‘Of course, sir.’
‘Is the Intelligence Committee the same, Jack?’
‘Indeed. I think you can safely let the Home Secretary know that there haven’t been any dubious reasons for the intelligence officer’s disappearance and that the police are not treating it as anything more than a missing person at this stage. They follow fairly standard procedures for people who disappear, as you know, and invariably they won’t be deflected from their very standard operating protocols.’
‘That’s very good, Jack. How much time does it give us? I really don’t want any of the agencies smelling a rat, you know.’
‘We have some time,’ Jack said. ‘It’s a joint inquiry with the military, who are helping the police with their investigation. But, sadly, nothing will become of those discussions and they’ll simply continue to check different lines of inquiry. Sean seems quite happy no one has followed the trail he has uncovered – yet.’
‘Good. I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind. We really don’t want the Home Office flapping around because of all this. What about the press?’
‘All under control. No need for D notices either. I’ve taken care of all that.’
‘Splendid. Shall I report that all is well and that there is nothing of huge concern then?’
‘I would say so, yes. So far, we have no murmurs of concern from the Joint Intelligence Committee – the police inquiry could last for some time – and they certainly have no tangible leads to latch onto. And our man is unearthing things relatively quickly in terms of his last movements and the safe house he was using to operate. So, all in all, we are in a reasonable place right now and have a fair chance of him uncovering the full puzzle.’
Jack was pleased that Dominic seemed comforted by all that he had prepared, which had included setting the deck of cards so that order was maintained and there was no reason for Dominic to intervene further. He knew Dominic liked it immensely when his people made things happen.
Jack poured some water into Dominic’s glass as he looked musingly out of the large window. He listened to Dominic continue after a quiet pause.
‘The Home Secretary will not want any fallout over this, Jack. She is acutely aware of previous cock-ups with our service and wants to know she is protected. That’s my job of course – as well as keeping this well under wraps until I can judge the fallout and the way we handle it after that. There are some very anxious people right now.’
Jack knew that Dominic, for his part, would have been smoothing the ministerial lines, making sure no one was taking the matter to too high a level or asking awkward questions. Except of course for the key men he was protecting, so as to avoid their downfall if the files were to surface.
The first course arrived, and the pair moved onto more convivial conversation on the merits of the current economic outlook for the country and the issue of the forthcoming referendum on the UK pulling out of Europe. It was a well-rehearsed ploy to change conversation around the very nosy waiters in the London club zone. Jack adjusted his napkin on his lap and paused before providing Dominic with information on the current operation on the ground.
‘He’s definitely the right man for the job and he’s made quick progress so far. But I think you perhaps ought to let your people know that this will take time. It won’t be days, it will be weeks, I’m afraid. Sean has found Alfie’s last movements but now it’s a hunt to find where he has stored the files.’
‘Very good,’ Dominic replied as he sat back and began to eat, pausing after each mouthful, before looking back at Jack, awaiting more.
‘We have searched his place in France,’ Jack said. ‘None of his friends and family knew of its existence and he covered his trail quite well – up to a point. I can only surmise that he made a serious error in covering his communication trail and that’s when someone lifted him before we did.’
‘Where are the files though? That’s what we need, nothing else. The mole files.’
‘That’s what will take the time I’m afraid. We think he will have left clues for their release in the event of him being killed or taken out of the game, but we haven’t yet found those clues. The woman he confided in may hold those or they may be hidden somewhere in the surrounding area. It’s a matter of tracking and tracing his movements from the cottage.’
‘Push him on then, Jack. He needs to know the urgency here. And back up the resources and effort as you need to. The clock is ticking if the other side get to them first – and then we’re both done for, my friend.’
‘Already done, sir. He has everything at his disposal and we’ll find where young Alfie is – dead or alive – and then we’ll find the files before anyone else does. Unless he’s already talked – but we’d know that immediately, I assume?’
‘Possibly, Jack. Very possibly. But we don’t know which side we’re batting against yet. I’m working on that. Now tell me about this fellow Richardson – you told me he was the best we had before I gave the order to get him out of Kabul. But is he really? He seems a strong operator from what I saw but why is he the man for this?’
‘He’s one of our very best, sir. If not the best. He’s the son of a builder and was told by his father that he’d have a great military career – if he listened to him and did as he asked. His father worked as a hod carrier before grinding out a career in construction to become the CEO of the company – he made his son do exactly the same. Sean spent three years hod carrying on London building sites, spent time in the toughest of pubs and rumbled with the best of them in the East End.’
‘A curious route into our world though, Jack – fascinating.’
‘It’s quite a story actually sir. He is also a talented artist – he spent his weekends and evenings selling his pictures in Covent Garden before going to Sandhurst, where he excelled. Tough, hardy and ultra-resilient it would seem – learnt his craft in Northern Ireland on undercover operations as well as leading searches for dead soldiers and hidden IRA weapons caches. He became an expert in his field of covert operations and spent long periods on loan to MI5 and to SO13 in the Metropolitan Police – by all accounts, his missions in the Middle East and Central Asia have left a fair trail of bodies too.’
