Defend or Die

by Tom Marcus

  I lowered him gently to the ground and fished a pistol out of a shoulder rig under his jacket. It was a Browning 9 mm. I smiled. Old school. I didn’t think he’d have anything else, but I frisked him thoroughly just to be sure. Satisfied he was clean, I kicked the Browning aside and dragged him over to the opposite corner to Daisy, propping him up against the wall. I took a pair of plastic handcuffs out of my jacket pocket, along with a roll of duct tape, secured his hands with the cuffs, then started winding the tape round his ankles. When he was all done, I stood back and took a proper look.

  He was wearing jeans and trainers with an old tracksuit top: just the kind of gear you’d throw on if you had to get up quickly in the early hours. But there was something about him, even lying slumped unconscious in the corner, that smelled of the parade ground. Maybe the jeans were just a bit too clean, the side parting a bit too neat. Somehow, you couldn’t help feeling this was a man who was most comfortable in uniform.

  I looked over at Daisy. There was no sign the kerfuffle had disturbed her.

  I picked up the torch and turned back to Weston. His chest was heaving, and his eyes began to flicker. I gave him a kick in the side, to speed things along, and he grunted, opening his eyes. I sensed him quickly assessing the situation.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he barked.

  I frowned. ‘People keep asking me that.’

  He grunted again, testing the restraints on his hands. I saw his eyes flick towards the Browning, then over to me. He’d clearly been expecting to find a couple of kids messing about, or some knackered old junkie, not a man with duct tape and PlastiCuffs in his pocket.

  ‘OK, what are you doing here, then? I’m sure you’re aware this is private property.’

  I had to say I was impressed. Here he was, disarmed and trussed up like a turkey, and still he was the one asking the questions. I reckoned he would have done well under interrogation.

  ‘No one seems to be living here,’ I said pleasantly.

  He nodded. ‘So you were hoping to squat here, were you? Filling the place with your shit.’

  I stepped forward and gave him another kick in the kidney. ‘Language, please. There’s ladies present.’

  He looked at me. The kick didn’t seem to bother him, but he was now clearly wondering if I was mad. That would make me more dangerous.

  ‘Anyway, so what if I am?’ I said. ‘You don’t look rich enough to be the owner – even of a dump like this.’

  ‘My employer is the owner, as it happens,’ he said, as if he’d scored a point.

  So that was it. Another piece of the jigsaw fell into place. Shlovsky had bought the house to make sure no one ever found what was hidden inside. And why not? It was probably only a few million, and buying a house on The Bishops Avenue and leaving it to rot was nothing out of the ordinary.

  ‘Of course: Mr Shlovsky.’

  I saw his eyes narrow. That had clearly rattled him. ‘How do you . . .?’

  ‘And you’re Major Weston, formerly of Her Majesty’s armed forces, but now a dogsbody for any scumbag who offers you enough money,’ I continued.

  ‘If you know that, then you know how much trouble you’re in,’ he said.

  I looked down at him. ‘From where I’m sitting, I’d say you were the one in trouble.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘What is it you want?’

  I smiled. ‘That’s better. I just want to ask you a few questions. You see, something happened with the Shlovskys, and I’m not quite sure of all the details. I need you to fill in the gaps for me.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’ His tone was somewhere between compliant and combative. He was probably beginning to think this was some sort of kidnap plot.

  ‘Well, let’s start with Anastasia. And Mikhail. Mikhail’s a nasty piece of work, I think. I reckon you’ve had to clean up one or two of his messes, somewhere along the line. Isn’t that right?’

  Weston didn’t say anything.

  ‘All right. Let’s try another name. How about Duscha Zinchenko?’

  I saw a slight tremor at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Doesn’t ring any bells? Well, I’m going to tell you what I think happened to Duscha, and if I get any of it wrong, you can tell me – OK? Right. Duscha and Anastasia are best pals from school. In fact, they’re such good mates that Duscha’s always staying over. Maybe her family’s still in Russia, or she has problems at home, I don’t know. Anyway, Duscha’s a lovely girl: slim as a wisp, long blonde hair, cheekbones to die for – that real Russian look, you know? So it’s no surprise Mikhail takes a fancy to her. Or maybe he already knew her from school. Doesn’t matter. The point is, one night things get out of hand. And where Mikhail’s concerned, you know what that means. Did he rape her?’

  I looked at Weston.

  ‘Feel free to chip in at any point. No? OK, I’ll carry on. I think he did – or tried to – and she resisted. She’s a spirited girl. She might be small, but she’s strong, determined. I’ll bet she fought like a vixen. He probably wasn’t used to that. It made him angry. So he hit her. Duscha’s not the sort of girl to let a thing like that go. So now we have a problem. If Mikhail’s going to stay out of prison, someone needs to shut Duscha up. Permanently. Someone needs to finish her off. She needs a good hard whack, here.’ I touched the side of my head.

  I paused, trying to read his expression.

