Smoke and Mirrors

by Angus McLean

  ‘It’s okay now,’ he told her quietly, ‘you’re safe with me.’

  Tracy nodded slightly and rested her head forward on his chest. She was warm and soft and womanly in his arms.

  ‘I know.’ Her voice was barely audible over the running water. ‘Thank you.’

  Archer finished washing her as quickly and unobtrusively as he could, feeling horribly self-conscious. Once she was clean Archer helped her dress and strapped her fingers, then left her to blow dry her hair while he showered himself.

  His own body ached all over and he found new injuries as he washed. He soaped himself thoroughly and scrubbed dried blood off with the flannel, which was now badly stained. The burn was red and yellow and nasty looking, and he made sure he cleaned it out properly, using a small bottle of antiseptic which made his eyes water when it touched the raw wound.

  Stepping out and grabbing a towel, he peeked into the bedroom and saw Tracy on the bed, dead to the world, fully dressed. He dressed his wound and rubbed anti-inflammatory cream into his bumps and bruises. He carefully dried himself and dressed in clean cargo pants, a T shirt and boots. He checked his Beretta again and then Tracy’s, put the spare ammo in his pocket and then checked the door and windows again.

  Satisfied it was all secure, he made himself a strong sweet coffee and took some painkillers before sitting at the table and getting out his cell phone. He badly wanted a real drink, but the coffee would have to do for now. He needed to keep his wits about him.

  It was time to make a call.

  41

  Jonty had sounded croaky when he answered the phone at 3am, but after a minute’s talking from Archer he had become wide awake and switched on to what was needed.

  Archer gave him precise instructions, told him to hurry, then disconnected and waited. He sat on the sofa with his Beretta ready, Tracy’s pistol tucked into his waistband, and the cell phone in his other hand. He had an armchair pulled across the door and felt as ready as he could be. He let sleep take him and awoke with a start to the phone ringing in his hand.

  ‘I’ll pick you up in five minutes,’ Jonty told him by way of greeting, ‘there’s a plane waiting.’

  He was so keyed in that he seemed like a different man, even dropping his habitual ‘y’know.’

  Archer woke Tracy, gathered their luggage and led the way out to the front of the hotel. The night porter was still sound asleep in the back of the Reception.

  They were just descending the front steps when Jonty pulled up in a red Mercedes SUV. He helped Archer sling the luggage in the back, doing a noticeable double-take when he saw Tracy’s injuries, then leaped back in and hit the gas.

  As they raced towards the airport, Jonty explained that he had called a local contact and hired him and his plane to make an emergency dash to Auckland. A military medical team would meet them at Whenuapai air base and take them immediately for treatment.

  ‘Re-organise that,’ Archer told him, ‘I need to get back to London immediately.’

  Jonty looked at him in the rear view mirror. After a moment’s pause, he nodded his understanding.

  ‘No problem, y’know.’

  Jonty did the forty minute trip in twenty five minutes and flew past the terminal to a side gate. As soon as he pulled up the gate swung open and they drove through. The gate clanged shut behind them and a man climbed into the passenger’s seat. He was a weathered looking man in his sixties with a white beard.

  ‘Gidday mate,’ he greeted Jonty, in a broad Aussie accent. He turned and nodded to the two back seat passengers. ‘Alright?’

  Archer nodded briefly in response.

  ‘Don’t worry mate,’ the pilot said cheerfully, ‘we’ve been doin’ this for years; you’re in safe hands.’

  ‘We?’ Archer inquired.

  ‘I’ve got a doc with me. He’ll patch you up a bit before we get there.’

  Jonty saw Archer’s look and nodded reassuringly. ‘It’s okay, these guys are solid.’

  Ten minutes later they were airborne in a Piper that had seen better days. Jonty had cleansed them-taking all evidence of weapons or equipment used in the assault-and they now just had to wait to land before they could get on with it.

  The doctor was an equally old man who Archer picked as the pilot’s brother. He was also equally quiet, going about his business efficiently without asking unnecessary questions. He re-dressed Archer’s burn before spending more time with Tracy, repeating most of what Archer had already done but doing it better and with superior materials.

