Safe House

by Paul Starkey

  “What’s so different about them?”

  Ibex bared his teeth in a cold grin. “Ain’t one of them Chinese. They’re all Nigerian.”

  Chapter twenty

  Encephalitis had robbed John Tyrell of many things, but the memory of what a gunshot sounded like wasn’t one of them, so even without his embarrassing target practice of a few weeks beforehand, he’d have known the bang of the coffee cup wasn’t the supersonic crack of a bullet.

  Still it scared him half to death. He was partway out of the chair before he even realised what had happened, his pulse racing like a thoroughbred, the book he’d not been reading consigned back to the floor whence it had come.

  Slowly his heart rate calmed. For a moment he considered returning to his seat, thought about picking up the book and going back to pretending. He wasn’t even sure what the book was about, it was all in French, and all he knew of that language was scattered remnants from secondary school. It hadn’t mattered; he had only picked it up off the floor to use as a prop, as an excuse not to talk to the others.

  At first he’d thought the trip to the kitchen would pass without much incident. Fox seemed friendlier—ok he was quiet but at least that was preferable to him bing snide—and even the house seemed more pleasant.

  The entrance way was dark, even when Fox turned the lights on it didn’t get much better due to the half ceiling missing, and Tyrell did feel the need to look towards the mid-level landing, though of course no one was there. The smell of dog was gone though, and only the scent of lavender remained. It was colder, but he put that down to the sun having gone down, plus the drawing room had been quite cosy, the heating timed to come on even when the Carmichaels weren’t home it seemed.

  Even a sudden hail of rain against the stained glass window hadn’t made him jump.

  But then Fox had decided to go exploring, putting the box of supplies down on the floor just after they left the hall and entered a passage that Chalice said led to the kitchen. Fox ignored their destination and checked the doorway directly opposite, When Tyrell half-heartedly suggested they shouldn’t, Fox had just laughed, and said a recce was important.

  They found a narrow room that’d been converted into a home cinema, with two black leather sofas and a huge flat screen TV against the far wall. There were no windows.

  Fox had been impressed by the array of gadgets that sat below the television, but if anything Tyrell found he was disturbed by them. DVDs and Blu-rays were something he’d gotten used to, and he even owned a few DVDs, but it still seemed strange how much technology had leapt in just seventeen years. He wasn’t quite Buck Rogers, but sometimes he felt a little affinity.

  He’d left Fox to it and with a sudden burst of exploratory courage had taken the other doorway out of the home cinema. Towards the room that lay symmetrically with the drawing room.

  The room was dark but he’d found a light switch easily enough and several chandeliers sprang into life. It was a dining room; not quite as big as the drawing room but impressive nonetheless, although also a trifle confusing.

  The drawing room was very traditional, whilst the home cinema didn’t seem to contain a single thing not born in the 21st century. The dining room was an odd mix of the two. Garishly striped Regency style wallpaper and matching chairs sat uneasily next to a table built of steel and glass that looked like it’s come from some yuppie’s penthouse.

  Neatly arranged around the table were eight place settings, futuristic looking square plates bracketed by ornate Victorian style cutlery. It was obvious that the drawing room and the home cinema had been decorated by different people, but it seemed both had collaborated in the dining room.

  There was a fireplace to match the one in the drawing room, and identical mirror above, though they were set more symmetrically in the smaller room.

  “We should have set up here.”

  He’d turned to find that Fox was stood, slouched in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Not sure about the art work though.”

  Tyrell followed his gaze to the opposing wall—it would have been the front facing wall he guessed—there were two windows, again velvet curtains blocked any view, and between them were two medium sized portraits.

  The two men had each walked around a different side of the table until they stood before the paintings.

  “Ok so I know that’s old Bonaparte, but who’s his mate?”

  The painting on the left was obviously of Napoleon, and the one on the right was just as recognisable to John Tyrell, and he despaired at the youth of this modern age, the irony not escaping him that in many ways he was no older than Fox, mentally at least.

