by Mark Dawson
His name was Captain David Tanner, and he was the private secretary for the man in London who had banished him to Spain. Tanner seemed to be looking for someone, and Duffy had a feeling who that might be. He had been expecting it.
Tanner spotted Duffy, smiled and ambled casually up to his table.
The man pointed at the empty chairs. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
Duffy said nothing. He was not one to waste words. He motioned, just a slight downward inclination of the head, to say, “I’m not stopping you.”
Tanner sat, first pausing to hike up the seams of his creased trouser legs. He glanced around him, as though to check nobody would eavesdrop on what he was about to say. As though anyone in this bar would give a damn what two white strangers had to say to one another, Duffy thought. He found, despite the air of nonchalance that he tried to project, that he was nervous. He been waiting for contact to be made for months, and here it was. At last. He said nothing and sat very, very still.
Tanner said, “You’re not an easy fellow to track down.”
Duffy spoke at last, softly, slowly. “Have they decided?”
“Not exactly. But there has been a development. And you’ve been in exile a long time, Duffy. Too long. I’ve been sent to fetch you home.”
MALAGA
6
Tanner had flown out to Spain aboard one of the RAF’s BAe 125 jets. It was a twinjet, most often used to transfer government officials and military brass around the world. The cabin was configured to carry six passengers, but, as it rumbled down the runway to commence its return flight, there were only Tanner and Duffy aboard.
Duffy had tried to engage Tanner in conversation during the drive from the mountains to the airport; the older man had been happy to chat about inconsequential things, but when Duffy moved the conversation onto the legal case or the reason for his abrupt summons back to London, he quickly changed the subject. Duffy took the hint: whatever the reason for his recall, Tanner had been given strict orders not to discuss it.
The plane reached the top of its climb and levelled out. Duffy undid his belt and moved forward. There was a refrigerator at the front of the cabin, and Duffy helped himself to a bottle of Peroni. He took the beer back to his seat and gazed out of the window as the moon climbed into the sky, burnishing the mountain ranges with its silvered light.
The suggestion that it was time to return was not a request. It was an order, even though Tanner was too polite to couch it in those terms. Duffy had not needed to be persuaded. He had been itching to return for months.
Duffy allowed his mind to wander. It was obvious that something had happened in the proceedings that were being brought against him, and he found his thoughts drifting back to the events of two years earlier. They were never far from his mind; his resentment at what had been allowed to happen to him brought them back again and again, an itch that he couldn’t scratch.
Duffy had been sent to capture an Egyptian national who had passed over the Pakistani border. The man—Mohammed Mahfouz—was reputed to have been involved in an aborted bombing campaign in London, and was reported to be heading into the Hindu Kush, where the Taliban would make him disappear. Duffy intercepted him outside Karachi and renditioned him to a CIA black site in Morocco and then, ultimately, to Guantanamo.
Mahfouz’s family had engaged a lawyer from a human-rights charity and, after a highly public campaign, Mahfouz was released and returned home, where he immediately brought a case against the government. He alleged that a British agent—identified only as Witness X—had kidnapped him and then participated in his interrogation in Morocco. The questioning, it was alleged, was illegal and included methods that were prohibited under the Geneva Convention.
Duffy had found the entire process to be a farce. He knew that Mahfouz was guilty; during a protracted session of interrogation—as he gasped for breath after Duffy had removed the sodden rag from his mouth—he had admitted to being involved in a plot to bomb Oxford Street during the Christmas rush.
But none of that mattered. Mahfouz’s lawyer was brilliant, and the evidence against his client had all been dismissed as unreliable due to the method of its procurement. The left-wing press had rallied to Mahfouz’s cause, with leaders written that a British national, innocent of all crimes, had been tortured by his own government.
The government demanded that the agent involved be suspended, and Control had said that his hands were tied. He had stood Duffy down, on full pay, and insisted that he take an extended holiday. Duffy’s parents had a holiday home in Sierra de los Filabres, and he had gone there, staying out of the limelight until the affair died down.
But that had not happened yet; the papers were still full of the charade as the court case wound interminably on.
Duffy had resigned himself to a long wait, with no guarantees about what would happen to him at the end of it. Control had guaranteed that he would not be named, and that the government would quash the proceedings, but, the longer the case had dragged on, the less Duffy had believed it. What if Mahfouz’s case had acquired so much momentum that it was impossible to stop?
“We’ll be there in two and a half hours,” Tanner said.
“Where are we going?”
“The Cross,” Tanner replied. “The boss wants to see you tonight.”
VAUXHALL CROSS
7
Five hours later. The building was the same old familiar grey block on the edge of the river. It was dark. It was cold. It was hammering down with rain. It was just how it was the last time Duffy had been here.
Tanner led him through the corridors of the building, walking a few steps ahead. Duffy glanced at his watch. Eleven minutes to three on a Sunday morning. Well, well, someone was certainly working overtime.
These little early-morning gatherings of the Firm didn’t happen without reason. Not for the first time, Duffy wondered why he was suddenly being whisked back to base like this. It wasn’t because they’d missed the pleasure of his company, that was for sure.
