Safe House

by Paul Starkey

  For some reason Lucy Parrish felt the need to confirm this fact. Normally Quintus would have been impressed with a member of the younger generation not believing everything they saw on television, but on this occasion he thought it made her look foolish.

  “Oh yeah, I can see the tree and everything…” she said, head ducked behind the curtains.

  The tree in question was a single oak sat in the centre of the lawn and to the right of the picture. Though many trees were still in the midst of shedding their leaves, this tree had long ago completed the process. It was large, obviously gnarled, even when only seen via a camera, and its multitude of branches were all bare. It looked less like a tree, and more like a sculpture of a mushroom cloud carved by the insane.

  “Ok, top notch alarm system and closed circuit TV with night vision?” said Cheung. “I thought you said the Carmichael’s weren’t in the business?”

  The business, thought Quintus with a silent laugh. It wasn’t a business, it was a game; One with serious, fatal consequences for sure, but a game nonetheless. The young man dropped another notch in his estimation.

  Chalice was smiling. “There are motion sensors fixed to the wall that circles the property as well. I wasn’t lying though. Burgess and Antonia are what I said they are, a solicitor and a publisher. But they’re somewhat paranoid when it comes to home security and as their…” she paused, “friend, I was more than happy to advise them on how best to secure what’s theirs.”

  Quintus laughed softly. “Ready for the day when you’d need their house to secure something that wasn’t theirs?” he said. “May I ask how exactly you got them to vacate at such short notice?”

  “You can ask,” said Chalice, but said no more, and it was clear that his question wouldn’t be answered.

  Quintus didn’t mind. He already knew. Blackmail; that would be the only reason two law abiding citizens would relinquish their home to strangers, and blackmail of course implied that the Carmichaels were anything but law abiding. This caused him no real concern, he had long ago decided that the moral boundaries erected by society to govern what was right and what was wrong were mere facades. Quintus Armstrong had realised this truth at a young age, and it had liberated him. Enabling him to view the world as it really was, not as most people wanted to believe it was. As such though many would call him a traitor, he would never use this term to describe himself. One could only betray something if one believed it.

  “Ok,” said Chalice. She’d sat at the head of the dining table. A notepad and pen were placed neatly before her and her hands rested on the table precisely either side of them. To her left sat Lucy Parrish. Unlike Chalice the younger woman was sat back in her seat, legs crossed, a notebook held in one hand, pen in the other. The seat to the right of Chalice was empty, but a tape recorder had been placed on the table, a wire leading from it to a small microphone that seemed to point accusingly at the empty chair.

  “I take it it’s time for me to take the witness stand?” he said, trying to sound amused when he was slightly concerned. He had expected far more of a preamble before they began. Chalice had seemed the sort.

  Chalice smiled hollowly. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  He nodded and sauntered over to the table. He stopped behind the empty chair, resting both hands on it as if to steady himself. Letting his back arch like an old man’s as he tried to look feeble, unthreatening. “Shouldn’t we eat before we start? Or at least have a drink?”

  When Quintus had first been assigned to the London embassy, a colleague had taken him to see the greyhound racing at White City, it was shortly before the track closed, and it was the one and only time he ever attended what was known colloquially as “the dogs”. Quintus did not believe in gambling unless the stakes were high; life and death at least. His one abiding memory of that night was the sheer speed with which the greyhounds sprang from their traps. He’d rarely seen anything move so fast since, but Lucy Parrish almost managed it, standing bolt upright with the speed of a bullet.

  “I could go make us drinks?” she suggested.

  “Sounds like a plan to me!” said Fox. Quintus noted that neither Tyrell nor Cheung chimed in, but determined that for both men, silence equalled agreement.

  Quintus smiled, beaming brightly at Lucy. “Well never let it be said I turned down the offer of sustenance from one so pretty.” She giggled in response.

  “No.”

  Everyone looked at Chalice. She’d remained in her seat, rigid, reminding Quintus of a judge, stern, patrician and not for turning.

