The Boardman Files

by Gus Ross

  Charles was not a man that was fazed very easily, he worked on the basis that if you thought through all the options and covered them all, then you couldn’t fail to win. Of course that was a rather expensive way to do things and occasionally there were options that were missed, but on the whole it had proved a pretty effective strategy. Halfway along the side street, which Eva Richards was now sprinting down, was a side entrance to the hotel that she had not been aware of, and beside that stood two men in suits. Further down the same street, on double yellow lines, sat a plain grey Ford Mondeo, with its engine idling.

  Alex Boardman walked into the room and sat down. He nodded as the secretary offered to bring him some coffee before leaving him to wait.

  He had never cared much for this place, although it had been years since he had last been here. Not much had changed; the meeting rooms always reminded him of those old libraries that seemed to frequent the stately homes that were often featured in period dramas, or episodes of Miss Marple, or other shows of that ilk (his dear old Gran had loved those shows and they were always playing when he went to visit her). The ceilings were stupidly high and the walls were panelled with dark wood to about halfway, the windows, which lined the room to his right were also stupidly high. He sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by eight chairs that were far too modern for their surroundings and waited. He reckoned that this room was just too ‘low tech’ given what this place was really all about; almost like a facade to present to the public. Now there was a concept he was familiar with.

  He was pretty sure that somewhere in the building, probably buried in the basement, was the real heart of the place and that was where the real high tech stuff would be. He had never seen it, but he knew it had to exist. The thought fascinated him to the point that he did not even notice the door opening.

  “Boardman. Good of you to make it.” George Thomson thrust out his right hand as he spoke.

  “No problem.” Alex Boardman half rose from his chair as he met Thomson’s hand.

  Thomson sat in the chair nearest to the door, and to Boardman, and placed a blue folder on the desk. He seemed to be in deep contemplation of his opening gambit before he turned to fix his gaze.

  “We have a situation Alex.” There was another long pause and then he spoke again. “And I’m afraid that this one is a bit of a game changer.”

  Boardman looked at the old man with an expression that was part question and part concern. He had thought it odd to be summoned in the way he had been, but the fact the old man himself had chosen to meet with him in person meant that already the stakes were high.

  Thomson reached into the folder and produced a series of photographs, which he purposefully spread out in front his guest.

  “Clearly you are both very well acquainted, but unfortunately not well acquainted enough.”

  Boardman had stifled his first reaction to the photos in front of him, but already he did not like where this was going.

  “I don’t understand,” he said questioningly. To be fair, Alex Boardman did understand, he could have joined the dots without breaking sweat. The fact was that he did not want to understand, and in the same way that when faced with the unacceptable truth, or incomprehensible fact, most of us will react with a question or plain disbelief (as if it might somehow negate the reality), his mind was now questioning what it already knew to be true.

  “Oh I think you do Alex. Your girlfriend is not who you think she is.”

  Boardman pushed the pictures away from himself and they slid across the desk.

  “We have known for some time, but until now we were... managing the situation.” Thomson’s deliberation over the word ‘managing’ was like the proverbial red rag to the bull.

  “Managing! What the hell does managing mean? For Christ’s sake George, have I not given enough to this place? My whole bloody life is a lie and now you tell me you’ve been ‘managing’ my love life as well. Fuck me!” Boardman was now on his feet and pacing aggressively back and forth, shaking his head as he went. The old man simply watched. “This is bull. What is it about her? Go on, out with it. Tell me now why don’t you? Go on.”

  “Alex, I know how hard this must be, but please, I would not have asked you here if this was not deeply serious.”

  “Go on then, I’m all ears.”

  George Thomson had been in this game for as long as he cared to remember, he lived and breathed it, and he had seen more than his fair share of indignant outbursts. This one was no different, but he had grown to like Boardman and he was not really enjoying any of this.

  Boardman stood, arms folded across his chest, staring down at him with a more than serious look on his face, waiting.

  The old man lifted one of the pictures of the girl and turned it to face Boardman. “This girl, your girlfriend, what is her name Alex?”

  “Do I have to? Jesus, I know how this plays out Charles. Just cut to the chase why don’t you, and get it over with.”

  “Ok, if that is how you want it. Your girlfriend currently goes by the name of Eva Richards.”

  Boardman raised an eyebrow, but only marginally.

  The old man continued. “She is married, no children mind you, no doubt to some poor sap who has no idea what he has got himself involved in.” Of course Thomson knew quite a bit about the particular ‘poor sap’ in question.

  “No.” Boardman shook his head. “She is not married. I know she is not married. No.”

  The look of incredulity on Boardman’s face told George Thomson all he needed to know, but he had to continue.

