He made his way calmly to the lift lobby, which was crammed with people waiting for the elevators to arrive. He checked his phone as he waited, noticing another text from his boss.
‘Can you call metonight around 9pm – something urgent has come in.’
‘Not another one,’ he thought, as the lift doors opened. He had known that his new role would be frantic but wondered when the high-paced tempo might drop off just a bit. He was flying around the world from job to job with little respite in these heady days of the country being on high alert for terrorism at home and overseas.
Sean knocked on the meeting room door and entered. He scanned the large room quickly. Five faces he didn’t know looked directly at him. He closed the door, smiled and made his way to an empty seat he spied at the end of the oblong table. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘I hope you got my message and I’ve not held you up too much.’
‘Absolutely fine, Sean,’ the chief superintendent at the head of the table said. ‘We held off on the specifics of the debriefing until you arrived. Let me introduce you to everyone.’
Sean was introduced to five individuals, each representing different police, forensic and counterterrorism departments who wanted to hear intelligence of his latest mission in Iraq.
Two years after the death of Yuri, when he was permanently based in London, Sean had been promoted and assigned to MI5, where he led teams gathering intelligence on terrorist and bomb-making cells in the Middle East. His work brought him into a tight fold of people hunting for terrorist caches and he spent many long hours briefing senior police and forensics officers on the capabilities of the most dangerous bombers and Al-Qaeda cells across the globe.
‘So, Sean, can you let us know what you found with your hunter team?’ the chief superintendent asked. ‘We’re keen to hear how you managed to find the body and about the links to their death squads. The deceased was a British citizen, so we clearly need to investigate his death and the perpetrators thoroughly.’
Sean glanced at the pictures on the wall of the burial site and the target compounds he had searched in Iraq. Grim business. A brutal murder. He chose to stand to brief the team. ‘Well, the main mission was to find the body of the British Foreign Office diplomat who was kidnapped when he was visiting Baghdad. We searched a number of target houses to find the intelligence that eventually led us to where he had been buried.’
Sean pointed to the first house on the wall, a large high-walled compound with multiple annexes. ‘This is where we found the core evidence that led us onto the trail and also the indications of who his murderers were.’
‘These three men you mean?’ the chief superintendent asked, pointing to the faces on the wall.
‘Yes. You’ll receive a full report very soon on the evidence linking these men to the murder, much of which has been verified by our paid sources in Fallujah. The death is very much linked to the TawhidIslamic extremist group, led by Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. We used a mixture of intelligence, dogs and air imagery to eventually search for and find the body.’
Sean knew that this would be a long meeting, and he glanced occasionally at the full-face photos of the terrorists shown below the target houses on the wall. The leader reminded him very much of General Yuri. He felt a shiver come over him as he recalled his missions in Uzbekistan. Despite several years having passed, he continually wondered who the mole was who had leaked intelligence about his clandestine operations. How many other agents were compromised too? The ruminations never went away. Especially at night. MI6 had decided to extract him from all Central Asian operations and had assured him that a team were investigating the intelligence leaks. He had never heard anything in the intervening years, and the loss of Yuri continued to play heavily on his mind. He remained thankful that Yuri had saved his life.
The years had been kind to him though. Sean had met and married an MI6 lawyer with whom he had worked during his secondment. They lived in a large military house on the river Thames just to the west of Central London.
He returned home late that evening, glad he had put the grim murder to bed. He remembered he had to call his boss at 9pm. It would be about his next mission, no doubt.
He chatted with Katy in the kitchen for a while as he sat at his painting easel. Three paint brushes. Titanium-white oil. Linseed oil. A battered palette. Katy peered over his shoulder as he continued with his latest oil painting, skilfully adding the white crests of the waves below the fighting bow of Captain Cook’s ship, The Endeavour. The setting sun, glancing below the ship’s ensign, gave the painting a crimson vitality across the rampant waves, gently echoing the ocean twilight he loved.
‘Have you thought any more about adoption?’ Katy said, massaging his shoulders.
‘Lots, why?’
‘Well, you know, after nineteen months of trying I think we really need to start the process.’
‘I know my love. We do have more time though – don’t give up hope just yet.’
Katy kissed him on the cheek. ‘Let’s get the process started anyway – promise?’
As he painted, he spoke quietly with Katy of his hopes for a family and a safe City job with a steady day-to-day life one day. But he silently knew he was hooked into his world of adrenalin too.
It was 9pm. He leant back to check his work, then reached over to pick up his phone. He punched in his boss’s Quick Dial and dabbed at the palette.
‘Sean. Thanks for calling. I have an urgent job for you.’ The Colonel didn’t pause to allow Sean to interject but forged straight on, announcing that Sean needed to be in London by 8am the next morning.
‘That’s fine,’ Sean said. ‘What’s it all about?’
‘I haven’t been given any detail at all but the FCO want to discuss a very sensitive matter concerning your next overseas job. They explained that it’s close hold and that only the minimum number of people are to know the details of the task. This one takes priority.’