  “Aw come on, boss,” whined Fox. He’d stood but hadn’t moved from by the TV. Somehow his tie had gone askew, and Quintus noticed his top button was undone.

  “No,” she repeated.

  “If I’m to talk, then I’ll really need to oil my tonsils.” He was laying the good old boy charm on thickly, but had no worries of Chalice Knight seeing through the façade. The natural superiority of the English upper classes meant they never thought they could be played.

  “When I say no, I don’t mean no to drinks, just no to Lucy making them.”

  “Oh,” said Lucy, looking suddenly crestfallen, like a young girl who wanted a puppy for Christmas who ended up with a kitten instead. Disappointed, but realising that on some level she shouldn’t have been.

  “Huh?” said Fox. God what an idiot, Quintus mused.

  Chalice smiled. “Mine’s a coffee with two sugars,” she said.

  Ibex watched Fox’s eyes. For a moment confusion, then annoyed resignation. “Fine,” he muttered. He stalked over to the table and snatched a few sheets of paper from Lucy’s notepad.

  “Hey!”

  “Sue me,” he snapped. He had his own pen at least, withdrawn from his jacket’s inside pocket. For a moment, Quintus actually wondered if he was reaching for his gun. He mentally upbraided himself. He had never been one for paranoia, but perhaps the stakes had never been this high before. Unlike many of his countrymen, Quintus Armstrong had never felt the need to own a firearm in order to feel safe. Still tonight he wished he had a pistol. He did not however, and Quintus was not a man to dwell on the inequities of life. He would place his trust in the skills of those assigned to protect him, those charged with making sure this operation succeeded, even if they appeared less than top drawer.

  He smiled when he saw Chalice wince as the Londoner rested the paper against the bare wood of the table and began writing. The American noted that Fox pressed down hard with the pen. “Coffee… two… sugars…” he spoke slowly, like a child still unsure with its reading. Being deliberately petulant? “Any other orders?”

  One by one they told him what they wanted. Quintus asked for a strong black coffee, no sugar, but already he was eying the globe that rested on a stand near the bookshelves. He assumed that was where the liquor was. He hoped the Carmichaels had bourbon.

  “Tea, two sugars, lots of milk please, waitress.”

  Fox glared at Tyrell. Quintus noticed that his old (in so many ways) handler was trying and failing to suppress a giggle. Quintus couldn’t decide what Tyrell reminded him of more; a small sniggering child, or a senile old man no longer fully aware of the world around him.

  “Very funny,” said Fox, his words dripping with ice. Then he grinned. “Joke’s on you though, you can help me carry them back in.”

  Tyrell glanced at Chalice, and again Quintus was reminded of the same dichotomy. Was he a child seeking approval from his mother, or the old man checking with his daughter that it was ok to leave the room? He supposed it didn’t really matter, live long enough and you ended up back where you started, a dribbling, wailing creature dependant on others for everything. In some ways Quintus Armstrong was looking forward to it.

  After Tyrell and Fox left the room, Chalice asked Cheung to watch the CCTV feed, and the young man grabbed a dining chair and placed it before the television, before sitting on it backwards. Like the cufflinks it was another obvious attempt to seem cool and relaxed that failed miserably.

&n
bsp; “Shall we?” said Chalice.

  Ibex cast another look at the globe/drinks cabinet. Maybe later, he thought before he pulled the chair back and sat down.

  “Time for the canary to sing,” he said with a smile.

  Chapter nineteen

  If she hadn’t known better, Chalice Knight would have imagined that Ibex was being deliberately pedestrian in his answers, so intermittent was the trickle of facts that tumbled from his lips. She’d been led to expect a waterfall, but so far the torrent hadn’t appeared, and even what he had revealed hadn’t seemed very important.

  Of course if he was stalling for time then that implied one of two things. First that this was a set up, and that he was waiting for his buddies to show up. She quickly discounted this notion. What would be gained by it? The death or capture of a few MI5 agents, most of whom weren’t even that in the know? Chalice didn’t count herself amongst the hoi polloi, but she was self aware enough to realise she was still just a medium sized cog in a much larger machine. Of all the agents here she’d be the biggest prize, but for the size of fish she was, this was an awful big net to use.