  “Eva Richards was born Ulyana Lyalyushkin, March 3rd 1977. She grew up in Podolsk, an industrial city located to the south of Moscow. She was raised by her father, no brother or sisters, and her mother we have no trace of. She was educated at Moscow State University and we believe from there she was incorporated into what was then the KGB, but as you know, is now the Foreign Intelligence Service or SVR. She is, or should I say was, a sleeper; we didn’t pick her up straight away when she entered the UK, but our intel’ tells us she has been here for almost fifteen years. Do you wish me to continue?”

  Boardman had heard all the words the old man had spoken, and each one had felt like a body blow. He had that sick wrenching sensation in his stomach and a dryness building in his mouth, but his mind was already assessing and calculating and he knew things were about to become a whole lot worse. He shook his head.

  “I know this is hard on you Alex, but you know where this is leading.” George had fully intended this to be a statement rather than a question, but Alex nodded anyway.

  Before the old man could start up again, he intervened, “So how long have you known and why didn’t you stop me sooner? I don’t get it. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now.” He had not intended his answer to be quite as abrupt as it sounded so he continued. “It’s all part of how we handle things Alex. Once we know we have an active sleeper, we need to track and tail them; we need to know who they are talking to and what they are talking about. It can all get just a little complicated. And then of course it is you we are talking about after all.”

  “This is a mess George. A fucking mess. I love her,” the final three words came as much as surprise to Boardman as to the old man.

  “I can see that.”

  Both men had not yet mentioned the obvious, had no need to really. Regardless of feelings, Eva Richards / Ulyana Lyalyushkin was Russian foreign intelligence, and that could mean only one thing when the target was Alex Boardman.

  “So do we know what the damage is?”

  “We have had her under constant close surveillance from day one, but as you have already surmised, we now have a problem.”

  “Oh Jesus George. What have I done?”

  George Thomson looked down at the pictures scattered across the desk; she was beautiful and he guessed Alex Boardman had done what any red blooded male would have done given half the chance. But for now his team had lost contact with her
and he would have to rely on one of his infiltrators to deliver the poor sap he had mentioned earlier. Not that he held out much hope on that account. If she was half as good as he reckoned she was, then there was a good chance that not even her husband would be much use in trying to track her down.

  Charlie’s boys were about to find out just how good Eva Richards was; she had seen the two suits at the side entrance before they had quite got with the programme and had dropped the first one with an expert kick to the parts no man should ever be kicked in. The second took the full brunt of the butt of the handgun that moments earlier had been strapped inside her jacket; he dropped like a stone. She had not wanted to kill them, there were far too many people around for that and already some old dame, who had tottered out of the side entrance doors looking closer to death than was strictly feasible, was shrieking hysterically and waving her arms around. Eva Richards quickly stole the gun back inside her pocket.

  There was no time to waste, she had lost valuable seconds taking care of ‘Pinky and Perky’ and ‘Team One’ would now presumably be well clear of the makeshift Japanese tourist roadblock and back on her tail. She spotted the car at the end of the road and then for an instant she froze.

  Everything after that happened in a blur and later Charles Hanson would be at a total loss as to what had really gone down, only the outcome would be clear.

  Across town, in the offices of big oil, Mac Howison would have wondered what all the fuss was about. Had they all known what he already knew they would be calling off the dogs, but it was not in his interests to spoil the party, not yet anyway.

  And there was now another idea emerging in his dangerous mind.

  She would not have noticed the small red light that was shinning on the side of her temple had her attention not switched to the occupants of the idling car, who were already out of their seats and coming towards her. Her head had turned to meet their motion and as it did the small beam of light had caught the corner of her eye. She spun on her heels instinctively and grabbed the hysterical screaming old lady, thrusting her between herself and the red dot of light.

  She was not proud of it; the bullet that lifted the top off the old lady’s skull, sending blood splattering everywhere, was of course meant for her, but perhaps it had only marginally shortened the existence of its victim. The shot had come from a building site that sat back some twenty yards or so from the far side of the street in front of her, and that was sealed off by the usual eight foot high boarding.

  The killing of the old lady was a game changer, all bets were off now and she no longer had the liberty of playing nice. Her gun was out and in her hand before the old lady had hit the ground, and with one expert shot, the gunman, who would later be found to be of Russian origin, was on his back on a bare concrete floor with a bullet in his head.

  Hanson had heard the commotion outside and was now screaming into the small phone microphone attached to his lapel.

  The two men who had emerged from the idling car did not have time to register his comments in their ears, before they too were dispatched from God’s green and pleasant land, courtesy of Mrs Richards.

  In the chaos and commotion that followed, she was gone and a certain Mr Charles Hanson was now wearing the expression of a man who suddenly was fazed.

  He had badly underestimated her and he would not make that mistake again.

  She was sitting on the tube from Hyde Park Corner on the Piccadilly line, heading towards Knightsbridge and ultimately Heathrow, with one of those free daily rags that offer more adverts than content thrust in her face. She had run hard and managed to get away from the pandemonium at the Met, but even as she sat behind the paper, she could feel her heart thumping against her chest; that had been uncomfortably close and now she realised just how much trouble she was in. The suits in the hotel had to be MI6 or CIA, but the gunman, the one who had come mightily close to taking her out, he must have been SVR; there was no way the Brits would try a stunt like that on their home soil and it was a fair bet that Uncle Sam’s finest would be playing by almost the same rules.