On the other side of the gleaming cherry-wood doorway, two more armed guards flanked the interior. Tanner ushered Duffy through into the large conference room, which was dominated by a long shiny table surrounded by padded chairs. Screens on the walls. No windows. Dim lighting around the edges of the room, strong halogens illuminating the table at its centre. Nothing had changed. Duffy had attended more of these pow-wows than he cared to count.
Several people were already seated and waiting around the conference table. There were a few unfamiliar faces, but Duffy recognised some others.
In his late fifties, grey hair, his six-foot frame folded uncomfortably into his chair, Sir Benjamin Stone was the current head of the Secret Intelligence Service.
Some years older at just the wrong side of sixty but still something of an eye-catcher, Eliza Cheetham was unquestionably the most glamorous director general the Secret Service had ever appointed, and possibly the most ruthless, too.
Then, opposite her was the unmistakable figure of Vivian Bloom, also known as the Reverend, an antiquated senior civil servant and Cold War veteran who never seemed to tire of his duties as point man between the Firm and Her Majesty’s government. While his colleagues were all smartly turned out despite the late hour, Bloom had long ago ceased to care about his personal appearance. He wore a baggy suit that looked as though he’d been sleeping in it for a week. His thick glasses were so greasy it was a wonder he could see out of them. The eternal pipe was stuck in one crinkled corner of his mouth, puffing clouds of cheap tobacco. Duffy didn’t doubt that some poor gopher would have had the job of deactivating all the smoke alarms.
The last person Wolf recognised of those seated at the table was his direct superior, the man he answered to above all others in the Firm and known only as Control. He was sitting quietly, watching Duffy with a stony, penetrating gaze.
The doors closed. Evidently, Duffy was the last to arrive. He approached the table and sat down, then leaned back and surveyed the assemb
ly with a wary eye. Something must be up, for sure. For them to scramble together such a collection of top brass in the dead of night? It had to be a national emergency, or close to it.
It was the comely yet deadly Cheetham who opened the meeting with an acerbic, “Welcome back, Number Twelve. Been spending your enforced vacation well, I trust?”
“Learning the guitar,” Duffy said.
She gave him a smile that would terrify a rattlesnake. “Really?” she said. “You don’t strike me as the musical type.”
Duffy managed a thin smile of his own. “I assume there’s been progress in the case?”
“There’s been a little movement from the attorney general,” she replied.
“A little movement? What does that mean, ma’am?”
“We’re hoping that Mr Mahfouz can be persuaded to take an offer.”
“That’s it? I was hoping for something more than that.”
She shook her head and smiled again. “I’m afraid the situation you found yourself in has become rather more delicate over the last few weeks. Have you read the papers?”
“I’ve been avoiding them.”
She nodded, as if that was perfectly understandable. “The lawyers for the dead man have been pressing for a formal investigation, as you know.”
“Yes,” Duffy said, interrupting her. “And I was promised that wouldn’t happen.”
“Quite,” she replied. “And it is still our position that that cannot happen. National security does not need the spectacle of a judge going through our dirty laundry.”
Dirty laundry. Cheetham always chose her words carefully, and the implication there—of fault, of culpability—was impossible to miss.
“But?” Duffy pressed.
“There’s been a leak—from the American side, not ours. Someone got hold of the recording of the interrogation. It’s been passed to the press, and they’ve been threatening to release it. We’ve issued a D Notice to suppress it, but I’m not confident it’ll hold.”
“I’m on the tape?”
“Your voice. It’s audio only, thankfully, but it’s obvious that Mahfouz was being questioned by a man with a south London accent, and not just the CIA.”
Duffy sighed disconsolately. “This was supposed to have been wrapped up,” he said. “It shouldn’t have taken so long, and now this. If there’s an inquest, and this is introduced?”
“There’s not going to be an inquest,” Stone said quickly.
“Can you guarantee that, sir?”
He glanced away for a second—long enough. “I can’t,” he said, “but you have my word that we are doing everything we can to—”
Duffy cursed under his breath; he couldn’t help it, but everyone around the table heard it, and Stone stopped before he could finish what Duffy knew would be another worthy, but ultimately unsatisfactory, protestation that Duffy had the full support of the service.
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Duffy said. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. But I’ve been hiding in the mountains for three months and, if I might speak frankly, I’m bored out of my mind. I want to get back to work.”
Bloom fixed a stern look at Duffy. “Then you’ll be pleased that we have some work for you.”
“Sir?”
He plucked his pipe stem out of his mouth, and a thin stream of smoke caught the lights as he waved it in the direction of Control. “Control insists that you’re the right man for this assignment. Personally, I’m far from convinced.”
Duffy had to fight down the eager ‘What assignment?’ but he held back. He’d find out soon enough, and he would look like a callow new recruit if he betrayed his enthusiasm.