  The second possibility was that Quintus Armstrong was bluffing, that he didn’t know any information that was anywhere near as important as he’d intimated, or else he did but though the quality was there the quantity was insufficient, so he was stringing it out. Again she discounted the idea. He could string it out all night but sooner or later it would become apparent that he knew nothing of import, and when that happened MI5 wouldn’t be pleased. Ibex would probably find himself trussed up and dropped off outside Grosvenor Square—if he was lucky…

  A third option occurred to her now, though really it was an amalgamation of the other two possibilities. Ibex knew very little, but was stringing it out until his friends could arrive and rescue him.

  She sighed. It made no more sense than the other notions. The money promised—and she still didn’t know quite how much it was, though Sir George had implied six zeros—wouldn’t be escrowed into the specified accounts until morning, and then only after she confirmed that Ibex had finished spilling his guts.

  And besides, nobody knew where the hell they were!

  Chalice closed her eyes and rubbed at the bridge of her nose. She’d been paranoid enough lately, but tiredness was making her cranky and more suspicious, and into the bargain she’d begun to feel the first tell tale cramps that suggested her period was coming early this month, and unsurprisingly that never relaxed her.

  “Are you ok?”

  She opened her eyes. Ibex was staring at her, an amused smile on his face, eyes unseen behind those damn tinted lenses that he seemed reluctant to take off, even when she’d asked.

  “I have sensitive eyes,” he’d explained. “Age in part, but staring at the African sun for two years didn’t help.”

  “Fine,” she said now, faking a smile. She was good at that. As a child she’d wanted to be an actress, had attended drama classes and been quite the little princess. After Mother moved the pair of them to Israel though, well there seemed enough drama going on without making more up, and her little dream died. In fairness she hadn’t mourned it for long, and eventually other dreams had taken its place, until at last she ended up in the perfect role, and ironically it often required her to playact.

  “Should I carry on?”

  Only if you’re going to up the ante, she thought. She said. “Please do. I just need to stretch my legs.”

  She stood, but didn’t move far from the table. By one of the rear windows she eased back the curtain a fraction so she could see outside. She had no fear of attack, the security system was as good as she’d claimed—better in fact, there were motion sensors in the garden as well; a fact she hadn’t told the others about. Always keep something back. No, anyone invading the grounds would trigger an alert, even if they weren’t spotted on CCTV. Currently Cheung was on watch before the TV. Pretty soon she’d make Brendan take over, if only to stop him pacing the room like a nicotine starved tiger. Quintus Armstrong and Lucy were still sat in place, which left only John Tyrell who hadn’t said much since he and Fox returned with the drinks. She looked back now and saw him, still sat where he’d perched more than half an hour before, in one of the green leather armchairs, the one facing towards the dining table. Sitting facing everyone else, yet clearly isolated, clearly not part of the group. Once again she pondered the benefits of having him here. In an ideal world he’d have been able to get Ibex singing the song they wanted to hear, but sulking with his nose in a book he was no use to her.

  She turned her attention to outside, focusing on the old oak tree. Burgess and Antonia had told her it was at least five centuries old, possibly even older. As always Burgess had said it with some glint of wonder in his eyes. For Antonia it was just another fascinating fact to make her seem intelligent.

  Well Chalice had proven who was smarter.

  In truth the tree didn’t interest her. It might be five hundred years old, might be a thousand, but it was just a tree at the end of the day, and an especially ugly tree at that. Still she gazed at it, at the side of the house, at the distant hedgerows. Anything to make Ibex believe she was ignoring him, that she was disinterested. Hopefully he’d feel the need to get her attention back.

  She was still listening though, hearing and processing everything. He was talking about his Chinese handler. He’d been talking about her for some time.

  She was Yin QingShuang, a trade official with the Chinese equivalent of the Americans’ Foreign Agricultural Service. Young, pretty and not considered an asset according to an MI5 background check carried out once Ibex had mentioned her in his initial communications. Five had even spoken to her ugly sister, Six, but they didn’t have her flagged either.

