Safe House

by Paul Starkey

  She shook her head, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. When she saw what she was doing she stopped and gripped the leather instead. “I assumed the Russians just cut him loose, us too, once the Cold War was over.”

  “Well we had no choice but to let him off the hook, if we revealed his betrayal we’d have also had to reveal our part in it. I doubt the Yanks would have been impressed. The Russians on the other hand…well they were the defeated foe, and in those early days a lot of bargaining went on between Washington and Moscow.”

  “I’d heard about this,” she said. “The KGB, GRU and Politicos making sure they retained their status, offering up whatever information they could to ensure the US didn’t insist on their removal, or to ensure they got a cosy new life in the West.”

  Tyrell nodded. “I heard we got more high ranking defectors in the year after the Cold War ended than we’d had in the last five years of it! And they all got nice homes in New Hampshire because they offered information the West wanted, names of Soviet spies. Now given that, do you imagine the KGB would have given up Ibex?”

  “In a heartbeat. So why didn’t they?”

  He was grinning like a Cheshire cat now, and part of her wished the traffic would start up again, because his new found confidence was starting to annoy her.

  “Oleg Zinovyev, last I heard, was a realtor in Florida, endless days of sun and a beautiful young Mexican wife. Because he gave them Ibex. Or rather he gave them Yablonya, that was the KGB codeword for Quintus, it means ‘apple tree’.” He chuckled. “Quintus hated it, which was one of the reasons he felt they weren’t taking him seriously enough. He much preferred Ibex, better a mountain goat than a fruit tree I guess.”

  She was shaking her head. “Hang on, Zinovyev gave the CIA Ibex, then how…”

  “He gave them Yablonya. Or at least he gave them a Yablonya.’

  “They framed someone.”

  “Ten out of ten,” he said, and the slightly mocking tone made her grip the wheel tighter as he continued. “The patsy was Douglas Nunn, a Foreign Agricultural Service administrator based inside Grosvenor House at the same time as Quintus Armstrong. Between them Ibex and Zinovyev fitted him up nicely. The Americans had suspected a leak inside the embassy and they got one.”

  The car ahead was moving off again, but she hesitated in following. “Ok, that makes no sense for two reasons. Firstly why didn’t this Nunn guy protest his innocence and secondly what was in it for Zinovyev? Surely he got his reward whichever Ibex he delivered.” She paused. “Or whichever Yablonya if you prefer,” she added, slightly exasperated.

  Behind them a horn sounded. Gritting her teeth Chalice eased the handbrake off and put her foot down.

  “Good questions. Douglas Nunn didn’t protest his innocence because it’s hard to defend yourself when you’re dead.”

  The pieces of the jigsaw were fitting into place now. She looked at him. “Ibex killed him?”

  Tyrell gave a noncommittal shrug before she had to turn her attention back to the road.

  “We never knew that for sure. Nunn died the night the Berlin Wall came down. There’d been a huge party inside of Grosvenor House and everyone got very drunk. The next day a lot of people had hangovers; several of them didn’t even get out of bed till the afternoon. Douglas Nunn didn’t get out of bed at all. The autopsy said he choked on his own vomit during the night, the coroner found no evidence of foul play, and about a dozen witnesses came forward to say Nunn had been putting bourbon away with the best of them at the party. In the early hours he went back to the room of a young secretary, can’t recall her name, with the intention of a celebratory fuck…sorry.”

  “I served in uniform, John. I’m not some wilting flower.” They’d cleared Milton Keynes now, and were on a duel carriageway heading towards Oxfordshire. She saw a sign for Bletchley Park and smiled. In the rear-view mirror she saw a pair of headlights sitting high up; the Range Rover.

  Despite what she’d said, when Tyrell continued he moderated his language. How delightfully old-fashioned she thought tartly.

  “They were going to have sex, but Nunn was way too drunk and couldn’t rise to the occasion…” There was a pause and she glanced his way. It was difficult to tell given the darkened interior of the car, but she thought he might be blushing. Very old fashioned.

  “Go on.”

  “Sorry. Where was…yes, they tried and failed to make love, and the secretary kicked him out. She assumed he went back to his room. That was the last time anyone saw him.”