‘OK, sounds curious. But yes, I’ll get down there tomorrow and find out more. Who’s the contact?’
The Colonel gave Sean the details of who to meet and explained that he would not be told about the task until Sean briefed him – and that no one else in the team was to be informed. ‘They’ve classified it as TOP SECRET STRAP LEVEL 3. You’ll need to come and see me tomorrow evening at my home once you’ve got the initial brief from London.’
Sean smirked a little. His heart raced for a moment, and he grinned at the intrigue of it all. He put his brush down as his boss continued.
‘The only steer I’ve been given is that it’s a delicate overseas job with your track-and-trace specialism needed – and they want you to scope the task. I’ve told them you’ll look at it but don’t commit to it until I fully understand the whole show.’
It was a short and simple conversation. Sean was to scope the job and report back to his boss. But he had no idea where in the world this would take place. It was the strangest of phone calls, Sean thought, and he was anxious to learn more the next day.
‘Anything interesting?’ Katy said, handing Sean a cup of tea before sitting next to him on the sofa.
‘Just another early start tomorrow,’ he said. ‘My next job by the sounds of it and doubtless I’ll be late again as normal.’
‘Oh well, it’s about time you became more punctual and sorted your admin out better,’ Katy teased. ‘I still can’t believe you missed your flight back from Iraq last week – you live in total mayhem!’
‘Wasn’t my fault,’ Sean retorted. ‘Damned FCO buggered that one up for me.’ Sean took a sip of his tea and they relaxed together quietly. The late nights in West London gave him the chance to explore his dreams, share his fears and rationalise his future with Katy – and he relished the time when he was at home with her. She listened well, and he often shared with her his dreams, his guilt and his thoughts of who may have been behind the killer leaks in Uzbekistan.
Chapter 6
Central London, 13 October 2004
Sean w
oke early the following morning. He turned, strained his eyes and reached over to the bedside table to silence the alarm. Katy was fast asleep. He kissed her on the forehead. It was pitch-black and the aesthetic sound of gentle rain brought him to his senses as he sat half hunched on the bed. He stood, scrambled for his slippers, felt his way around the bed and silently crept downstairs before flicking the hall light on. It was 5.20am and he had to be in London by 7.45am.
His mind started racing. He flicked the kettle switch, grappled for a mug and found himself immersed in a train of thoughts that confused the actions of making a cup of tea. Slowly he came to his senses, drank his tea and finally struggled out of the door and into the silver Vauxhall Omega, cowering as he ran to avoid the rain.
The windscreen wipers were operating at full speed as he drove down Whitehall with the screech of the blades annoying him. It was a dark and chilly morning as Sean glanced at the MOD building to his left whilst the traffic moved slowly down Whitehall. He thought about the curious nature of the call from the FCO, what risks might be involved and any diplomatic issues that might crop up. He turned into King Charles Street and parked in the FCO compound.
He was late again. Living the dream, he mused, as he entered the FCO. He wasn’t to know that this bizarre mission would lead to his life changing direction.
*
Sean was given a visitor’s badge by a flamboyant cockney woman and instructed to take a seat in the foyer. He didn’t have to wait long. The gentleman who greeted him was a diminutive, slightly overweight man in his late fifties dressed in a crisp white shirt and an immaculately knotted blue tie. His glasses were a little askew, with a spectacle chain protecting them, and his hair was slightly balding at the front. He was Sean’s only point of contact for this mission.
They introduced themselves. Sean was immediately struck by the man’s demeanour. He was a middle-ranking career civil servant, and clearly had a defined and stringent routine. He fidgeted a little, seemed a bit nervous and appeared not to be comfortable with making small talk. Nonetheless, he appeared to be a nice fellow and Sean was sure that he must live somewhere in the home counties, got to work early, left late and was immensely conscientious about his work. Sean had no doubt he was meticulous in all he did.
Edward escorted Sean downstairs into a large open-plan office with no signs on any of the doors. He was then shown to a small room with a round table and four seats and a few foreign pictures on the wall, including one of the newly built British Embassy in Moscow. Edward then left to make some coffee. When he returned, he had an old, tattered red A4 folder with the relevant government marking ‘TOP SECRET’ on the front cover.
The file was bursting with documents and Edward placed it in front of Sean, thanking him for coming to see him. The coffee followed, and Sean asked him how long he had worked for the FCO.
‘Oh, a good number of years and probably about three years on this desk,’ he said, fiddling with the folder. ‘I was on the Middle East desk before this one – for many, many years. Now, if I may, I’d like to start by explaining that my contact has asked for some detailed assistance from you and he’d be pleased if you can oblige.’
Sean had somehow known that there would be very little small talk before Edward launched straight into the business of the day. Sean decided he’d grill him a little later, at the end of the business. He always found it worthwhile finding out about people simply to develop a friendly rapport just in case they could be of some use in the future. Sean was a confident, gregarious operator, always able to sense how he could elicit information from new people he met. He was competent at spotting personality flaws and people’s underlying insecurities, and had studied psychological and attachment theories, as well as elements of neurolinguistic programming. A classic intelligence officer’s education.