  The man who’d recruited Quintus Armstrong on the other hand…Five hadn’t needed to ask anyone about him, their own dossier was quite thick enough.

  Zhou Jun, aged thirty-five. Ostensibly a foreign correspondent with Xinhua, the New China News Agency, in reality that had merely been a cover, he was a spy, in the same way that a substantial minority of Xinhua employees were spies. The difference with Jun was that he was blown; in fact he’d been blown away. His body had been discovered floating face down in the Seine about six months previously, two neat bullet holes in his chest and a data-stick full of top-secret DCIR documents in his jacket pocket. The DCIR was still a young agency, and this was potentially their biggest breech of security to date, so they hadn’t shouted from the rooftops about it. The Chinese had initially demanded a full investigation—unhappy with the flimsy French police report that suggested simple robbery—but had quickly backed down when the French had waved the data stick under their noses and threatened to close the Xinhua office in Paris.

  So the tale of a journalist mugged, then shot, by assailants unknown, became the official story. The Chinese and the French of course knew differently, and thanks to the MI6 sponsored mistress of a talkative DCIR bureaucrat, so did the British Security Services. The only thing no one was certain about was who had shot Jun. The Chinese suspected the French, the French suspected the Chinese. The British suspected both of them, not to mention the CIA, the SVR, and half a dozen other agencies.

  Jun had recruited Ibex two months before his death, the initial contact coming at thirty five thousand feet aboard a Virgin Atlantic flight from Washington to Heathrow. Quintus had implied Jun approached him, but this was by no means clear; especially when you took Ibex’s past history into account, with both MI5 and the KGB Ibex had been the one to make the initial approach.

  She let the curtain drop back and turned. Subtle obviously wasn’t cutting it with Ibex, who was currently talking about dead drops he used to get information to Yin QingShuang. Well I don’t care about Ying Yang whatever her name is, thought Chalice. MI5 wasn’t interested in Chinese Intelligence Agents operating in Nigeria except insofar as they could supply that information to MI6 in the spirit of interagency cooperation (translation: supply the information wh
en they needed something in return.) Similarly they didn’t need to know more about Zhou Jun, especially now he was dead. Besides, Ibex had already given both of them up in some of his earliest electronic discussions.

  She picked up her coffee cup from the table. It was empty but she made pretence of drinking. Quintus Armstrong was in full flow about the prestigious hotel in Lagos where he and Yin QingShuang would often complete a brush pass, either in the hotel bar, or in the always crowded lifts.

  Chalice didn’t let him finish. She slammed the mug down against the table, striking with such force that the tiny microphone and tape player jumped several centimetres from the surface.

  Lucy gave a tiny yelp, like a surprised puppy, whilst Fox stopped pacing and dropped into a crouch, hand snaking under his jacket. He didn’t draw his gun though, he was smart enough to wait and see what was happening. Cheung had reacted similarly, only slower, his uncomfortable pose on the backwards chair also proving impractical. Tyrell had leapt out of his seat though, and now looked pale faced, puffing like a man with heart palpitations.

  Sorry John.

  Ibex barely reacted at all. For a moment he merely looked at her, face a blank tableau, then he smiled. A moment after that and he removed his glasses. It didn’t help matters. His empty green eyes betrayed nothing of the thoughts going on behind them.

  “I see patience isn’t one of your virtues,” he said easily.

  “I prefer the direct approach.”

  He nodded. “I thought perhaps you’d want the prologue before we got into the story properly, but I can see you’re one of those people who prefers to jump to chapter five.” He took a tiny breath, expelling it in a sigh that seemed more disappointed than frustrated. “Very well then, we shall go directly to the meat. The Chinese currently have twenty-seven significant assets working within the United Kingdom.” When she opened her mouth to speak he raised a hand and silenced her. “I know, I know, you’re thinking they must have lots more than that, and you’d be right. These twenty-seven however are a little bit different, part of a small scale but highly lucrative intelligence operation.”