  “His mate, is his enemy,” he explained. “Wellington. As in the Duke of…”

  “I know who he is,” groused Fox.

  “Of course.”

  “Why though? Why these two here?”

  Tyrell couldn’t help smiling. “In-joke I think.”

  “Eh?” Fox was still scowling, an ugly twist to his face now.

  “Wellington and Napoleon, one English one French. Remember the alarm voice, it was a woman, and French. I’m guessing that was Antonia; she’s French and Burgess Carmichael? Sounds English to me.”

  For a moment the scowl remained, but then it softened into a smile before shifting once more to a sneer. “Not quite so brain-dead as people think, are you?”

  For once, rather than shrink back in fear and self-loathing, Tyrell felt his blood boil. “Just damn well stop making cracks like that,” he said. The words were said softly, but with cold menace.

  For a second Fox looked genuinely perturbed, the flicker in his eyes suggesting he had realised he’d bitten off more than he could chew. Then the cocky arrogance returned. He took a step back, taking his hands out of his pockets long enough to push back the sides of his jacket before he returned them. Now his shoulder holster, and the butt of his pistol, was clearly visible. “Or what?” he said. “Old man.” His grin widened.

  Shit eating grin, he remembered an old CIA colleague using that phrase once, not so long ago yet a lifetime ago, and it suited Fox down to the ground. Tyrell’s flash of anger had faded now, and he knew those words of steel had been hollow tin plate. “Nothing,” he said softly. “I’ll do nothing.” He turned to walk back the way he’d come. “We really better make those drinks,” he added as he stepped through the doorway back into the home cinema. As he went the dull echo of Brendan Fox’s mocking chuckle seemed to haunt him.

  Fox hadn’t mentioned him backing down after they reached the kitchen, but it was unmistakably there, and every time his back was turned, he imagined Fox was sneering and resisting the urge to snigger. Unexpectedly Fox had offered to make the drinks (Tyrell wondered if Fox feared he would get them wrong?) leaving him chance for a quick explore of the kitchen.

  The first discovery had been before they even got there, the realisation that there was another corridor, perpendicular to the main one and situated between the home cinema and the kitchen. A door at one end led to the main corridor, at the other end was a windowless door of whitewashed wood. It was secured with a large key in the lock. They didn’t open it, assuming it was the side door to the house, the one seen on camera.

  The kitchen heralded no surprises. It had been designed to look rustic, with a large green Aga dominating, and a pine table and chairs, willow patterned china and lots of gingham. The look was superficial however. When drawers were opened they slid out silently on stainless steel rollers. The large fridge freezer was almost as big as the Aga, and matched it in colour, but still it clearly looked like it came from another century, as did many of the items on the worktop. Toaster, kettle, digital radio…all were utterly modern—and no doubt expensive—but had been designed to look old fashioned.

  Tyrell wondered if that had increased the price even more.

  There were four doors leading from the kitchen. One each led to the respective corridors. Another opened into a utility room that was noticeably several degrees colder, Tyrell spo
tted no radiators, and the whitewashed walls probably added to the chill. A large iron sink and draining board was fixed to one wall, and there were a variety of appliances in there; Washing machine, tumble drier, two chest freezers; plus an assortment of cleaning implements and products.

  Walking over to the UPVC door at the back of the utility room, Tyrell had looked out of the large double glazed window (incongruous to the old-fashioned look of the house), but seen nothing but gravel, lawns and hedgerows.

  There was a protrusion jutting out within the utility room from it shared a wall with the kitchen. Tyrell assumed this perhaps concealed a pantry, but when he opened the last door back in the kitchen he instead discovered a staircase leading down to a cellar.

