by Paul Starkey
A third gunshot. A third car door. His head snapped up and he saw a figure approaching from the other side of the car park. There were several cars there, and he realised he had no idea which one she’d been sitting in.
Mellanby met her by the boot of the VW. “Chalice, my dear. Punctual as ever.”
“You know me, Boss,” she said with a smile, shaking the proffered hand.
‘Indeed I do.” He released her hand and turned. “And this is John Tyrell. John, Chalice Knight.”
He shuffled around the back of the car, feeling like a naughty schoolboy. He had an urge to dry his palms on his jeans but he fought it, instead he reached out and shook her hand. Her fingers looked delicate, but they were cold and hard as steel. “Hi,” he said, all other words failing him.
She looked him up and down. “So you’re the time traveller?” she said.
He laughed, the sound catching him off guard. “I see my reputation preceded me.” He regretted being blasé the moment he said it.
“Indeed it does,” she said, and was it his imagination, or did he see a flicker of disgust in those eyes?
She was an attractive woman, but there was something odd about her and it took a moment to realise it was down to the myriad of contrasts she evoked. She had the wide innocent eyes and full plump lips of an English rose, but the raven black hair and dusky complexion of a Sultan’s concubine. She was tall, yet the length seemed in her upper body rather than her legs. The low-heeled boots she wore twinned with a cropped leather jacket should have accentuated her legs, but if that’s what she’d intended it hadn’t worked.
She was certainly pretty, but more than that she was striking. She wasn’t much older than thirty he guessed, but already age was starting to tell, the prettiness was fading, but she was lucky, she’d probably always be striking.
He was surprised that MI5 had got her and not SIS. She had the looks that could blend in anywhere, and he could only guess at her heritage. With her dusky brown skin she could pass for Arab or Hispanic just as easily, or as a woman of mixed heritage, or even just someone with a healthy tan. Six would have had more use for that than Five.
She turned her attention to Mellanby. “We’d better get upstairs. Ibex is due to arrive within the next fifteen minutes.”
Her voice was as cool as her fingertips. The tone was pure finishing school, although its edges had been roughed up somewhat, and he thought he detected a remnant of a foreign accent there as well, though not one he recognised.
“I’d best be clear before he gets here. But first…” He opened the boot but rather than withdraw Tyrell’s little overnight bag, he pulled out a scruffy holdall. “As requested,” he said placing it with care on the floor.
“Thanks,” she said picking it up. She glanced at Tyrell. “The rest of my team is on level nine, we’ll take the stairs.” And she turned and gestured towards a distant doorway. As she did so Tyrell thought he saw a slight bulge in the back of her jacket; A pistol in the small of her back most probably…
Or— equally likely— my own paranoia.
She shook Mellanby’s hand once more. “I’ll speak to you in twenty four hours.”
“Good hunting,” said Mellanby, a hint of regret in his voice.
“Shall we?” she said, the smile that accompanied it was tight, but a smile nonetheless.
Still Tyrell hesitated; Reluctant to leave Sir George’s side; as if he were a child heading for his first day at school, wary of leaving his mother’s skirts. Not for the first time anger and disgust welled up within him.
“It’s ok, Chalice. John will meet you in the stairwell; we have a couple of things to finish off first.”
She gave Mellanby a curt nod. “I’ll see you over there.”
As she strode away, Sir George moved close to Tyrell and leaned in conspiratorially. “Quite something, isn’t she?”
Tyrell’s brow furrowed. “You’re not…are you?”
He muttered a stunted laugh. “Oh it’s been a long time since I got up to those tricks, John. Even before Bunty got sick I’d realised I was getting too slow for the chase, let alone the kill.” He winked.
Tyrell just nodded, but didn’t say anything. Instead he shoved his hands into his pockets and shuffled the soles of his feet against the concrete.
Reaching into the boot once more Mellanby now did withdrew Tyrell’s bag. Dropping it gently to the ground he eased the boot closed, and Tyrell wondered if he’d seen him wince at the sound of the car doors a few minutes earlier.
He looked at Tyrell with fatherly concern, albeit concern tinged with impatience. “I know you’re nervous about this, but you’re committed now. I can’t take you back with me. One way or another you’re going with Chalice.” He smiled broadly. “As attractive as she is you don’t really want her to put the cuffs on you, do you?” He didn’t give Tyrell a moment to respond. “Don’t answer that.” He reached for Tyrell’s right hand. “She’s a good agent, trust me. And the rest of her team are good agents. Think of it as a holiday, a nice relaxing evening with a group of interesting people, more than one of whom are lovely young ladies.”
Tyrell felt something long unconscious within him stir. “More than just Chalice?” he asked, feigning innocence.
Mellanby laughed heartily. “That’s more like the John Tyrell I know,” he said and gently slapped his upper arm. “Now get going.” His eyes twinkled. “Before I have to shoot you.”
Tyrell nodded, it took a huge effort of will but he picked up the bag and headed for the exit. The temptation to turn and looked back was strong, especially as he heard the engine fire up, but he resisted, and with each step he found it got easier.