  ‘So, another mess, another clean-up. But money and lawyers aren’t going to be able to fix this one. We need to get rid of poor Duscha – put her somewhere nobody will find her. But somewhere close, where we can keep an eye. What about that empty old house across the road? Perfect. And just to make sure, Shlovsky buys it. Anastasia and her mother are distraught, of course. But do they want to see their beloved Mikhail go to jail? You know what happens to rapists in jail, even rich ones. Maybe especially rich ones. No point in two lives being ruined, is there? So they just cry quietly and let it go. How am I doing so far?’

  ‘Do you want money?’

  ‘Money? No. I just want you to tell me one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What did they call her? Did she have a nickname?’

  ‘What has that got to—’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘All right. Yes, I suppose. It was her initials for some reason. Duscha Zinchenko. Dee Zee. Like the Americans would say it.’

  I nodded. Of course. Dee Zee.

  Daisy.

  I shone the torch over at her so Weston could see the hole in her skull. To his credit, he didn’t flinch.

  ‘I’ve got a question for you,’ he said.

  I opened my arms. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘How did you know? How did you know all this?’

  I jerked my head towards the corner. ‘Daisy told me some of it.’

  He nodded slowly, keeping eye contact. Now he really did know I was mad. ‘But what about me? How did you know it was me?’

  I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out something small and shiny, then flicked it towards him. He looked down at the cufflink as it landed between his legs.

  ‘I expect you’ve been looking for that. It must have come off when you were dragging Daisy over here. Death or Glory. The Seventeenth Lancers – the Charge of the Light Brigade and all that. Of course, there hasn’t been much call for a regiment of lancers for a while, so now they’re part of the Twelfth Armoured Infantry Brigade. But it’s still nice to remember the history, isn’t it? Even if it did end up tripping you up.’

  For the first time, he smiled. ‘Well, well. Funny how things happen.’

  ‘Yeah, ain’t it just,’ I said.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  He probably had a faint hope I was going to turn him over to the police. Maybe he thought, with his connections, he could work something out.

  ‘That’s rather up to Daisy,’ I said. I looked over. ‘Daisy?’

  I waited.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I turned back to Weston.

  The
n I reached down and picked up the gun.

  EPILOGUE

  I’d forgotten how peaceful a golf course could be at night. The rain had stopped, the wind had blown away the clouds, and the light of a three-quarter moon meant I could see the dips and hollows of the fairway all the way to the green. Weird to think that in a few hours, the sun would be out and groups of old codgers would be trundling along with their cigars stuck between their teeth as if God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

  But it was this world – the night world where dark things happened – that felt like the real one. And this world, I knew, was where I belonged. It was only because of the terrible things that were done in the night world that the sun would come up tomorrow morning and the birds would start singing again, and the old codgers could have their game.

  I looked over to my left, where three little bunkers were clustered together on the edge of the rough. A fox was running round in circles, dodging first one way then the other as it chased its tail. I’d never seen a fox do that. Fleas, I thought; they must be driving the poor bastard crazy.

  Then I looked again and there was the shadowy figure of a boy. He was running forward with his arms open, trying to catch the fox, while the fox kept darting out of reach, then spinning back to start the game again.

  ‘Silly boy. He thinks it’s a dog.’

  Sarah was sitting on the ground beside me, the cool breeze blowing in her hair.

  ‘I never got him a dog, did I? I know he wanted one,’ I said.

  ‘There wasn’t time,’ she said soothingly.

  ‘There wasn’t time for much,’ I said.

  ‘There was enough,’ she said. ‘Enough for the important things.’

  She looked down at my hands. I felt the hot, sticky blood dripping onto the grass. ‘I don’t know how to wash this off,’ I said.

  ‘You can’t,’ she said, and her voice sounded sad.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Luigi, Bill, Alex and Wayne for all their hard work and patience. You understand how I work and you’re always so supportive. Your experience within this industry is always comforting. In short, you are utterly brilliant.

  My thanks and appreciation go out to my former department at Thames House for their patience and guidance. I will never break my oath to you.

  I would also like to thank Riaz and Tiksha. Your love, support and friendship have always come without compromise. We love you all and look forward to our adventures together!

  AVAILABLE NOW

  The explosive true story of life in MI5 from the number one bestselling author of Soldier Spy, Tom Marcus. Turn the page to read an extract now . . .

  PROLOGUE

  It’s the screams you hear first. There are men and women everywhere, from all walks of life, running, hiding, some frozen into petrified stillness. This isn’t a normal scene in London, but it’s one that is fast becoming anticipated.

  Zero Six.

  More carnage, as I see glimpses of bodies, the walking wounded and those who have already lost the fight. One or two people are recording what they can on their phones, handsets shaking uncontrollably. There’s a flash of the three targets, wearing what look like very crude suicide vests, stalking more prey. The armed police close in, running fearlessly towards the fight.

  Zero Six.

