“Right, then,” I said. “Let’s cut to it. Sorry to be blunt, but I don’t have much time.” Frank looked at me quizzically. I pressed on. “You know what really interests me, gentlemen?” No one answered. “OK,” I continued. “I’ll tell you, then. It’s not that you all came this evening. I expected that. It’s that none of you told the others you were coming. Isn’t that fascinating?”
“Indeed,” said King. He leaned back in his chair and relaxed. “And painfully so.” He paused and seemed to make his mind up about something. “I like you, Max. Let me be clear about that. And let me be clear about this, too. You’re an asset. You were sent to do a job. You were given limited information for your own good, and for the good of the mission. I know you know this. Everything we do is secrets and lies. Falsehoods that serve a greater good. I imagine Colonel Ellard already gave you this lecture at Raven Hill, however many years ago.”
“Twenty-three,” I reminded him.
“Well, there you go. Twenty-three years. You’re a professional, not a rookie. So tell me. Tell us. Why are we here? Because right now all we know is that you killed an awful lot of people, apparently including a senior GRU officer and a CIA agent, and all hell broke loose. Mason is right, Max. It’s an unholy mess—and we still don’t have the first idea why it is.”
“And how do you know I killed a CIA officer?” I asked him. “Because Vauxhall told you so?” Mason folded and unfolded his arms. I plowed on. “‘Never forget where you’re from.’ That’s what you said to me, isn’t it, General, two weeks ago, when I got back from Caracas?” King inclined his head in agreement. “Well, the reason we’re here is because I never knew where I was from, and one of you three has forgotten which side you’re on.”
“Max.” Frank rolled his shoulders and looked up to the ceiling. “As far as we can tell, you did your job. The target seems to have been terminated. If it was a shit job, then I’m sorry. But before you carry on”—he took another mouthful of his pint—“remember that what you say now cannot later be unsaid.”
“I know, Frank, but you mustn’t worry.” I looked at Mason and softened my tone. “You see, all I want is a friendly chat.” Mason undid his bow tie. “A heart-to-heart, if you like.”
“That would be nice.” Mason murmured so softly that it was hard to hear him. I leaned across the table toward him. The SIG bulged at the back of my jeans. “A nice, friendly heart-to-heart.”
“What?” said King.
“Yes, a nice heart-to-heart.” Mason spoke up, his voice warm, but strong. “It’s so good to talk, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” King frowned and looked at Frank. Frank looked at me. I was still looking at Mason.
“It is,” I said. I reached out and laid my hand on top of Mason’s. “It really is. May I call you David?”
“Oh, please do. Surnames are so formal, hmm?”
“So, David, you see, there’s something I’d really love to know, something special that I think only you can tell me.”
“Of course, Max! Of course. What would you like to know?” He took another sip of his drink and licked his lips, sitting forward in expectation of my question. Frank had moved closer, too. King sat up and pushed his wineglass away from him. I took a deep breath and hoped I was on target.
“You see, David, it’s just that Colonel Proshunin knew I was coming. He knew my name, and why I was in Sierra Leone. How is that possible, David? How do you think he knew that?”
Mason yawned and looked me straight in the face.
“Because I told him.”
Frank put his pint down and straightened up.
“What did you say?” he asked. Mason turned to Frank.
“I said I told Colonel Proshunin that Max was coming.”
“And why, David, did you do that?” King spoke slowly and carefully, perhaps fearful of what might be said next. Confused where to turn, Mason looked at me.
“So that he’d kill Max, of course.” There were tears in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Max. Will you forgive me? Please forgive me. It’s so good to be able to talk about all this at last. It’s been such a burden.”
“It must have been,” I said. I withdrew my hand carefully and hooked it around the back of my chair within easy reach of the SIG. “And why did you do that? Try to have me killed, I mean.”
“Because I wanted to broker a deal. And so did the Americans. It’s very simple, really.”
“A deal with who, David?” I asked him. It had felt anything but simple to me, trapped underwater with my father’s monsters.
“With Moscow, naturally. We’d let them keep the virus and save their professor from, well, from you, Max.”
“What was the deal?” King asked. “What did you want in return?”
“Influence, Kristóf.”
“Influence?” King backed away slightly.
“Yes, influence. You’re so old-fashioned, Kristóf. You can’t stand the Russians, and all because of something that happened in Hungary when you were just a silly little boy. I bet you don’t even remember it, not really.” King let him continue. “Lies, you said. Lies and history. And do you know what comes between them, Kristóf? Ideology. Once upon a time the Russians were just an irritant we defined ourselves in opposition to. But now they’re the future. Our future. The Americans know it”—Mason turned to Frank—“but we’re being left out, held back. Corrupted, fooled by fools into giving up gladly the very things we should be fighting to keep. This isn’t about left or right anymore, Kristóf. The core has crumbled. The idea of Europe, of democracy, of everything—everything!—you fought for”—he looked around the table—“that all of you fought for, has failed.”
