by Faye Brann
Jonathan took a good, long look at the forty-something Victoria that now stood opposite him. In middle age, she’d become a tired-looking, doughy, clapped-out version of her earlier self. Now she wasn’t a chameleon: she was completely anonymous. With all the same wiring. Which made her perfect.
They exchanged pleasantries and sat down. Victoria shuffled in her seat, looking about as comfortable as a turkey at Christmas. He tried to put her at ease.
‘Before we start, I wanted to say how pleased I am to see you. I mean, we’re glad you’ve come back.’ He smiled, and her shoulders relaxed a fraction.
‘Thank you, Jonathan.’
‘So, how are things? It’s been a long time. How is the family?’
‘They’re fine. Ollie is a teenager now and Evie and James are … well, you know exactly how they are already, sir.’
Jonathan ignored the dig. ‘I suppose you’d like to know why we contacted you?’ He picked out a file from his desk drawer. ‘An associate of Anatoli Ivanov has come to our attention, and we need your help.’
He watched carefully for a reaction, but got nothing.
‘We believe they may be involved in the illegal export of weapons to the Middle East,’ he continued. ‘The chatter is that they’re doing a big deal of some sort over there. A big enough deal to need extended credit lines and their own slow boat from China.’
‘Isn’t this basic MI6 turf?’
‘It’s a crossover case.’ He opened the dossier. ‘HMRC identified an unusual transaction last month: a third-party distributor in the UK who bought a container full of guns. Big guns. They’re on the move, and MI6 have been watching to see where the shipment went next, to make sure it’s all legit. They’re still on standby in the Middle East, but it’s been handed to us because we have … better resources.’
Vicky smiled. ‘Bet Six weren’t happy about that.’
Jonathan continued, ignoring her comment. All would become clear to her soon enough. ‘They think the guns are headed to a Jihadi terrorist organisation based on the border of Syria.’
‘Islamic State?’
‘They’re old news these days. The power base has shifted to Africa. But there’s been trouble brewing in the Middle East again in the past six months or so that we can’t afford to leave alone. Our sources suspect a new Al Qaeda training camp has been set up on the Syrian border and we think that’s where the guns are headed.’
Victoria nodded, her face still impassive. ‘How come you want me? Surely you have operatives who could do this in their sleep.’
He tossed the file across the desk. She took it and, this time, he got a twitch of the eye. He smiled, satisfied that he’d managed to surprise her a little.
‘Sacha Kozlovsky.’ She looked up. ‘I suppose I should have guessed.’
‘To be honest, I’m a little disappointed you didn’t.’
‘So, basically, you want me to entrap a dad from my daughter’s school for illegal arms trading and catch a bunch of Al Qaeda terrorists in the process?’
‘That’s the general idea.’
Chapter Five
Vicky opened the file. ‘I take it Sacha’s got prior?’
‘He’s been running shipping and air freight companies for the past twenty years, selling weapons on to third parties in the Middle East and Africa and washing the money before it hits his bank account. Nothing we’ve ever been able to prove unfortunately. The goods leave Europe, allegedly on their way to legit buyers – governments, army that sort of thing – but he routes a lot of stuff via Russia, the Ukraine, and China, where the paper trails start to get more difficult. No agency has ever had enough proof to arrest him for any illegal activity and he’s been clever enough not to get too greedy or too political. He “retired”, for want of a better word, a few years back. That’s when he moved to the UK and started investing in property instead of guns.’
‘But he’s back in action?’
‘We believe so. We think this deal is too good to turn down and he’s a greedy son of a bitch. But we need more intel to pin this on him. That’s where you come in.’
‘What’s this got to do with Anatoli?’ Vicky asked. ‘Assuming that’s why you sent me that old file.’
Jonathan paused a moment. ‘We know that after that whole – fiasco – Anatoli went to Dubai for a while. He met Sacha at an art fair and, by all accounts, they hit it off; Anatoli needed money and Sacha was looking to build an impressive art collection as befits a Russian oligarch – and it proved a mutually beneficial friendship. Sacha used his contacts to help Anatoli open a gallery there, and, as well as helping Sacha spend his ill-gotten gains on priceless masterpieces, Anatoli became something of a trusted advisor.’
‘So, he’s involved with the deal too?’
Jonathan nodded and shifted in his seat. ‘A major player. Victoria, I know this must all be a bit of a shock, asking you to come back and work on this. But we didn’t really ask you because of Anatoli; that was just to get you in the room. We asked because of pure dumb luck. When we discovered you were a parent at the same school as Sacha, we knew you were in a great position to get us what we need. We believe if we can fill in the gaps and figure out when and where this deal is happening, we can get the evidence we need to catch Sacha with his pants down. And then we can follow the guns all the way to the people they are intended for. All we need from you is information.’
‘That’s all you needed last time. Look where that got me.’