  The plane was surprisingly well stocked and Archer laid claim to a pre-mixed bottle of bourbon and cola. He would’ve preferred the alcohol straight but wasn’t complaining. The doctor produced some American-issue MREs and prepared one for him. Without being entirely sure what he was eating Archer wolfed it in less than a minute and sat back, nursing his drink and mentally evaluating his injuries.

  He wasn’t in great shape and he was certain the burn would require some kind of surgery, he was exhausted, and his partner was in worse shape than him. But his mind wouldn’t stop buzzing. A million thoughts ran through it, pestering him like mozzies in the jungle.

  He felt out of his depth. Self doubt plagued him. This job was like trying to grab smoke What the fuck am I doing here? This isn’t my game. I’m a soldier, not a bloody spook.

  He smiled wryly. What was it that Moore had told him?

  It’s all smoke and mirrors, mate.

  He had that bloody right. He felt like he’d been chasing his tail since the start, always behind the eight ball. Just when he thought he was on top of it the rug got pulled and he was playing catch up again. The enemy were experienced and hard and ruthless, and they always seemed to be half a step ahead.

  This was a whole new playing field for Archer, and he felt like he didn’t know the rules and was trying to play a traditional game against a team of innovators.

  And how the hell did the enemy manage to stay ahead like they did? There was the debacle in Auckland that left a team of cops dead, Boyle’s escape after the Cornwall ambush, and now their own capture and torture in Samoa. And who killed Ruth and why? Ability and planning went a long way on the battlefield, cunning and innovation were crucial. But information was the lifeblood of any operation. Intelligence led to planning. Planning led to success. But where did the intel come from? How did the enemy get it?

  Was there a leak somewhere? Archer thought back to his discussion with the Director after the Auckland incident, what seemed an age ago. He’d challenged the man directly then, told him there was a leak, but it had really been an accusation based on anger, not fact.

  But now he had something to work with. They’d had their legs taken out again and although he had nothing to base his suspicions on, Archer believed he knew where the leak was coming from.

  The hard bit was going to be trying to prove it.

  Maybe it was time to change, enforce his own rules on the game. Mix it up. Speed, Aggression, Surprise; the real SAS.

  Archer relaxed back in his seat and let his breath out. He ached all over and was mentally exhausted. He slipped easily into sleep and the next thing he knew they were landing at Whenuapai.

  42

  An ambulance met them on the tarmac and Tracy was escorted to it, despite her protestations that she was fine. Archer walked her to the back doors and they paused there, neither wanting to take the initiative.

  Finally, Archer awkwardly pulled her close and hugged her.

  ‘You’re a good girl, Trace,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘You did well.’

  She squeezed him round the neck then kissed him firmly on the cheek and pulled away. Her eyes were wet and tinged with sadness as she looked at him.

  ‘I thought it was all over,’ she rasped.

  ‘But it wasn’t. You did what you needed to do.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘You’ll be right as rain before you know it.’

  ‘I gave Matthew up. You need to warn him.’

  Archer smiled thinly. ‘Don’t
worry, I’ll take care of it.’

  She nodded awkwardly, then suddenly grabbed him by the neck and kissed him hard on the lips. Archer blinked with surprise, and then she was gone, turning away and climbing in the back of the ambulance without further ado.

  Archer had the distinct feeling he would never see her again. As he watched the ambulance pull away, he felt a twinge of sadness, maybe even regret. He shook his head abruptly and turned his mind back to the job at hand. Subconsciously he was already planning the next move.

  He knew exactly where he was going to start.

  43

  Pimlico was an area favoured by intelligence operatives because of its close proximity to both Vauxhall Bridge and Thames House.

  For that very reason Rob Moore had stayed only a month in the flat the firm had organised for him when he moved to London before getting the hell out and finding a nice one bedroom upstairs flat in Camden. He’d thought himself smart, getting away from the prying eyes and constant paranoia of Pimlico, and it had taken him a further two months to realise the old lady downstairs was the widow of a Special Branch officer.