Chapter seven
The car park was brightly lit, but the stairwell was dingier. Bare concrete steps led up and down between walls that had perhaps once been white, but which were now covered in a morass of dirt and graffiti. One of the neon bulbs overhead flickered, pulsing so quickly that even in just a few seconds he felt a headache coming on. There was a vague smell of urine, and the only surprise was that there wasn’t an out of order sign affixed to the scratched metal lift doors.
Chalice Knight was stood several steps up, leaning nonchalantly against the metal handrail. She had a mobile phone in her hand, and looked like she was either writing a text, or scrolling through the phone’s memory. She looked up the moment he appeared, slipping the phone into her inside jacket pocket without another glance.
“My mother keeps texting me,” she said.
“Oh,” was all he could think to say.
She’s going to think I’m some monosyllabic simpleton if I don’t start stringing sentences together soon, he thought.
“You ok with that?”
He hefted the bag. Despite how little it held it felt heavy. “It’s fine.”
“Ok.”
For a moment the two of them looked awkwardly at one another. Then she turned and headed up, and they climbed the four flights of stairs to the ninth floor in total silence. He still felt uneasy, and found he couldn’t take his gaze from the bulge beneath the back of her jacket. They had just started the fourth flight of steps when he realised it wasn’t the potential weapon that fascinated him so much, it was her jeans encased backside.
As if she’d psychically sensed this realisation she stopped suddenly and looked around. He lifted his eyes to meet her gaze, hoping he’d done it quickly enough that he wouldn’t be found out. The slight narrowing glare in her eyes told him he hadn’t quite managed it.
“Sure you’re ok there?”
He nodded. “Yeah, the most stairs I’ve climbed in a while but I’m managing it.” He was tempted to smile but was too afraid it would seem lascivious.
She didn’t move and he took this as a silent instruction that he should move ahead of her. He wasn’t at all surprised. He only hoped she’d resist the urge to shoot the old pervert he’d become in the back.
“So, we pick up Ibex and head for the safe house?” he asked as he took the last few
steps. Despite what he’d said the exertion was starting to tell.
“Not quite,” she said cryptically.
Upon reaching the ninth floor he exited back into the car park without waiting to be told too. In part it was eagerness, the sooner they met up with the rest of the team the sooner it was likely he could sit down and rest again. Beyond this there was a curious, animal desire to have room to breathe, room to run. The thought that she could shoot him in the back hadn’t been a serious one initially, but he couldn’t shake the paranoia that this was all a big set up, that despite his claims of memory loss those at the top of the Service either didn’t believe him, or even if they did, regarded him as a security risk, and that he’d been scheduled for a more permanent retirement than he’d thought.
It was a lot less crowded up here, with barely a dozen vehicles scattered through the cavernous space and not filling it a jot.
“The vans,” she said simply.
He nodded and headed in the desired direction. Truth be told he’d have figured the three identical white transits parked in a row were their transport even if she hadn’t said a word.
She’d moved next to him now, perhaps sensing his unease. “Decoys?” he asked. Until he’d spoken the only sounds had been the dull clip of his shoes and the sharper tap of her heels on the concrete floor.
She didn’t slow her gait but she did turn and nod. “Yes, one for us, the other two will leave the same time. Obviously all three will take different routes.”
It was a good idea, but already he saw a flaw. “What about the cameras?” he asked pointing to one of several brightly lit yellow CCTV units perched high on the walls. That was another one of many things that had amazed him about the 21st Century. He wished he’d had access to those kinds of images (both in quantity and quality) seventeen years ago; although the spook in him also balked at the loss of privacy. Surveillance would be a whole lot easier these days, he guessed, but keeping off the radar must be equally more difficulty.
“There are four cameras on this floor,” she explained. “Currently two of them are out of action.” She glanced at him again and smiled. “Maintenance in this place is shocking, could be hours before they’re fixed.”
He was nodding. “Let me guess, the two cameras are pointed at the vans.”
She gave him a look that said she wasn’t about to deign that question with a response.
He was impressed so far. Three vans was a good number. If either the Chinese or the CIA did choose to tail Ibex for some reason they would certainly follow him here, might even to this very floor, but unless they had orders to interfere—which was unlikely—they wouldn’t be able to stop him from getting into a van, and the absence of CCTV footage, not to mention the positioning of the vans (all three had their back ends to the wall) would make it nigh on impossible to see which one he’d entered.
Unless Ibex was under heavy surveillance his shadows would be limited to one car, so they’d have to make a choice of which van to follow, which put the odds two to one in MI5’s favour that they’d pick either decoy.
Even if there were three cars trailing Ibex—the classic ABC mode of shadowing—this wouldn’t necessarily help them. They’d have to split up, one car to a van, and whilst following another vehicle under normal circumstances wasn’t too tricky, doing so when the other vehicle was going out of its way to lose you was another matter.
Still he wondered… with the preponderance of CCTV, satellite images and GPS tracking, it was still possible they could still be tracked. So far Chalice Knight seemed on the ball, so he had to assume she’d anticipated this.
“Down there,” she said gesturing to the gap between the central van and its doppelganger on the left.