  The kitchen lights were bright, but still their glow failed to make it more than a few yards down the stairs. The steps themselves seemed to have been carved out of rock, and rough grooves had been scalloped deeply into each of them, suggesting great age. Cobwebs covered the dirty brick walls. A single wooden handrail descended into the gloom, disappearing into the darkness like an anchor chain disappearing into the ocean. The rail looked clean and freshly polished, and Tyrell imagined that the cellar might see regular use. Absently he wondered if it was for storage, or had been fitted out as an additional room, a wine cellar maybe…

  A single switch was bolted to the wall, and he was just about to flick it when Fox uttered a high-pitched whistle. He turned to find the other man holding a tray laden with mugs. The kitchen wasn’t as warm as the drawing room, and vapour rose up from the drinks, giving them the look of industrial chimneys.

  “Come on,” said Fox. “I just need you to open the door, you can do that can’t you?”

  Tyrell said nothing. He closed the door. Before it slotted back into its frame, a slight, yet icy, draught rose up from the depths carrying with it the unmistakable scent of an animal.

  Momentarily disturbed, Tyrell slammed it all the way shut. There was a key in the keyhole. The door hadn’t been locked before, but he quickly turned it now, the satisfying clunk of the lock easing the curious feeling of dread that had washed over him, swept towards him by that draught, that smell…

  * * *

  When they’d got back to the drawing room he’d felt calmer, but still the sting of Fox’s chiding hurt, and so he’d sat down and picked up the first book he saw, exiling himself behind his very own Berlin Wall. Now though his attention, everyone’s attention, had been drawn to the dining table. The shift in the air was palpable, where before there had been boredom now there was expectation as Ibex finally began to let slip the juicy stuff.

  Even Fox looked interested, and Tyrell found himself drawn out of exile. He and the younger man stood side by side behind the still seated Lucy, but there were no cheap cracks now, and Tyrell didn’t feel uncomfortable—or if he did his subconscious had decided it was worth it.

  Only Cheung stayed where he was, returning to his chair (right way around this time). Even so he turned it slightly, so he could view both the CCTV and Quintus Armstrong, shuffling a few inches nearer, all the better to hear.

  “Nigerians?” said Chalice. Tyrell thought he detected an edge of disbelief to her voice.

  Ibex nodded. “Yes, Nigerians. As you’re aware, the Chinese mainstay in terms of intelligence gathering is technological. Although it was never officially proven that GhostNet was down to the Chinese, well I think we all know it was.” A wink and a lazy smile accompanied the statement.

  “What’s GhostNet?” He felt like an idiot, but he had to ask.

  Fox answered, but there was no malice, only facts. “A large scale computer hacking operation from a few years back. Whoever they were they hacked into computers in more than a hundred countries, more than a thousand machines in all sorts of places; embassies, NATO Headquarters, banks, the press…it was a hefty breach that’s for sure. Like the man says we don’t know for sure but China is still the prime candidate.”

  “Thank you, Mr Fox. Now whilst the Chinese focus the majority of their efforts down this path, they don’t go the whole hog. There’s a large chunk of the Second Bureau still tasked with human intelligence, and they’re smart enough to know that the wider they cast their net, the more fish they’ll catch. In the main their agents work through the Xinhua news agency, but they also recruit aboard. On the whole they prefer short-term assets, but not always. Operation Fēi was started about ten years ago.”

  “Fēi?” asked Chalice.

  “It means snowfall. Initially Fēi was small scale. At the time Western intelligence agencies were waking up to the fact that China was a player, and as such Chinese nationals abroad started to be more closely monitored. Similarly Chinese nationals attempting to emigrate to the United Kingdom came in for more intensive vetting.

  “Now obviously the Chinese were still able to recruit in the same way we used to.” He smiled. “The way we likely still do. But they were hampered by the more stringent security procedures going on. Fēi was the brainchild of someone who’d worked at the Chinese embassy in Lagos for years. He’s retired now, but Fēi was his baby, and boy has it grown.”