The first time she’d approached him, Anatoli had been in a South Kensington wine bar, across the road from the auction house where she started work a few weeks previously, to establish her cover. Anatoli was a Russian art dealer selling Russian art to rich Russians who made their money – and spent large swathes of it – in London, in any number of ways, ranging from mildly immoral to downright wanted-by-Interpol illegal. It had come to the attention of JOPS that a particular group of these Russians were a small subset of another group associated with their case; Vicky, with an impeccable track record and a solid 2:1 in Art History, was tasked with gaining intel and exposing the UK wing of the people-smuggling operation. Anatoli, innocent of his clients’ side hustle, was the way in.
The bar was busy, drinkers spilt on to the street to enjoy the early summer sunshine. Beautiful people, for this area of London didn’t encourage anything else: young, carefree office workers stopped for their after-work tipple; well-to-do tourists left the various museums looking for something a little more upmarket than the nearest All Bar One. But Anatoli still stood out – a handsome man with no clear mission and happy in his own company.
As Vicky made her way inside, she could see him perched on a stool, flicking through a glossy A4 auction catalogue, a glass of something fizzy resting on the bar, possessive fingers wrapped around the stem. She barely recognised him from the rather drab description given by the surveillance team of ‘a tall, slim man in his early thirties, plain but well dressed’. He was, in her eyes, elegant, and exotic. Dressed in a smart suit, her hair smooth and sleek, she was perfectly matched. It relaxed her a little, knowing that they’d got her position on the power ladder just right. He might just find her attractive enough … not that anything was expected of her in that respect, far from it.
Inside was just as busy as the street. She edged her way towards the bar, her heels click-clacking, and prayed she would reach it without sliding across the polished wooden floor. She’d put heels on as a last-minute touch, knowing that the first encounter would dictate everything. She wasn’t intending to work the honey trap angle, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared, and although she wasn’t a natural in stilettos, she was a highly trained spook and would bloody well make it across the room without falling on her backside.
She found a place at the other end of the bar to where Anatoli sat.
‘A glass of rosé, please.’
The barman, another JOPS officer working undercover, caught her eye in subtle recognition before glancing down toward Anatoli. She nodded
in reply. ‘Dry.’
The sunlight coming through the windows lit up the particles of dust as they danced through the air and wrapped around the Russian’s golden head like a halo. Miraculously, the crowd of drinkers between them took their leave and Vicky grabbed her glass and made her way towards him. She sat down at a newly available leather-topped stool and placed her bag on the hook under the bar.
‘It’s a beautiful piece, isn’t it?’ she said, acknowledging the page of the catalogue that captured his attention.
Anatoli looked startled, interrupted from the deepest of thoughts. He traced his fingers over the picture.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘I always think there is such hidden depth to Kandinsky’s abstract work …’ she laughed. ‘Forgive me. Victoria Anderson.’ She stuck out her arm.
‘Anatoli Ivanov.’ He took her hand and shook it gently.
‘I work at an auction house down the road.’ Vicky leant into him. ‘We have some pieces similar to this one that I’m sure would be to your liking, if you would like to see them sometime.’
He kept his hand on hers and looked her straight in the eye, his own twinkling with mischief. ‘Victoria? This name, it’s so prim and proper … and, forgive me, but you don’t look prim or proper. Giving me the hard sell when you barely know my name.’ He kissed her hand, lips soft and slightly parted. She withdrew her hand and smoothed her hair, smiling.
‘Well, Mr Ivanov, I can assure you I am extremely proper and have even been known to be prim. Especially with people whose names I barely know.’
‘Well you know my name now … and I would like it very much, Victoria, if you’d join me for another drink so we can get to know each other a little better. Maybe something with a little more fizz?’
Clearly he wanted her to think he was the kind of man who called the shots. She could play along. ‘Do you have something to celebrate then, Mr Ivanov?’
Anatoli smiled and held up the catalogue, pointed at it, and then at her. ‘Something old and something new are coming my way, I believe.’
He had balls, she’d give him that. But she didn’t want him to think she was a pushover. He’d lose interest too quickly or suspect there was an ulterior motive. So she handed him a crisp white card with her number printed on it.
‘I’m afraid I’m not really in the market for anything fizzy today. But do call me if you’d like a private viewing of our collection some time. I’d be glad to show you around.’
He took the card, brushing her fingers with his as he did so, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. She felt a warmth spread inside her, from the physical contact, or the success of the subterfuge, or maybe somewhere between the two.
‘Goodbye, Victoria. See you again sometime.’
Vicky turned away. He’d be in touch soon.
After the operation went so badly awry, her initial feelings of rejection were replaced by massive humiliation and guilt as she finally realised the magnitude of what she’d done. Time and again she would replay the moment when, days after that initial meeting, she had first kissed him; the memory of that exquisite electricity was now replaced with nauseating shame and remorse. Anatoli’s departure and Adam’s death had been a lesson to never mix business and pleasure again.