  “And you believed Ibex killed him?”

  “Not right away, not until it became clear the Cold War really was over, once Quintus made it plain he was retiring. Suddenly he suggested using Nunn to act as a patsy, to take the fall for his own betrayals. He played it like Nunn’s death had been a happy coincidence, but Sam and me always wondered. Nobody in our game should ever trust coincidences.”

  “Truer words were never spoken,” she muttered in response. She had the Audi up into fifth now, doing close to fifty. Annoyingly the traffic wouldn’t clear enough to let her really let loose. Given the car behind with the rest of the team inside this was probably a good thing, but still she liked speed, and living in London she didn’t own a car and rarely got to drive anywhere where she could really let her hair down.

  “And Zinovyev?” she asked.

  “No idea,” said Tyrell, and she turned to find him actually smirking.

  “Sorry?”

  “We never found out why Zinovyev went along with it, but he must have had good reason. Altering KGB records to mention Nunn instead of Armstrong would have been risky, even after the Cold War ended.”

  The smugness had made her mind up for her. She’d been weighing up the pros and cons of saying something since their conversation had started. Ibex’s deference to Tyrell, his assumption that he must be in charge had started it, but the self-assurance that had come flooding back into the supposed invalid by her side during the last few minutes had hardened the need for it. Conveniently the traffic had come to a halt again. A dozen cars ahead she could just make out a tractor laboriously turning off onto a side road. She had time, but fortuitously not much of it; she could say her piece then leave any arguments until later.

  “Look, John. I need to say something. I appreciate your experience here, really I do. When Sir George suggested bringing you along I was hesitant, but it’s clear you know your stuff when it comes to Quintus Armstrong. Bear in mind though, it’s been almost twenty tears since you dealt with Ibex, so he’s likely not quite the man you recall. I need to stress as well, to remind you…” she paused and licked her lips. He was frowning, in confusion though not anger, and she suddenly saw the frightened old man in his eyes again, the Alpha Male gone for now. Still she had to finish what she’d started, she had no choice. “I need to remind you, John, that I am in sole charge of this operation.” She smiled to try and soften the blow but judging by his face it had little positive impact. “Is that understood?”

  He nodded, feebly she noted. “Perfectly,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

  He looked like a puppy she’d just kicked across the room. Nice going, Chalice, she thought as the tractor finally completed its manoeuvre and they started off again. Hopefully Bottlewood will go smoothly from now on, if things do go tits up you’ve probably knocked any fight John Tyrell had left out of him.

  Chapter twelve

  Thomas Cheung peered grimly through the rain-splattered windshield, hoping that the rear lights he saw intermittently between sweeps of the wiper blades still belonged to the Audi. He’d never driven a Range Rover before, had rarely driven anything bigger than a hatchback really, aside from a couple of removal trips in a transit van, and of course the defensive driving course he’d been on as part of his training. Three days at an abandoned airbase in the middle of nowhere with instructors who looked like laid back surfers but who talked and acted more like sergeant majors. Cheung had had to perform a variety of manoeuvres in one of the man
y identical black BMWs the driving school used as training vehicles. It wasn’t a training course he remembered with fondness, especially given the timing of it.

  He hadn’t felt in a position to turn the role of driver down when Brendan had tossed him the keys though. Brendan Fox wasn’t quite the arsehole he portrayed himself as most of the time, and he and Cheung might almost be friends, but he was the sort of man who’d take any opportunity to put someone else down. Not out of any innate nastiness, just to big himself up. Cheung didn’t need that in the middle of the biggest operation he’d been a part of since joining MI5, especially not given what was going to happen soon.

  He silently cursed as ahead the Audi moved into the outside lane to overtake a lorry. Checking his wing mirror he saw the lights of a car racing up behind them, intent on overtaking the lorry as well. With a confidence he didn’t feel, Cheung hit the indicators and pulled out, fairly sure the car behind would have time to brake.

  The chasing car visibly pulled back. He didn’t pip his horn but he did flash his lights. If their roles had been reversed Cheung knew he’d have likely done the same thing.