‘What went wrong then, Jack – why did we lose such a top operator?’
‘The death of his wife apparently led to his own downfall – he spent a number of years on counter-terrorism operations, back and forth into Iraq and Afghanistan, before losing his vetting and being asked to retire. Shame really. When he was on loan to MI6, the Fort Monkton staff had never before seen anyone with such a broad skill set – an accomplished explosives expert, very handy with weapons, forensics-trained and an uncanny knack of getting his sources to have total trust and faith in him. A magnetic personality to the death, so many had said.’
Jack relaxed back into his chair as Dominic changed tack.
‘Listen Jack, you’ve done a great job on this so far. Sean seems just the chap we need here, and I have faith in his ability. But I do need it cleaned up quickly. I’ve got a few other issues going on with the damned Russians playing their active measures cards again, and with them starting to hack more intensively into different governments. Seems they are playing with the US presidential election, bashing out disinformation campaigns to influence the electorate and leaking party political secrets to the public – it will get very messy, you know. I’ve also got a whole heap of Brexit issues to deal with and a few dissident actors playing up on this. Let’s get this whistle-blowing mess put to bed – and put to bed quickly. Then we can focus on the real threats of the day – and keep our careers, if this is solved.’
Chapter 24
Côte Vermeille, 19 April 2016
Natalie arrived in Port-Vendre on the Tuesday evening and walked past the lifts to the hotel’s small reception desk. Comfortable, but not very classy, she thought. She was drawn to the pretty eyes of the blonde receptionist and, for a moment, found herself gazing idyllically at the young Norwegian woman. ‘B
onjour madam,’ the receptionist said, raising her head and smiling. Natalie felt their eyes engage for what seemed an eternity.
‘Mademoiselle,’ Natalie replied, throwing a flirtatious smirk. She thought it was cute that the receptionist went coy with embarrassment. Natalie composed herself again, passed the receptionist her British passport and signed the paperwork.
She used her deep-cover guise as a political advisor researching the economic and sociocultural issues of the UK and EU to check in. There was no need to change any of her cover, which existed naturally.
Natalie’s bags were taken to her room and she made her way to the bar, making mental notes on the hotel’s layout. She sat alone at the long bar for a while – only half a dozen guests were present in the large open-plan lounge, most of them watching TV. She decided that she wanted to be regularly seen typing on her laptop in either the small lobby or the bar area. On other occasions she decided she would sit on the terrace overlooking the extensive gardens and lawns and with views to the coast. She knew Sean would surface at some point in the evening or morning. And if Melissa did too it would be a real bonus.
Her surveillance leader, Gregory, and his small team covered the front entrance and the exit point for the road, and monitored it from a public right of way some forty metres away in the woods. They worked in shifts so that they could cover the area twenty-four hours a day.
Natalie felt compelled to succeed with honours on this task. She would not let anyone or any incompetence stand in the way of demonstrating to Moscow her total and ruthless competence. She excelled in her intelligence tradecraft as well as in her more natural spy talent of nurturing senior political and Whitehall figures, and listening to them reveal their secrets. She was an accomplished lone operator but, for now, she had to rely on a team of seasoned Russian SVR agents to undertake the surveillance operation to find Melissa and, ultimately, Alfie and his files.
Natalie closed her laptop and walked outside the hotel, pausing at the double glass doors at the entrance to have a cigarette. It was a still and clear night. Checking who was around, she wrapped her shearling scarf around her neck, and turned a dark corner. A lone figure was sitting in the driver’s seat of a blue Citroën vehicle, hidden behind a line of trees and in a lay-by off the main road.
‘Anything?’ Natalie asked, closing the car door.
‘Nothing at all so far.’
‘OK. Keep your men sharp tonight. The redhead was a tough bitch to crack,’ Natalie said to Gregory. ‘But now she’s got us here I want you to gather as much information as possible on what they’re doing.’
Natalie’s SVR team had conducted a mock execution on Jane, administered electric-shock torture and subjected her to waterboarding. It was the chemical that had made her talk though. Jane had held out for a long time and didn’t reveal anything about where Alfie was or what Sean was doing. She didn’t know. But she did reveal the French location. Natalie had felt an almost orgasmic pleasure in seeing a female adversary suffer so badly, during which time Jane had revealed where she had been in France. The SVR team had taken all of Jane’s laptops and phones and then trashed the safe house in Southwold. Jane’s body was disposed of by the SVR agents as they sought to hamper the ensuing investigation by MI5. It was a good piece of work, Natalie thought. A good start. But what exactly was the British agent up to? And where were the files?
‘Tomorrow will be our day,’ Natalie said, passing Gregory a plan of the hotel. ‘I want trackers on their vehicles, get the cyber team looking at phone data and follow them if they’re up and out of here early in the morning. I want to know what they’re fucking well doing in this shithole.’
She watched Gregory nod, mindful that she had been assured by her masters that Gregory was a good operator, although she harboured some concerns about his abilities on the ground. His real name was Mikhail Trovich, he was the First Secretary in the Political Section at the Russian Embassy in London and was operating under standard diplomatic cover. Gregory had four officers available to conduct mobile and foot surveillance once they had identified who Sean was. Not enough people, she would find herself saying, not enough at all.
