.’ She pulled him by the arm past the abandoned Discovery.

  ‘Slow down, don’t draw attention,’ Reeve cautioned. A police car rounded the embassy. It flashed past and made a skidding stop to block the Discovery’s possible escape. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘The Strand Building,’ she said. ‘You can get into the King’s Building through there
.’

  They reached the entrance. Reeve looked through the glass doors. A reception-slash-security desk inside, two uniformed men at it. Past them, a corridor led deeper into the building. ‘Which way?’

  ‘Straight down there.’ She indicated the corridor.

  It was close to a flight of stairs. ‘Can you get to it from the floors above as well?’

  ‘I think so.’

  A plan came to him. ‘Okay, you distract the guards.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’re an attractive woman in distress. They’ll come and help you. Just think of a reason.’ He pushed through the revolving door.

  ‘Alex, wait—’ But he was already inside. Distress rising for real, she followed him.

  Reeve hurried across the lobby, adopting a stagger. He put a hand over his mouth. ‘Oh, God!’ he wailed. ‘I’m going to be sick, gonna be sick!’

  ‘Help us, please!’ Connie cried. ‘Someone’s been run over! A car came up on to the pavement!’

  The men glanced at the security monitors. One showed the Discovery on the kerb down the street. ‘Oh, Jesus!’ a guard gasped. ‘Call an ambulance, and get the first aid kit.’ He hurried out from behind the desk. ‘Are you okay?’

  She followed Reeve’s lead and put a hand to her head. ‘I don’t know. I – just help, please!’

  By now Reeve had reached the staircase. The second guard was caught between stopping him and following instructions. He did the latter, going to a telephone. Reeve glanced down the corridor. A couple of men in hi-vis gilets were visible some way down it. Instead he hurried up the stairs.

  As he’d hoped, the first floor’s layout was broadly the same as that below. Another hallway led into the King’s Building. He ran down it.

  Parker mimicked his companions and raised his camera as the Iranian ambassador entered. He was accompanied by his wife and a couple of besuited assistants. They marched down the red carpet, ignoring the press to greet other diplomats and officials.

  The head of the Institute awaited them at the Great Hall. But all eyes were on the woman beside him: Elektra Curtis. She had a brief whispered exchange with her host. He nodded, a little reluctantly. She smiled, thanking him, then faced those approaching.

  The ambassador reached the group outside the Great Hall. The Institute’s head spoke to him, indicating Curtis. The ambassador nodded. He stood beside the Member of Parliament.

  Parker took more pictures as the photographers shifted position. Was she going to give a speech? Even better than he’d hoped. There were a couple of television crews present. The kill would be captured live. And the recipients of his first email would realise it was no fake.

  The message rolled through his mind. Attention. A major media event will soon occur. Attached are numerous top-secret files from a clandestine British intelligence agency. They are encrypted; the password will be released imminently. These files detail numerous assassinations carried out by the British government. It is time to expose these illegal acts to the world. The one I am about to carry out must be the last. You will know I am genuine in the next few minutes. Not great prose – but it would make the point with chilling clarity.

  Other intelligence agencies would have intercepted the emails. Keyword warnings would already be flashing at GCHQ. But the accounts he had used were anonymised, impossible to link to him. By the time anyone made the connection, it would be too late.

  The Institute’s head finished a brief address to the onlookers, then moved back. Curtis took his place. She smiled to the cameras, then faced the Iranian. ‘Mr Ambassador, it is a great honour and pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘Fucking traitor,’ muttered a photographer. Parker ignored him, raising his phone again. He set the email app’s scheduler to send his second message. Six minutes should be enough. The countdown began. He returned the phone to his pocket, then looked back at Curtis.

  ‘It’s regrettable,’ she continued, ‘that I can’t speak here on behalf of my government. I may be an MP, but I am also in Opposition. I have no say in government policy.’

  ‘Thank fuck,’ growled another journalist. Some of the non-press attendees glared in his direction.

  Curtis heard him too. A sharp glance, then she went on. ‘However, I hope that will change. The tides of public opinion are turning. People are sick of the current status quo. Politics has become about creating division, stoking hatred. With the collaboration of certain elements of our free,’ biting sarcasm, ‘press.’ Hostile rumblings from the media scrum.

  She brushed it off and continued. ‘Those currently in power have a vested interest in declaring other nations our enemy. Fear of entire peoples gives them a way to keep us scared. To control us. But now is the time for the people to take back control. And the first step must be to end the policies of knee-jerk, unthinking hostility. We must stop looking for excuses to go to war. We must embrace what we have in common, not exaggerate what keeps us apart.’