Sean sipped his coffee as Edward continued.
‘We made our first contact with your superiors earlier this week and we will issue them with a formal request for your services if you think the job is viable. I’d like to give you some quick background to the case.’
He gently nudged the red file marked ‘TOP SECRET’ towards Sean before telling the story.
After he had finished, Sean sat and read every single detail of the file alone. He was not allowed to copy any of the material or take any notes. It was a fascinating story about the evacuation of a British Embassy in 1980 and gossip about a supposed list of Russian moles in the British establishment. It was all captured in handwritten memos, typewritten letters and numerous internal notes. It was a thick file and told the story chronologically. Sean came across a memo that explained the details of previous attempts to close the file, each having failed. No one had ever found the secret list.
Edward returned thirty minutes later with more coffee.
‘Well, the job is certainly doable,’ Sean explained. ‘I will need to visit the place first and I want my best operators on this one. I’m presuming you’ll deal with the relevant clearances I need through your channels?’
Edward nodded and gently adjusted his tie. ‘We’ll get you out there on a visit as soon as you’re available. Our people are expecting that. We’ll arrange everything: travel documents, hotels, support and contacts. We’ve already thought about your cover story.’
Sean sat back, checking Edward’s expression. He was deadly serious and showed no emotion. ‘I’ll need a team of four operators, all under diplomatic cover.’
‘That may not be entirely possible,’ Edward said, looking at his watch. ‘My people are very nervous about the whole affair and the risks attached to it so they want this kept totally under the radar. This could be one of the biggest secrets ever to come out of the Cold War. If it exists.’
With little emotion, Edward asked Sean if he’d like a look around the FCO before locking away the file in the large high-security cabinet in the corner of the room.
Sean had a cigarette in the neatly manicured grounds, chatted with Edward about his past, his hobbies and his family and finally asked him who he could disclose the information to.
‘No one, Sean, not even your boss. Leave that issue with us.’
Sean suddenly became very conscious that he could end up in a prison cell if he got this mission wrong.
*
It was while Sean was overseas three months later, in early 2005, and conducting this assignment, that he was called into the British Embassy Defence Attaché’s office in Moscow.
He only ever remembered the first sentence.
‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you that your wife was taken ill and she has sadly died, Sean…’
A sudden seizure had left Katy with an abrupt and devastating brain haemorrhage that no one could save her from.
Sean’s face narrowed before he dropped to his knees.
PART TWO
CONSPIRACY
Chapter 7
Eleven Years Later
Canary Wharf, London, 2 March 2016
Braking harshly, the Tube train lurched into Bond Street station. Melissa Morgan, nestled amongst the crowded morning commuters, stood her ground as those around her jolted backwards before settling again as the train came to a halt.
Inclining her head, and holding onto her space, she became irritated as two youths entered the carriage, turned and bumped into her with their small work rucksacks. ‘Idiots,’ she thought momentarily, but thinking twice about telling them to take off their rucksacks and put them on the floor. She shuffled into pole position again, composed herself and remained annoyed that she had another seven stops to go, most likely standing.
Those thoughts led to her looking at her shoes. Dark blue high heels, which were beginning to cripple her toes. She lamented that she had put them on that morning, with pretty much no thought for her comfort, in a weary state after a long weekend back home in Cardiff. She’d bought them in John Lewis on a shopping trip with her mother.
‘I know it’s difficult finding someone these days,’ her mother had begun during lunch,
‘but have you thought about maybe looking back here at home?’
‘Mum, really!’ Whilst she loved Cardiff, she never ever saw herself moving away from London, away from her job and its travel. ‘It’s a tough city in which to find anyone decent,’ she said. ‘Mainly lunatic boys and we never seem to find any real men,’ alluding to her forays with her best friend.
‘And your work, my love? How’s that all going?’
‘Oh, you know most of it Mum. A pedantic weakling boss, with no real balls, and me seemingly bashing out all the hard graft for no real value in return. But don’t worry, it’s fun and I’m gonna show the idiot how good I really am.’
Standing there on the crowded train, it suddenly dawned on her that she would be quite late for the meeting with her secret source of information and that her life could change wildly if she got the break she knew she deserved with this source. After five years of working for the Global Bureau of Investigative Journalism, she damn well knew her time was ripe for recognition. She instinctively felt it and, at thirty-five, she was revelling in the challenges of deep-delve investigations, having learnt her craft well.
She really had to nail this. She had nurtured her source, Alfie Chapman, extremely well over the last six months. Alfie was a military intelligence officer who had decided to use the Bureau as an outlet for leaking a variety of stories exposing government and establishment figures for their indiscretions. She recalled how fate, and a short dysfunctional relationship with Alfie, had brought this opportunity to her.
Melissa was confident, but slightly apprehensive, as she emerged onto the giant escalators in Jubilee Gardens from the modern Canary Wharf station in East London. Her standard fare was researching and reporting on human rights abuses and Middle Eastern terrorism. But this was a complete shift from her status quo. Alfie had inadvertently provided her with gold dust.
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