  Not only was she an associate of the intelligence community but he knew for a fact she had allowed operatives from both 5 and Special Branch to search his flat while he was out. They both knew the other knew but he liked the flat, liked Camden and even liked the old bird, so they continued their little dance of pleasantries and innocuous conversation.

  At 7pm he unlocked the front door to his flat and pushed the door open with his foot, swinging his daypack in ahead of him in one hand, the other laden with a couple of Tesco’s bags.

  He was halfway through the door when he realised the alarm panel in front of him in the vestibule wasn’t beeping. He dropped the daypack and started to reach for the door before he felt a presence above him on the stairs.

  Archer had a suppressed Sig pointing down at his head. His face was flat and emotionless.

  ‘Come inside, shut the door.’

  Moore slowly put the grocery bags down and shut the door behind him. He raised his hands, fighting the urge to look at his daypack. He was unarmed but the bag contained a can of CS spray, and he wondered if he could get his hands on it. It seemed unlikely; Archer had him trapped in the vestibule and would drop him before he’d taken a step.

  ‘Not exactly my normal welcome home,’ Moore remarked calmly. His senses were in overdrive but he couldn’t tell if Archer was alone.

  The barrel of the suppresser didn’t move. Archer’s gaze remained flat and unforgiving.

  ‘What’d you expect, roses and a nice bottle of red?’

  ‘Well you’re acting like a prick and it looks like there’ll be claret spilled, so you’re not too far wrong,’ Moore retorted. ‘What the fuck is this about, Arch? You dropped your nuts already?’

  ‘You know what this is about. I’ve been chasing Will o’ the fucken Wisp here since the start and I want to know why. I’m tired of the games, Rob. Tell me what the fuck’s going on before I jump to the wrong conclusion.’

  Moore shook his head. ‘I should’ve known this would bite me in the arse.’

  Archer cocked his head inquisitively.

  ‘Not like that, you idiot. You. I should’ve known you were the wrong man for the job. The Director asked my opinion before you were recruited. I recommended you, but it looks like it might the last mistake I make.’ He held Archer’s gaze. ‘For an officer you’re not that fucken smart, Craig.’

  ‘Really.’ The word dripped sarcasm. ‘Why don’t you educate me then.’

  Moore sighed. ‘Can I at least put my hands down? I’ve just done arms and shoulders and I’m seizing up.’

  Archer gestured with the gun for him to sit, and Moore slid to the floor against the wall, the door beside him on one side, a shoe rack on the other. A size eleven Cat made a decent weapon, but it wasn’t as fast as a 115 grain 9mm Parabellum.

  Archer moved half way down the stairs and sat facing him, the Sig held casually. Moore was at a distinct disadvantage here and they both knew it.

  ‘You’re sick of chasing ghosts,’ Moore said. ‘You’re grabbing at smoke and always a step behind.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Welcome to the world of espionage, friend. This is what it’s like. Remember what I told you when you first got here?’

  ‘Smoke and mirrors.’

  ‘Exactly. Believe nothing. Trust no one. And always watch your back.’

  Archer inclined his head slightly. ‘Kinda why I’m here.’

  ‘In the Army it’s usually easy to know who you’re fighting; they’re the ones shooting at you or trying to blow your balls off with an IED. In this world the enemy are usually the least of your worries. It’s your friends in the other agencies you’ve gotta worry about.’ Moore shrugged. ‘You can’t just react to what’s happening in front of you, you gotta be thinking five steps ahead. Everyone has their own agenda.’

  ‘So what’s yours?’

  ‘The same as it’s always been. Protecting New Zealand’s interests, working for my government.’

  ‘Who else’re you working for?’

  ‘Don’t be so naive, mate. I’m one of the good guys, remember? Have you ever questioned my integrity before?’

  Archer didn’t reply, but he was starting to feel foolish.

  ‘Blades don’t go to the bad side mate, so don’t even go down that track.’ Moore let out his breath and shook his head. ‘I’m going to try and open your eyes a bit here, because if you don’t sharpen up fast, it’ll be game over for you before you even get started.’ He gave Archer a hard look. ‘And once this is over, you and I are going to clear the air properly. Right?’