The three of us listened in silence. Beads of sweat formed on his brow and upper lip. He sipped from his glass and turned his full attention back to King.
“Do you think Washington or Moscow will give a damn about us while we despise ourselves, wringing our hands at the memory of how great we once were? No, Kristóf. We need to act. The game’s afoot, and Goddamn anyone who thinks otherwise. It’s the strong who will survive—strong men and strong nations. This mission was about only that: our survival—building a strategic partnership with people who understand their destiny, not serving the traitors in Westminster who fight against ours. You break one set of rules only so that you can follow another. But the Russians know there are no rules. They’ve seen it first and seen it clearest. And you, you are just blind men groping your way in the shadow of a giant.” Frank put his hands under the table. I sat back a little. “It was a unique opportunity,” he concluded. “And I took it. With access to their virus, we could have done anything together. Anything and everything.”
“So you made sure the operation was set up to fail all along,” King said. It was a statement, not a question. No one spoke for a moment. I didn’t have long left.
“Yes. Rather clever, really. Max gets just enough rope to hang himself, and we get—how did they describe it?—the keys to the kingdom. We save them from Max—a threat that we created—and they’re eternally grateful. That’s all espionage is, you know. An international extortion racket.”
“And Sonny Boy,” I pushed on. “Sergeant Mayne. He messed it up for you, didn’t he? He knew what you were up to and tried to stop it himself because he found out about the virus, what it could do.” Mason nodded. His cheeks were wet with tears, but he was still smiling through them. “Is that why you had him killed?” Mason nodded again. “And the others? Marie Margai? Your Official in Freetown?”
“Yes,” he sighed. “All of them. And that counselor, too. Crossman, was it?” He yawned again. “Last week. Poisoned her in her own office. Brutal business. So good to get it all out in the open.”
I sat back in my chair. Mason wiped his eyes and nodded at me. Frank and King looked at each other and then at me. I reached inside my jacket pocket and took out my cell phone. The voice recorder
was still running. I pressed stop and then send, and Jack Nazzar, wherever he was, received an e-mail of the audio file.
Mason rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. As King went to speak, Mason slumped to one side and slipped into deep sleep. There were so many questions, but it was a narrow window and the curtains were already drawn. I put the phone back in my pocket and reached over to check his carotid pulse. David Mason would wake up in a few hours with a headache and no recollection of our heart-to-heart. All he’d remember would be falling asleep suddenly in a London pub.
From my jeans I produced the glass ampoule that the barmaid—already well on her way to who knew where—had given me back with my change.
“SP-117,” I said to King. “Courtesy of our Russian friends.” He held out his hand, and I dropped it into his palm. “It’s what they call ‘the remedy that loosens the tongue.’”
“How did you know?” Frank said. “It could have been me. It could have been the good general here. How did you know whose drink to spike?” He put his hands back on the table, in clear view.
“A number in a cell phone,” I said. “Confusion over when someone died or who killed them. The enemy who knows your name. All bullshit. Interesting bullshit. But still just bullshit. Depending on how you look at it, it can mean anything or nothing.”
“OK. But you knew, right? You always bloody know. So how?”
I stood up and looked at them both. King canted his head back, and for the first time I saw his eyes. They weren’t black. They were brown.
Probably just like his mother’s, I thought.
“Proshunin didn’t just know my name,” I said. “He knew my rank, too.” I picked up my glass and tilted it toward Mason. “You’re both military. Neither of you would have told him I was a major, because I’m not.”
“That’s it?” said King.
“Nearly,” I said. “There was one other thing, too.” I looked at Frank. “The scientist, my target.” Frank looked me straight in the face. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “He served in Aden, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” he said. “I believe he did.”
“That was a nasty scar he had, on his temple.”
“Indeed it was.”
“He had a run-in with the locals, I believe. On a bus,” I said. Frank spread his fingers out on the table.
“It’s a good policy, I find,” he replied, “not to ask too many questions to which you already know the answer.” He looked at King. “It gets boring for other people.”
“Sure,” I said. “But how did you know it was him?” Frank cleared his throat and turned his attention back to me.
“Because Sonny Boy came back covered in blood. Drenched, but not infected. We ran the DNA. There was only one match. Whatever it was the professor was doing, Max, he embedded his own DNA into it.”