‘What about getting into the rooms,’ Gregory asked. ‘I’ve got the kit in the boot. Listening devices and cameras.’
‘Leave all that to me. Just make sure you get the surveillance done properly and find a suitable place to stay tomorrow, away from the town. I’ll get on with the real business of getting the information I need.’
Natalie stepped out of the car and grabbed the bag of tricks from the boot before making her way back to her hotel room. She kicked off her high heels and laid the devices out on the desk to the side of the long mirror: batteries, pinhole cameras, tiny bugs and a small box containing SP17. She felt exhilarated, despite the late hour.
An hour later she had tested all the equipment and took a moment to undress and slump onto the sofa, wearing only her purple underwear. She reached over for the wine she had poured. This will be my crowning glory, she mused, as she thought about her life as a sleeper agent. This was the one that would make her a star. If people did as they were told. And gave her what she wanted.
*
Natalie Merritt had been born Anna Katchalyna in the cosmopolitan city of Rostov-on-Don in September 1981. Her father, Andrey, was of Cossack heritage and had reared five well-to-do children. Natalie was his sixth and was the only child of his destined to become subsumed into the illegal programme, his enduring legacy to the Fatherland. To the West, he was a relatively unknown KGB general and he had sent Natalie at the age of nine to study in the Czech Republic, where she was fostered by a family with Canadian and Russian roots who were embarking on their own illegal careers. The family had emigrated to Canada under the Russian illegals programme in 1991, where they had built a backstory as a typical North American family and awaited instructions from superiors. Natalie was provided with the name of a deceased Canadian child and the beginnings of her ‘legend’ started to develop. She studied intensely in Ottawa and was eventually released from the care of her foster parents to attend St Andrew’s University in Scotland, where she began her immersion in British life. Her father maintained a close eye on her progress via his brother, who worked within Directorate ‘S’.
Natalie thrived on the chase and the crush, as she referred to them. That was her type of spycraft. The chase to befriend those right on the edge of executive government back home in London and the crush to seal their utter infatuation with her, so that they continued to reveal their innermost secrets. She found that massage and touching were the best ways to relax her foes and to get them to talk. The sex was simply a means of getting them to keep returning. Her two pleasures in life were to extract national secrets for her masters at Directorate ‘S’, in return for which she was able to maintain a luxurious lifestyle, and to inflict pain and watch people in pain. On one occasion, she had nearly killed a British scientific officer from the Ministry of Defence through a series of sadomasochistic sexual acts that were nearly catastrophic for the man’s sexuality. It had crushed him so much that his mental health was never the same again. He loved extreme bondage. She delivered pain. And she took it to its absolute limit because he had failed to supply material of any use to her. She secured the scientist with bondage ties, attached electrodes to his nipples and genitals and wired them up to their sex battery, as he had called it. She increased the current until he fell unconscious. She then discarded him with disdain.
*
Natalie caught herself standing in front of the long mirror in the hotel room with her third glass of wine, admiring her persona. She had put her heels back on. The bra had gone.
As she admired her pathological superiority, she picked up a syringe, pulled gently on the lugs and watched a jet of liquid shoot into the air.
She took the small bottle of unopened water, injected the SP17 serum into its base and plugged the hole with a dot of glue.
Everything was ready, for when the time was right.
Côte Vermeille, 20 April 2016
Sean was up early, eager to talk to Jugsy who had finally agreed to get to France and to meet him at the hotel for breakfast. He headed straight down to the pool at 7am and decided on a short twenty-minute swim before breakfast.
The pool was empty except for one woman who was doing gentle breaststroke, taking care not to get her hair wet. Sean was conscious that this woman was looking at him as he walked around the side of the pool and conscious of his battle-scarred body, which annoyingly drew the eyes of people when he was bare-chested. Sean stepped into the pool as Natalie drew close to her last strokes. Sean smiled and very quietly said ‘Good morning’. Natalie smiled back and emerged from the pool, walked up the shallow steps and headed over to the jacuzzi. Sean couldn’t help admiring her shapely figure clad in a red bikini.
He finished his swim and quickly changed for breakfast. He made his way down to the terrace, where it was a morning worthy of sitting outside in the warm weather. He read Le Monde and looked up occasionally at the splendid views of the garden’s lawns, whilst thinking carefully about the next stages of the plan. He had arranged to meet Liz later on at the gîte where the dogs were resting and enjoying plenty of playful fun with Billy Phish.
Jugsy arrived at 8.30am and Sean looked up to see him come bounding across the terrace with a cry of ‘Mucker!’ Sean grimaced at the less than discreet entrance Jugsy had made, as was his norm. Sean had known Jugsy for about eighteen years. Hawkeye, as he was also known, was a leading expert in imagery analysis and, most often, highly sensitive and covert terrorist surveillance from helicopters and using drones.
Sean folded his paper, placing it on the table, and stood up to shake Jugsy’s hand. ‘Great to see you mate. Now settle down for Christ’s sake and try to be a little inconspicuous eh?’
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