  Archer gave a brief nod, giving nothing away. ‘Crack on.’

  Moore cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts before speaking.

  ‘Take this whole thing back to basics; what’s it all about?’ He ticked points off his fingers. ‘It’s not idealism. There’s no political agenda here. It could be lust, envy, revenge...it could be greed. Thirty two million quid is a lot of dough in anyone’s book.’

  ‘It’s a drop in the ocean for the Saudis,’ Archer pointed out.

  ‘But Yassar’s dead, remember? Who benefits from that?’

  ‘He stepped outta line in the family business. He was an embarrassment to them. He had to go.’

  ‘So the Saudis paid Boyle to pop him?’

  ‘Could be.’ Even as he said it though, Archer knew he was wrong.

  ‘Possible but unlikely. Boyle’s been in it with him, but he’s a heavy hitter among these guys. He doesn’t need some spineless, snivelling rapist as his running mate. He benefits from Yassar being taken out.’

  ‘Thirty two mill buys a lot of potatoes. But he’s not on the inside.’

  ‘Finally.’ Moore smiled slightly. ‘So look at Boyle. How did he escape? How did he know you were in Samoa?’

  The cogs started turning in Archer’s head. Moore pressed on.

  ‘Remember he had all night with you guys in Samoa. He could’ve bled you both dry for hours. Even you would’ve broken, but Tracy would’ve given up the Crown Jewels before too much longer.’

  ‘He wanted to know who’d killed the CHIS.’

  Moore shook his head. ‘No, he wanted you to think that. He asked a question he already knew the answer to.’

  Archer stared at him. ‘Smoke.’

  ‘Exactly. If this is a game of chess, he doesn’t realise he’s just a pawn like Yassar. He has a handler.’

  ‘And the handler’s on the inside,’ Archer realised.

  ‘Mirror mirror, on the wall,’ Moore said softly, ‘who’s the dirtiest of them all?’

  44

  Many banks around the world were happy to do business with no questions asked, providing financial and other services for the criminals, terrorists and paranoid. One such bank was located in a narrow walkway in the City.

  A long standing customer, Michael Levre, made his way through the security screening at 11am. He was quickly shown to a private w
indowless room with just a plain table and two chairs for decoration. The bank officer, a slightly built, effeminate Pakistani man, left him with a safety deposit box and closed the door behind him.

  Livingstone punched his PIN into the keypad and lifted the lid. Inside was a large plain brown envelope. He ripped it open and dumped the contents on the table.

  A Canadian passport and drivers license for Bryan Lawrence, a 45 year old IT consultant from Vancouver. A Visa card in the same name. Two wads of cash-greenbacks and sterling.

  He tucked them into the inside pocket of his charcoal suit jacket, re-secured the box and left it where it was. The attendant opened the door as he reached it, which made Livingstone wonder about the presence of hidden cameras. He paused and scanned the room again but still couldn’t spot one. Maybe it was just good timing. Maybe he was just paranoid.

  Maybe not.

  Livingstone nodded to the man and made his way back through the sterile foyer of the bank and out to the grey stone walls of the walkway. A young Polish woman pushing a buggy squeezed past and Livingstone followed her towards the street. The walkway always reminded him of a setting for an old Sherlock Holmes movie, all swirling capes and thick fog and Basil Rathbone looking intense. He let his mind wander for a moment and immediately regretted it.

  A heavy wooden door opened on his left as he past it and Archer stepped out. Livingstone caught a fleeting glance of him and had just enough time to open his mouth before a needle slipped effortlessly into his left thigh. His momentum carried him another step forward before his leg buckled and he began to fall.

  Archer caught him under the arms and lifted him like a rag doll. Livingstone was aware of it happening but had lost all control of his limbs and his tongue had stopped working. He felt himself dragged backwards through the doorway, the door swung shut and then he was moving down a flight of steps into a dank, cold cellar. Another door shut somewhere above them and heavy feet sounded on the steps. A lone light bulb clicked on above his head. Archer sat him on a chair and moved away into the shadows.