Bloom produced a thick file and tapped it with his pipe stem, which doubled as a pointer. “As it’s my task to oversee and approve the activities of Group Fifteen from the government’s point of view, I’ve been reviewing your record, Number Twelve. To say it is patchy would be a gross understatement. Your six years with the Marines were marked by more punishments and demotions than any other ten men combined. If not for your exemplary combat skills, extremely high levels of fitness and stamina and coolness under fire––and I’m just reading what it says here, at any rate––they’d have dropped you faster than a hot coal. You’re a live wire.”
Duffy shrugged. He’d heard it all before, a thousand times over.
Bloom hadn’t finished his summary of Duffy’s record. “So you had six years as a commando, then applied to the Special Boat Service.” He paused and shook his head, unable to prevent the corners of his mouth twitching up in amusement. “Which you only did as a bet.”
Duffy cut in: “To prove that I could.”
“And for which you were rejected.”
Control tapped his fingers against the table. “Yet he was top of his selection class for endurance and weapons proficiency.”
“But bottom for discipline and attitude, Control. I understand why you’d need to back your man—you selected him for the Group. But he’s not a team player.”
Control shrugged. “I don’t need team players.”
“Too independent minded. Virtually unable to receive orders from a commanding officer while keeping his mouth shut and his own opinions to himself.”
“I have a short fuse,” Duffy admitted.
“And a big mouth.”
“That’s been said before. I’m trying to be better.”
Bloom ignored the assurance. He closed the file, as if he’d seen enough. “Shortly after being RTU’d, you were recruited to Group Fifteen, though exactly how and why are still a mystery to me.”
It was Control who came to the rescue. “I thought we had already concluded the discussion, Vivian. Whatever the SBS might have decided, I felt that his exceptional skills singled him out as of interest as a potential Group asset.”
Thanks, Chief. Duffy’s recruitment earlier had come as a surprise to him, too. Prior to that, like virtually everyone else, he’d had no knowledge of the Group’s existence. It had been the chance of working alone that had attracted him to the job. Control had sold it to him like that: Group Fifteen agents operated singly, in the shadows, depending on their own wits and resources. It had been the perfect opportunity for him.
“We took a chance,” Control finished. “One that I believe was warranted.”
“Until six months ago.”
Duffy had heard enough. “I’m sorry,” he said, fighting to maintain his manners in the face of what was looking like deliberately spiteful provocation. “I came back here tonight because I was led to believe that the case against me was coming to an end. That isn’t true. You talk about an assignment instead, but now you seem intent on questioning my suitability for work I’ve proved myself worthy of ten times over.” He stood up. “If I might be excused, sirs and madam, I’ll go back to Spain until you have better news for me.”
“Like you said,” Bloom said, “a big mouth.”
Control raised a hand: a warning, perhaps, for him to shut his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Duffy said again.
Bloom gave a dark, mirthless chuckle. “Come on, Number Twelve. You can’t just walk away. You know that. Once you’re in, you’re in. And, whatever my many reservations about your work, Control still has faith.”
“And we do have a job for you,” Cheetham said. “We don’t just think you’re the best man for the job. Under the circumstances, in fact, you’re the only man for the job.”
8
Duffy was confused by what Cheetham had just said, but when she told him to sit, he did as he was told. He looked at the others around the table; Bloom pursed his lips and glanced across at Sir Benjamin Stone.
The head of SIS nodded. “Show him.”
Control slipped a hand down to a hidden console beneath the table, and one of the large wall screens flashed up a vivid high-definition image. It wasn’t a satellite feed of a hidden terrorist base in the hills of Pakistan. Nor was it a war-ravaged landscape so
mewhere in the Middle East. It was an image of a woman’s face.
Or what was left of it.
Duffy gazed at the screen without a reaction. Most people would have turned their heads away or vomited. Cheetham averted her eyes with a muttered, “Christ.”
“Tell us what you see, Number Twelve,” Control said.
“I see a picture of a woman with her face burned off,” Duffy replied.
“Any thoughts on what might have done this kind of damage?”
Duffy glanced again at the picture. Only the styling and length of the victim’s blond hair offered any clue as to her sex. The face itself was almost entirely a mass of burned raw meat. One eye was completely gone, the other swollen shut and liable to go the same way unless seen to by a very skilled surgeon. The lips were burned off, exposing the teeth. One cheek had been so badly marred that it was melted right through, exposing the inside of the mouth. The chin was a glob of tissue fused with the jaw and throat. The overall sickening effect was of a waxwork that had been worked over with a blowtorch. Only this was a real living person, one who was now going to have to live in seclusion for the rest of her days.
“Phosphorus grenade would do it. Napalm, except we apparently don’t use it any more. But I’m betting on acid. Sulphuric or hydrochloric. Either would produce these results, and you can buy them cheap in any hardware shop. Am I to assume this happened here in Britain? Disfiguring people seems to have become a national pastime lately.”
“Correct on both counts,” Bloom said. “This was a sulphuric acid attack, and it took place here in London only a few days ago.”
Bloom nodded to Control. Control pressed another button, and a second photo appeared to the right of the first: a woman’s face cropped from what appeared to be a wedding or party photo.