  Right now, I know that MI5 officers will be reacting to a protocol designed to put every conceivable asset on the ground within minutes. Surveillance teams already on the ground will be redeployed. Those who had just finished and were at home with their families, or somewhere desperately trying to switch off, will be in their cars and with the teams immediately. The intelligence officers would be briefing the teams live on the radios, no time to bring them in. The operators in the teams, not just surveillance but the technical attack teams, the office geeks within Thames House, our cousins in Vauxhall Cross and the wobbly heads in Cheltenham, would be working together with one goal in mind: to stop the killers.

  Zero Six, roger, en route.

  The first shots ring out, and I know from the controlled manner this is almost certainly the police firearms officers. Over the past few years, due to the huge spike in the scale of terrorist activity and their capability, the Counter Terrorism Unit is now without question the best trained police force in the world. Tonight, just south of London Bridge, they are proving it, as the echoes of gunfire continue to bounce around the buildings, a brutal counterpoint to the screams.

  My lungs spasm, gasping for air, as I realize I am frozen with my phone to my ear, waiting for an update from my team leader or the operations officer back at base.

  ‘Breaking news here on Sky, as what’s being described as a terrorist attack in the heart of London . . .’

  Lowering my phone, I look at the blank black screen. No call. No messages. No longer frozen, I take a step back, soaking in my surroundings. Fuck. The TV is on, this is on the news. I’m not on the ground. I’m no longer in MI5. I’m not hearing my radio. It was an auditory hallucination. I’ve relapsed. Get out, get out NOW!

  It’s late at night and everyone in the house is asleep. I grab the door keys and leave, my legs instantly propelling me into a run I didn’t know I needed. Moving faster and faster, I cover the couple of miles to a large wood.

  I’m brought up short after vaulting a dry-stone wall that acts as a land boundary to a farm. It’s dark around here – the immediate area is almost pitch-black thanks to the looming treeline.

  As my heart and lungs struggle to replace the oxygen my muscles have burned through, I find myself sitting on this low wall looking towards a break in the trees through which I can see a valley and hills in the distance.

  Zero Six.

  FUCK OFF, THAT’S NOT ME ANY MORE!

  I’m not MI5 anymore but I always will be. I’m no longer part of my team, but I can always hear them. I’m no longer hunting the most dangerous terrorists in the world, but every day I’m watching and waiting for them.

  Even moving back along this dark muddy track I’m trying to pick out a route in the shadows that will take me home a completely different way. Some call it paranoia; even the doctors I’ve dealt with in the past would classify my day-to-day behaviour as paranoid. PTSD or not, the curse engrained into me also keeps me alive.

  Spotting a different route to take, I cut across an open field, dark silhouettes of cows moving slowly in the distance. I’m walking rather than running, giving myself time to face the demons I had convinced myself were gone. My mind is calmer by the time I creep back into the house. Resisting the urge to turn the news on, I strip out of my wet clothes and sit on the sofa thinking about the team. They’ll be on the ground right now, helping to hunt down anyone associated with the London Bridge targets, anyone who could be waiting for the right time to launch their own attack.

  I can imagine the speed at which the intelligence officers on the desk would be shifting through terabytes of live data, creating a triage of threats from thousands of targets.

  I can almost hear the radio transmissions, the team leader calling in assets, continuous updates from Thames House, bikers blasting past every operator, all task-focused and doing everything humanly possible to prevent more attacks like this. Unfortunately, you can’t stop every single one, it’s impossible. And we will get hit again. It might be next week, might be next year, but it will happen. The thing to remember is that our intelligence and military is the best fighting force in the world. Like any world champion, some attacks will find a way through our defences, but we can take the blows and keep fighting. Our guard never drops. Together with my team, I helped stop hundreds of attacks over the years. They continue to do so today.

  I wrote about some of my experiences as an MI5 officer in Soldier Spy. On the one hand, remembering the past showed me that having PTSD wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t a victim, just someone who got caught out in the open at all the wrong times. Revisiting my career for I Spy has allowed me to describe some of the operations I could
n’t include in the first book and go deeper into the challenges that defined me, and the lessons learned along the way.

  The memories of my team are so vivid, they stay with me. To this day I want to be back with them and instantly hate myself for it, because going back would take me away from my family. What I can do is remember them in my writing, and pay tribute to the bravery of the men and women of MI5.

  DEFEND OR DIE

  Tom Marcus, former MI5, grew up on the streets in the north of England. He joined the Army at sixteen and went on to become the youngest member of the Armed Forces to pass the six-month selection process for Special Operations in Northern Ireland.

  He was hand-picked from the Army into MI5 as a Surveillance Officer. He left the Security Service recently after a decade on the front line protecting his country due to being diagnosed with PTSD.

  An extraordinary battle and recovery took place which led Tom to write his first book, Soldier Spy, which has been vetted and cleared for publication by MI5. It was the first true ground-level account ever to be told and the first time in the Security Services’ history a Surveillance Officer has told the real story of the fight on our streets. His debut went straight to number one on the Sunday Times bestseller list.

  Tom now consults on projects within TV and film, including the dramatization of his book Soldier Spy. Defend or Die is his second novel, following Capture or Kill.