At first, she couldn’t even imagine having another relationship. But a few months later, when she met Chris, she realised that wasn’t true. She wanted someone to love, to see the good in her, and make her feel less alone. She liked Chris’s company. She fancied the arse off of him. Anatoli had been the fantasy, but Chris was the real deal. And no, he had no idea who she was or what she’d done, but maybe it was better that way: a clean slate, and she could make sure this time that there were no mistakes. It hadn’t stopped her from feeling guilty about lying to him. But, over the years, the lie softened and melted away. The youthful spy that once climbed into bed with an exotic Russian stranger played like an old movie in her mind; she could almost imagine it had never been her life at all …
Vicky snapped to attention. What did they want her to do, anyway? Seduce Sacha? God, no …
‘Sir, if you want me to – I mean, I don’t think that—’
‘Don’t worry, Victoria, I’m not going to ask you to pick up where you left off. I’d like to take a difference approach to the undercover work this time. We’d like you to use your relationship with the wife to see what you can dig up and—’
‘Well, I don’t really have a relationship—’
‘But you do. You’re both parents at the school. It’s an easily workable angle, Victoria.’
Vicky sighed and sat back in her chair. And then leant forward again.
‘My family cannot be involved. I won’t compromise on that.’
Jonathan smiled. ‘We appreciate that. We’re not asking you to make them part of it. Matisse doesn’t work, she’s around in the daytime. You can easily forge a friendship with her away from the children.’
‘But they’re still involved. We all go to the same school. Evie and Dmitri are in the same class.’
Jonathan’s jaw clenched briefly. ‘Well look at it this way, would you rather be in control of the situation or me send in someone else to deal with it, who might not be quite so personally invested in keeping things clean?’
Vicky quickly played out several scenarios in her mind and shuddered. It didn’t bear thinking about, having some spook with nothing but an objective to fulfil and a target to take down, infiltrating their lives. Far safer for her to take control of the situation. She had a fleeting memory of Adam, the operative who’d lost his life all those years ago. This time she would make sure no one got hurt.
Jonathan continued. ‘You can report back on a weekly basis to me, we’ll arrange a dead letter box and a meeting point and agree some codes so that if you can’t get to me, you can send us an encrypted email through a secure VPN.’
‘Eh?’
‘Email, Anderson. I assume you’ve heard of that.’
‘It’s Turnbull now, and yes, very funny … but I don’t know what a VPN is.’
Jonathan sighed. ‘Christ, maybe we should get you caught up on a few things. It’s a secure part of the internet, where you can send and receive messages.’
Vicky nodded slowly. ‘Oh, right.’
‘Talk to my secretary about getting yourself an induction on IT and comms. And while you’re at it, maybe some refresher courses in subterfuge and strategic diplomacy—’
‘No need for that. I have three children. Subterfuge is a necessary tool in my house if I want to know anything that’s going on in their lives. Strategic diplomacy is what happens when I find out.’
Jonathan shook his head. ‘A lot has changed since you were last here and you can’t do this old school. Get yourself up to speed. Read up on the dos and don’ts. And assuming you haven’t been assassinating the milkman in your spare time, refresh your firearms license.’
Jonathan picked up the desk phone to dial a number, but Vicky cleared her throat.
‘Yes?’
‘One more question. What made you decide to wake me up, get me back on board?’
‘I already told you, it was serendipity. You happened to be a parent at the school—’
‘Yes, but let’s face it, it’s been a long time, Jonathan. How do you – or I, for that matter – know I’m going to be capable of this?’
Jonathan replaced the handset. ‘Honestly, Victoria, I wasn’t sure. All the intel said you were the best-placed operative, but I needed to make sure you would cope with being back on the inside.’
‘What made up your mind?’
‘Paintballing.’ The hesitation in Jonathan’s voice was replaced by certainty. ‘You should have seen you in the field, Turnbull. When the pressure was on, you were on fire.’
Vicky grinned. ‘I didn’t realise I was at an audition.’
‘Well, you got the part,’ Jonathan said. ‘Question is, will you take it?’
Vicky paused. She thought of Chris, and t
he kids, and Matisse and Sacha, and then finally she thought about herself. There was really only one answer she could give him.
‘Mission accepted, sir.’ She saluted him and Jonathan rolled his eyes.
‘Welcome back, Turnbull.’ He waved in a tall, lanky man in his thirties who was clutching a laptop case. ‘This is Mike. We call him Inspector Gadget, even though he hates it.’
‘I don’t mind it that much,’ Mike smiled at Vicky, and held out the bag. ‘In here is your computer; it’s got a VPN function and I’ve messaged the codes to one of the burner phones I’ve also included in the pack. Try not to go through too many phones; there’s been complaints lately about us going over budget and we don’t want to piss them off too much in case they cut our spending.’
Vicky flushed, remembering she’d run over one of them already. She took the bag. ‘Thanks.’ It weighed a ton.
‘There’s also a smart phone with a thermal imager in there and a couple of other goodies too: a stunner, WASP injection knife and a cell jammer. Oh, and here’s the remote control for the bag itself.’
Vicky took the small innocuous-looking box he was holding and opened it, revealing a small key fob inside. ‘What does it do?’
‘Standard contact electrocution and alarm when deployed. The safety latch is on the side, I’ve made sure it’s completely child-proof. I can have the bag retrofitted for tear gas too if you like, but I wasn’t sure you’d want it.’