  “Knobhead” snapped Fox from the rear seat, taking time out from his chatting up of Lucy Parrish. “If you want, Tommy we can stop and shoot him.”

  Cheung’s eyes flickered to the rear view mirror and met Fox’s gaze reflected here. He was grinning, as usual. He’d lost count of how many times he’d told Brendan not to call him Tommy, now he just tried to ignore it. He scowled at his comrade and then returned to the task at hand, putting his foot down to overtake the lorry.

  As they approached the tailgate of the lorry, spray splattered the windows, exacerbating the raindrops already hitting the glass. Cheung flicked the wipers onto a higher setting and eased forwards a bit more. Despite its bulk, the Range Rover shook slightly from the downdraft from the lorry, but it was nothing Cheung couldn’t handle. Still he was nervous. Ahead he saw the Audi swing back into the inside lane; one minute its taillights were welcome beacons in the night; the next all he could see ahead was darkness. The lorry reared up above them now like an iceberg floating on a pitch-black sea.

  He was about to press the accelerator harder when he saw it, the indicator lights fixed to the side of the lorry’s cab glowed an incongruous yellow. He mused they should have been red, because they indicated danger. If the lorry driver hadn’t seen them, if he swung out now…

  The headlights of the car behind them were too close— braking wasn’t an option. Cheung’s first, panicked reaction was to try and steer away from the potential threat, and for a moment he actually began to turn the car to the right. Rationality returned to his mind as lights from the oncoming lanes illuminated the central reservation, and the metal barriers there. Instinct kicked in a heartbeat later and Cheung put his foot down.

  Seconds later they were past the lorry, and Thomas Cheung saw why the driver was contemplating moving out. Ahead of him was a battered old VW campervan that looked like it heralded from the sixties and either couldn’t, or wouldn’t, manage the speed limit. Cheung passed the campervan then swung back in again. Ahead he saw taillights, and actually allowed himself to get closer than was safe, just to confirm it was the Audi. Once he saw the white paintwork of the TT he eased back slightly. Only then did he glance in the mirror to see the reaction of his passengers. Brendan Fox had eyes only for Lucy’s chest, and Lucy’s gaze was coquettishly downcast as she giggled at his attempts at humour. Thank God, thought Cheung. I got away with it. Nobody saw my near screw up.

  “Close one,” drawled the man in the passenger seat beside him. “I reckon he’d seen us though, still best to get out of his way. Maybe not the way you nearly did though, eh?”

  Cheung wanted to close his eyes and let the ground swallow him up. Quintus Armstrong had been so quiet since they’d left the car park that Cheung had forgotten he was even there.

  “I had it under control, sir,” he said, glancing at the other man.

  Quintus was slumped back in his seat, looking so relaxed that, though he’d obviously noticed their near collisions with first a lorry then a crash barrier, neither fact seemed to have caused his pulse to race.

  “Of course you did,” said Ibex in a way that left it vague as to whether he believed him, or was merely being sarcastic. “Hey, you in back there, Brendan wasn’t it?”

  Cheung was taken aback—Quintus had gone from silence to amiable yelling in the space of a few seconds.

  “It was and it still is.”

  “Thought so. Brendan, is that smoke still on offer?”

  There was an uncharacteristic pause for a moment before Fox spoke. “Well…”

  “Come on, Brendan. This isn’t an official MI5 vehicle is it? So it’s not really a workspace?”

  “I guess not…”

  Cheung wanted to interject, to point out that since they were engaged in work—secret, off the record work for sure, but work nonetheless—that the Range Rover still counted. He didn’t, not feeling nearly confident enough.

  In the periphery of his vision he saw fingers reach over between the front seats and hand over a packet of cigarettes.

  “These all you have?” said Ibex.

  “It’s what I smoke,” said Fox defiantly.

  Quintus Armstrong sighed. “Well maybe I’ll get lucky.”

  A light flared and Cheung saw it came from within the glove compartment. Ibex had opened it and was rifling inside.

  “Sir, you shouldn’t be doing that,” wincing at the whine in his voice.