And mine, I thought. The virus and the antidote, the new, final strain, was made with my DNA. I felt my heart beat in my chest, my ears. Blood surged through my veins. His blood. Bad blood.
“Commander Knight, I’m not sure I entirely understand.” King stood. Frank remained seated next to Mason.
“What are you going to do now, Max?” Frank asked. “Raven Hill is still an option, if you want it to be.”
King nodded his consent.
“There’s something I have to get out of my system first,” I said. I swilled the remaining stout around the bottom of my glass. “I’ll be in touch.”
I turned my back on them and started toward the exit, but Frank called out over the building din in the bar.
“Ana María made it out of Venezuela.”
“I know,” I replied. “She made it back to Karabunda, too.” I saw it clearly then. I wasn’t the only one who’d mistrusted MI6. “You knew she was involved. You switched out my original target for her at the last moment, didn’t you? So Mason couldn’t stop it.”
“Maybe I did,” Frank said. “One thing’s for sure, though: if you’d killed her in Caracas, we wouldn’t be here now.” He gripped Mason’s shoulder and smiled. “You did well.”
“So did you, Frank.” I walked to the door through a throng of green wigs and tricolor T-shirts and stepped out of the heat of the pub and into the freezing night air. I stopped to drain the last of the stout before heading off. The whole city was coming to life around me. In front of me, the bullet had already left the barrel.
I didn’t hear the shot.
You never do.
The glass sang with a bright, clear snap as the round exploded into a handful of jagged shards. They’d heard what I had to say all right; I supposed they were going to make sure I didn’t say anything else. I looked up into the open door of a blacked-out van and the face of Jim Jones.
He lowered the silenced barrel of his pistol and climbed out. The bullet had missed me by a whisper and embedded itself into the wooden frame of the door behind me.
“Grumpy Jock liked your e-mail,” he said, pushing past me into the bar. “Happy Saint Patrick’s Day. Sir.”
I breathed out hard.
It looked like Mason was going to have a rough night.
EPILOGUE
First Light
MONDAY, MARCH 20, 2017
The driver set me down at oughterard. I watched the taillights of the bread van disappear into the predawn gloom and then walked the last two kilometers north up Glann Road to Baurisheen. The silver-black expanse of Lough Corrib stretched away to the east. I stood for a while, letting my eyes adjust, breathing in the wind and waves and wildness.
I’d abandoned the Mercedes at Holyhead and boarded the ferry on foot. My cell phone was at the bottom of the Irish Sea. The last message it received was from Roberts and Juliet.
Heading up to Bindi, bruv. Wish us luck.
They were looking for the girl with the broken lion bracelet. If anyone could find her, it was them.
Over the weekend I’d walked and hitched across the country from Dún Laoghaire. I hadn’t gone home. Maybe I never would. It was twenty-six years since I’d walked the halls and gardens of our old house, our family home. All that could remain was an echo. The voices, their voices, were long gone.
Who was it that went to my mother that day and gave her the choice to take her own life or have it taken from her? I hadn’t asked, because I hadn’t needed to. It would have been someone like me, and the only person I knew like me was Frank. When she was gone and my father vanished, I became his penance, his project.
Mason had set me up to fail, Frank had set Mason up to fail and King didn’t care who failed as long as the Russians didn’t win. I crouched down and stared at my reflection emerging in the dark lake water.
It was hard to see what winning looked like.
At the end of a small spit of land, I found the boat I was looking for, a blue and white skiff pulled up onto the beach. I unhooked the painter from the cinder block anchor and left on top of it, secured under a heavy stone, the price of a month’s rental in cash. I threw my bag in the boat and pushed off.
In Holyhead I’d dropped into the post an insulated envelope containing another small glass vial. As the rising sun chased the shadows off the hills in County Galway, ten milliliters of my blood would drop onto the doormat of Captain Rhodes at the DSTL laboratory in Porton Down. If the Russians had managed to get the virus to Moscow, she’d be able to stop them; if King wanted to create an army, I’d be able to stop him.
I pulled hard at the oars and set my course for the wilderness of the lake islands. My little boat beat against the current. Forty days, my father had said—after which I would get back to doing what I did best.
Killing was my life.
Anything that happened before or after was just waiting.
About the Author
James Brabazon is an author, journalist, and documentary filmmaker. Based in the UK, he has traveled to over seven
ty countries—investigating, filming, and directing in the world's most hostile environments. He is the author of the international bestseller My Friend the Mercenary, a memoir recounting his experiences of the Liberian civil war and the Equatorial Guinea coup plot. He divides his time between homes in London and on the south coast of England.
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