  She had expected it, after all she had failed to deliver, but she had not expected it to be so soon, or quite so audacious. Still, if passing what she did to her contact at C.E.R.N. was going to get her killed, and she had always thought it might, then bring it on.

  But she was also worried for the man she had been married to, was still married to, and whom she would now no longer be able to have any contact with.

  She had prayed that he would be left out of it, but in her heart she knew better. If they were prepared to assassinate her in broad daylight then there was no telling what they might do to her husband, or might already have done. Suddenly she was filled with the urge to ensure he was ok, to call him, to warn him, but she could not risk it, not yet anyway, no matter what her feelings were.

  And then, in almost the same instant, she found herself thinking about Alex Boardman.

  Chapter 12: Tell me Lies. Tell me sweet little lies.

  We were on the move again, I did wonder how much longer we could afford to run around in the stolen stink-mobile, but I reckoned Sternie was the expert on those matters, so best not to interfere.

  “Where to now?”

  “I’m taking you in.”

  I was fairly sure this was meant to mean something to me, but clearly I must have skipped Chapter 2 of the spy training manual.

  “In where?”

  “Where you will be safe, I think. Believe me, I have given this a lot of thought and there is no other option. I thought there might be, but this is best.”

  Wow, talk about filling someone with hope and encouragement. I still had no idea what was going on and who was trying to kill who, and now even Sternie seemed to have reached the end of the road. He hadn’t said as much, but from the tone of his voice it was clear that this ‘safe’ option was somewhat different from the one he had intimated just before the two goons had come bursting into the party. Still it had the word safe in it and I suppose I should have been thankful. I simply nodded.

  Say what you want about the old Pugster but Sergeant Watt was a damned fine policeman. He had been trawling through all of Buckfield’s old files until his eyes were as red as his head and he had given himself the mother of all headaches.

  The file that was currently on his screen had Stanley Osram’s name on it and Pug’s features crumpled in a quizzical fashion; he was more than familiar with Osram and his buddies, but they were big time city boys. What he couldn’t figure out was why Buckfield was interested in him.

  He tapped the enter key but nothing happened, he tapped it again properly and this time received an ‘Access Restricted’ message. Now that was strange. Like a trusty bloodhound with just the hint of a scent, his interest levels were now on high alert. It would take him most of the day, but by the end of it he had found no fewer than eleven similar files and each one had that familiar ‘Access Restricted’ message when he tried to open it. Now he was worried. He picked up the phone.

  ....“DI Bright? I understand you are investigating the death of DC Buckfield. I think I may have something of interest for you.”......

  Pug did not enjoy having to make the call, and he would enjoy where it led to even less, but first and foremost he was a policeman and there was nothing he could do about that.

  George had left Alex in the meeting room for now. He had conveniently left out the ‘what happens next’ part, but clearly now there were complications he would have to deal with. Ulyana’s dalliance with Boardman had introduced a situation that had called on all his experience, but he still feared the worst.

  He had been certain that she had successfully managed to pass the information she had stolen to the other side; they had lost contact with her for quite some time, so it was a reasonable assumption to make, but the intel’ he had just received regarding the incident at the Met meant he no longer knew for certain just who the other side was.

  There was going to need to be one hell of a clea
nup op’ down there, and even then he did not think it would be enough. There was a cat out of the bag somewhere and if he did not manage the situation properly then it was only a matter of time before its screeching brought down the whole house of cards. But he was in damage limitation mode, had been for some time now, and perhaps the ‘poor sap’ that Stern was due to bring in could still be of use to him.

  Sternie ducked the car into the kind of car park that I thought only existed in New York; it sat under two enormous motorway flyovers in a piece of land that looked more like the set off of a Mad Max movie than a piece of London real estate; everything was grey and desolate and derelict.

  From what looked like a disused wooden hut with a panel missing, came a face and a hand, which greedily took the five pound note that Sternie offered. Finally our stinky Beamer had arrived; there may have only been a half dozen other vehicles in there, but our four wheeled carriage looked like the star of the show. I swear I could almost see it puff out its chest as we left it behind, sitting surrounded by decaying metal that should never have been anywhere near a road.

  A car park for the uninsured and the uninsurable, perfect.

  I was just getting used to the idea of walking when a fairly smart white Mercedes approached the hut at speed, it reminded me of the taxis that are everywhere in Madeira (my last major holiday destination), and I suppose in some ways it was.

  “Get in.”

  We were in and off before the face in the wooden hut had even registered the Merc’s arrival.

  “The old man wants to speak with you direct,” said the driver.

  “I guessed as much,” came back Sternie, whose face was fixed and serious. “Nobody’s on our tail. Lost them last night.”