  Chalice was still standing. She had her arms folded but she was nodding. “So you’re saying they recruit assets before they even get to this country?”

  “Exactly.” A knowing wink. “Things have tightened up of late for sure, but it’s not so long ago that Nigerians were in the top ten nationalities granted British citizenship. The 2001 census identified almost a hundred thousand Nigerians living in the UK. At times six thousand plus were coming in every year, and they didn’t all end up working as cleaners, or hospital porters. Take Dr Efetobore Ibru, one of Fēi’s earliest graduates.”

  Lucy checked her spelling of the name before Ibex continued.

  “Dr Ibru has spent years building up a highly respected practice in Portsmouth. You wouldn’t believe how many family members of naval officers use him.”

  Tyrell understood the ramifications. Not only would family members be inclined to let things they shouldn’t slip to a trusted professional, but the blackmail potential must have been enormous.

  “Why Nigerians though?” asked Fox.

  Ibex had slipped his glasses back on again and was leaning back in his chair. The wood groaned slightly. “Several reasons. The main one being the sheer volume of them wanting to come to Britain. The second is that they’ve mainly come from relative poverty, and often leave family members behind. What the Chinese have to pay to look after an aged mother in rural Nigeria is probably about what most of my countrymen pay their kids in allowance. So Nigerians can be very cost effective. Plus of course many of them are already politicised. It would be a misnomer to suggest that all Africans blame the evil colonial powers for the state their countries are in.” He let a sly smile creep across his lips. “But some do, and the Second Bureau has become very adept at sniffing them out.”

  “Bloody immigrants,” muttered Fox.

  “I heard that,” snapped Cheung.

  Fox turned. “I didn’t mean you. You’re British.”

  Thomas Cheung scowled. “My Grandparents were immigrants though, so it’s still an insult.”

  Fox grunted , though whether it was an apology or incredulity was uncertain, and turned back to the table.

  “Interestin’’’ said Ibex. “See where I’m from, well we’re all immigrants. Our country’s built on them. So I never did understand the xenophobia you Brits have.”

  “Some of us Brits,” said Chalice.

  “Of course.”

  “Just like some Americans are somewhat, shall we say intolerant? Although I guess it comes down to which border people are coming across. North or South.”

  “Quite,” said Quintus, unhappy that Chalice was choosing to fence with him.

  She went up another notch in Tyrell’s estimation. The best way to deal with Ibex was to take no shit from him. Of course Sam Harris had been good at that, while Tyrell had still been a touch wet behind the ears, so he’d been blindsided by Q
uintus Armstrong a few times, taken in by information that was flimsy or downright inaccurate. The worst thing was that, in many ways, he was still that callow youth now, callower in many respects.

  “Continue.”

  “Why of course.” Again the silent little lady hung in the air, Tyrell wondered if Ibex would ever be brave enough to say it out loud.

  “I still don’t get how there are that many Nigerians who could be that important,” said Fox.

  The mirrored lenses focused on Fox, the rest of Ibex’s expression as neutral. Then he grinned. “Bruno Bello. Moved to the UK five years ago and set up a restaurant in Westminster frequented by MPs, researchers, journalists and the like.”

  “Oh my God! Bruno’s?” They all turned to see that Lucy Parrish had a curiously theatrical expression on her face.

  “Yes, Bruno’s.”

  “I eat there all the time,” she yelped.

  Quintus chuckled. “Well I hope you weren’t indiscreet over desert, honey. Bruno has a habit of wiring the tables.” He looked at Chalice. “Better?”

  She stared at him. “Keep going.”

  “Have I still not earned my supper?”

  Chalice just continued to stare.

  Ibex sighed. “Very well. I did say that not all Nigerians ended up cleaners, but that having been said some do. Simisola Akinlade.” This time he didn’t wait to be asked, he spelt the name out. “For the last two years she’s worked as the housekeeper of Elspeth Timbrell.”

  “Fuck,” said Fox softly under his breath.