As he walked between the vans he noted that even the licence plates were the same. That was a nice touch. In fact the only obvious difference was in the choice of drivers. Two had men behind the wheel, but the left hand van had a woman. As he passed they made brief eye contact through the glass of the side window. She was young and pretty, with red hair tied back to reveal large, Gypsy-style hooped earrings. She smiled at him.
He actually felt himself flush.
He’d just stepped out from between the two vans and into—he surmised—the CCTV blind spot, when they appeared; Two men, one either side of him. Neither approached too closely, and neither brandished a gun, but their proximity and the way they held themselves indicated they weren’t necessarily there for his well-being.
Is this it, the paranoid part of his mind said as he felt Chalice Knight sidle up behind him. He was well and truly boxed in, an old fox surrounded by three eager young hounds.
“John, I’d like to introduce you to two members of my team. This is Thomas Cheung.”
He relaxed…just a fraction.
She didn’t indicate which man was Cheung, but it seemed pretty obvious that it was the man stood to his right. Wispy black hair was swept across his forehead above serious eyes. His narrow shoulders and slight frame gave the impression that he could slither away from danger in an instant, and yet this serpentine demeanour was ruined somewhat by his youth. Tyrell guessed he was no more than twenty five, and he almost looked out of place in his neat brown suit and matching tie. The white shirt he wore not quite as crisp as Sir George’s had been, but pretty close.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” he said extending his right hand. His accent suggested he was from Yorkshire. As Tyrell took his hand he noted a cufflink shaped like a pair of dice showing double sixes. He remembered many visits to casinos. They were always full of the Chinese. They loved to gamble.
“I need to take a look inside your bag, sir,” Cheung said now. Polite, respectful, unassuming.
“Sure,” he replied, placing the bag on the floor.
Cheung immediately dropped to his knees and opened it before rifling inside.
“And this is Brendan Fox.”
Tyrell turned to meet the second agent, resisting the urge to chuckle at the idea that one of the hounds was actually a fox. This one was older than Cheung, perhaps thirty, tall and broad, with thinning blonde hair that seemed to hover in a wispy halo above his head; when he smiled he showed the tiny, sharp teeth of a piranha. He wore a slightly crumpled dark suit, a black open necked shirt beneath it. Despite the relaxed dress sense, from the way he held himself, and the near perfect shine to his black brogues, Tyrell guessed Fox was ex-military. Certainly one of the uniformed services, although he was so far out of the loop that for all he knew MI5 employed firemen these days.
“Good to meet you,” he said, his accent skirted the fringe of cockney. “John?” he asked shaking Tyrell’s hand. He was the opposite of Cheung, nothing unassuming about this man, nothing respectful—he was imposing and assumptive. As he’d extended his hand Tyrell couldn’t help noting the hint of dark metal nestling beneath his jacket.
“John’s fine, yes.”
The other man smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his dark, doll like—shark like— eyes. “Cool. I’m going to need you to lift your arms,” he said now.
Tyrell had expected this. He complied and let the younger man go to work. The pat down was extensive if not exhaustive. If he had planned well enough there were places he could have hidden something. Not a gun; but a transmitter, maybe even a slim bladed knife.
Fox checked his legs last, now as he stood once more the other man smiled. “You can drop your arms now, mate.”
He thought it was over, but suddenly Fox reached under his jacket. For a moment Tyrell tensed, then he realised that he was reaching with his left hand to his right side; the (probable) gun had been beneath the opposite arm. When his hand reappeared it was carrying a small device that looked like a miniature metal detector. And it seemed that’s what it was, if more sophisticated, as he switched it on and ran it over Tyrell, following the pattern he’d taken with the pat down. It beeped softly at his belt buckle, and the change and house keys in his pocket, but that was all.
“Is your phone in the bag?” Fox
asked.
“No phone in the bag,” Cheung answered for him.
Tyrell half turned to find that the young Chinese Yorkshire man was standing, an identical detector in his right hand, the bag held in his left, held out towards its owner. Tyrell took it and turned back to Fox. “I don’t have a mobile phone,” he said.
The look on Brendan Fox’s face was perplexed, with just a hint of disgust—like a child who’s just been told the facts of life by his dad.
“My turn,” said Chalice Knight.
“Please step over here, sir,” said Cheung, guiding him to the far wall.
It was chest high and Tyrell allowed himself a moment to place his palms on the cold concrete and enjoy the view below, as grim and industrial as it was. A cool wind whipped through the open sides of the car park, making an errant strand of string or wool that hung from the above floor flutter in the breeze. Tyrell relished the wind, the chill was invigorating. He’d finally noted a flaw in Chalice’s scheme. Even on the ninth floor there were buildings in direct line of sight, anyone with even a cheap pair of binoculars would see which van Ibex got into.
Oh well, nobody was perfect, he mused. This wasn’t true of course, he’d known plenty of agents who wouldn’t have made the error; George Mellanby for one, Charlie Sutton for another, in his younger days.
And don’t forget John Tyrell, he told himself. It was the truth, but that John Tyrell might as well be a stranger. Chalice Knight’s preparations might not be watertight, but if he’d been asked to put something like this op together, his own preparations would have been a rusted, leaky barge already half sunk by comparison.