  If Quintus heard him he didn’t acknowledge that he had. Out of the corner of his eye Cheung saw the other man riffling through a small pile of papers. “Well now,” he said holding up an envelope. “Do you suppose the owner of this vehicle is Mr or Mrs Burgess Carmichael?”

  “I really wouldn’t know, sir, but I’m sure Ms Knight wouldn’t want you looking at their personal papers.”

  Ibex laughed. “Ms Knight? You mean Chalice, yes? If her mother gave her such an interesting name we really should use it, don’t you think?”

  Cheung said nothing and Quintus didn’t press him. He heard more rifling, then suddenly an exultant cry. “Aha!” Looking over he saw Ibex toss Fox’s cigarettes over his shoulders. “Menthols, not exactly my brand but they’ll do…and a lighter too.”

  The glare of the glove compartment was shut off, replaced a moment later by a more natural flare of light. An instant later that too was gone, and now Cheung smelt the acrid scent of cigarette smoke.

  “When in Rome,” he heard Brendan joke, and in the rear-view mirror he saw another tiny gout of flame spark up.

  “Can we at least lower the windows?” said Lucy Parrish.

  Hear, hear, thought Cheung.

  Fox muttered darkly, but Quintus was at least conciliatory. “Of course, only fair.” And he opened his side window a crack.

  Icy tendrils of wind were sucked in, along with splashes of rain, but Cheung didn’t complain, it was preferable to a smoky atmosphere any day.

  They drove on in near silence for the next five minutes; the only sounds the whip of wind and the whine of engines outside the car, and the exaggerated inhales and exhales of the two smokers inside.

  “So tell me,” Ibex said at last stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. Cheung was grateful for that, he didn’t dare imagine what Brendan had done with his. “Does anyone know why her mom named her Chalice?”

  “No idea,” said Fox from the back seat. “She usually makes it pretty clear asking would be bad for one’s health.”

  “How about you, Thomas?”

  Cheung glanced sideways. Ibex was smiling like a mischievous, fairytale creature. The window was still open, and his ponytail danced softly in the wind.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any idea, sir.”

  “Hmm,” said Quintus, but added nothing else, and silence returned.

  It lasted all of thirty seconds. “I know,” said Lucy.

  “You know what?” said Fox.

&nb
sp; “Why she’s called Chalice of course, fool.”

  “You know?” It was clear Brendan didn’t believe her.

  “Yes I know. I’m more than just a secretary you know.”

  “I know, you’re an executive secretary…oof.” Cheung imagined Lucy had hit him.

  “No fighting in back, kids,” laughed Ibex. “So, Miss Parrish, would you care to enlighten us?”

  Suddenly Lucy went all shy. “Well, I don’t know if I should. We’re not supposed to gossip in our business after all.” She added a giggle to indicate it was a joke, but her delivery had been so stilted that the humour fell flat.

  “Come on, Luce. You can’t keep us in suspense.”

  How do you keep an idiot in suspense, Brendan? I’ll tell you next week. Cheung wished he had the nerve to say half the things he thought, but it was never wise to draw attention to yourself, especially around Fox. Cheung had heard about a couple of guys, big hard men in fact, who’d joked too often about Brendan’s past as a copper. Both ended up worse for wear, one sustaining a broken cheekbone for his trouble.

  “I really don’t know…”

  “That’s you all over, Luce. Lead a guy on then…ow!”

  Cheung guessed she’d elbowed him again.

  “Ok, I’ll tell you,” she said in an irritated tone that said she was no longer enjoying being the centre of attention. “Turns out her mother…”

  “Was impregnated by a man of the cloth,” said Ibex. It wasn’t spoken as a question; it was a statement of fact.

  Silence echoed through the confines of the car. Made all the more palpable when Quintus closed his window and the outside sounds vanished.

  “How…how’d you know that?” said Lucy.

  Cheung’s eyes drifted to his left. Ibex was grinning like a Cheshire cat who’d also just found some cream. He wore his glasses again though, so Thomas couldn’t determine if the smile reached his eyes. Somehow he doubted it, earlier he’d taken a good look and they’d seemed lifeless.

  “Just deductive reasoning based on the facts at hand.”