  She turned back to the ambassador. ‘I’m not saying this will be easy. There are major issues, like political prisoners, to overcome. And as any Middle Eastern history student knows, Iran has little reason to trust Britain. If we hadn’t overthrown Mohammad Mosaddegh, the Middle East would be very different today.’ Quiet, faintly awkward laughter from some guests. ‘But every journey starts with a first step. Mr Ambassador, not every British politician considers your nation a threat. This one hopes that, in time, we can become friends. If you will, let’s take that first step together.’

  She held out her hand to him. He regarded it almost with surprise. But then his own hand came up to meet hers.

  Parker had already lowered his camera. His right hand went into his coat as he pushed towards the front. Fingers closed around the gun.

  It was time to kill Elektra Curtis.

  Reeve ran through the first floor of the King’s Building. Bookcases and murals of important dates in the college’s history flicked past. The Great Hall, he remembered from his online research, was just ahead, one floor below. Two staircases led down to a large lobby. Either would make a good vantage point for Parker to carry out the hit.

  But there was an obstacle to deal with first. A security guard at the top of the stairs. He turned at the sound of running footsteps—

  Reeve slammed into him, knocking him down. The nearest stairs were right beside him. A few people stood on them, one looking up at the unexpected noise. None were Parker. Reeve ran down, pushing past the onlookers.

  The lobby opened out below. He looked across to the other staircase. Still no sign of Parker. A red carpet divided the room along its centre. The people on its far side were smartly dressed, watching with respectful interest. Those nearer to him were more mixed. A lot of younger people – students. But there was also a scruffy, older scrum at the front. The press. Cameras and microphones pointed like guns towards the red carpet’s end.

  There was Elektra Curtis, sharp and professional in black dress and heels. She held out her hand to a dignified-looking man in a dark suit. The Iranian ambassador. His own hand came up. Cameras clicked and flashed in anticipation.

  This was the moment Parker was waiting for. He would strike now for maximum impact.

  But where was he?

  The press pack. It was the only place an unknown face could blend in. Reeve looked down at the crush. Everybody was jostling for position.

  But someone was pushing through with extra force.

  Parker.

  Reeve recognised him instantly, even from behind. His build, his hair, his movements all gave him away. His left hand was outstretched to cut through the crowd like a plough.

  His right was inside his coat.

  No time to run down the stairs. Reeve vaulted on to the stone balustrade.

  Parker pushed out into the open. A security guard stepped forward to intervene – then froze as Parker drew his gun. He swung it toward
s Curtis. The ambassador reacted in shock. Curtis’s head turned towards the assassin—

  Reeve hurled himself over the crowd.

  His outstretched hands caught Parker’s back. He clenched his fingers tight, tugging at his coat as he fell. Parker lurched backwards. The gun went off, the echo piercing. The round cracked loudly off stonework above.

  Reeve hit the floor hard. Pain exploded in his knees. He lost his hold on Parker. The Operative almost fell, catching himself on his gun hand. The weapon was jolted from his grip.

  Reeve raised his head. Curtis was looking directly at him, stunned. ‘Run!’ he yelled. The gun was just a metre away. He scrambled towards it—

  Parker swung his camera. Metal and glass and plastic smashed against Reeve’s head. He cried out, dizzied. Chaos erupted around him as people overcame their stunned paralysis. Screams and yells filled the chamber. But to his horror, Curtis wasn’t running. She was pushing the ambassador into motion.

  The Operative snatched up the gun. He located Curtis. The pistol rose.

  The ambassador finally started to run, Curtis going with him. One of his aides rushed forward—

  Another gunshot. The round hit the younger Iranian’s chest. Blood exploded over his white shirt. He fell. Parker searched for his target again.

  Too late. Curtis and the ambassador passed behind a thick pillar. Parker started to pursue – but Reeve grabbed his leg.

  Parker hadn’t seen his attacker. All he knew was that someone had tackled him. He kicked the person gripping his leg and pulled free. Fleeing people now obscured his targets. He swore, then glanced back as the press pack broke and ran. Even as self-preservation instincts kicked in, a few photographers took pictures as they retreated. The television cameras weren’t following suit, though. Shit! Without a live feed, he couldn’t reveal the encrypted files’ password to the media. He had meant to do so immediately after assassinating Curtis, before anyone overcame their shock.