Deadly Game

by Matt Johnson

  I nodded, at the same time feeling my eyes well up. I leaned across the table, took Jenny’s hand in mine and squeezed it tight.

  Chapter 11

  Once I’d made the decision, the arrangements were put into place surprisingly quickly.

  I called Bill Grahamslaw to apprise him of developments, only to find he knew all about them. In fact, it was clear he and Toni Fellowes had been closely monitoring my situation. Sadly, the chance of a few weeks in Kenya had blown out. Something to do with my relevant experience, it seemed. I was disappointed, but not overly so. The job on the slave-trafficking unit sounded exciting and I readily settled on the offer. We agreed I would start on the Monday after my return from Egypt.

  Not everything went entirely to plan, though. Toni’s assertion MI5 would cover the full cost of the trip turned out to be mistaken. The Whitehall mandarins baulked at the prospect of paying for me to learn to scuba dive. Hotel and flights were covered but spending money and entertainment was going to be down to me. By the time the news filtered through to me, the flight was booked and I’d set my heart on doing a PADI diver course, so I agreed to pay for it myself.

  My new Commander had some additional advice. Inevitably, he pointed out, I would meet up with fellow Brits at the resort, and, as was the norm in such conversations, the subject of what I did for a living would come up.

  ‘Say you’re a cop and it acts as a lead into all kind of things from “what do I say if I’m caught speeding” through to “do you know my mate’s uncle who’s a detective”,’ he said, dryly.

  I wasn’t too bothered by that kind of thing, but Grahamslaw pointed out that the recent London attacks on police officers followed by the 9/11 incidents had put the police uppermost in many people’s minds. Uncomfortable questions might be asked, and memories I was trying to put behind me might be raked up.

  I was persuaded. We even agreed on what I would say if asked. I was to be a driving instructor. Plain, simple, not too interesting and easy enough to talk about if pushed.

  For the plane journey, Jenny gave me a book. Ever since finding out about my past she had been reading books about the SAS. This was one we had been lent by Toni, who had suggested I might like to read it during the trip; it was called Cyclone and was written by an author called Chas Collins. Jenny had already read it and, as we headed to the airport, I saw she had popped it into my carry-on bag.

  I promised to look at it on the plane.

  Chapter 12

  The first time you pull on a dive mask, place the compressed air regulator in your mouth, lower your body into the water and then breath is, for many, a life-changing event.

  One day into my holiday, after a trouble-free flight, a short evening walk around the resort and a reasonable night’s sleep, I had my first such experience – under the guidance of my charismatic South African instructor. I was hooked.

  As I inhaled, the air came through with a reassuring hiss; as I breathed out, bubbles danced gently over my cheeks. The heavy tank and weights seemed as nothing in the water. It was a new world, one I immediately wished I had experienced when much younger.

  Catherine, the instructor, had been allocated a group who had failed to show. I was, therefore, her only pupil. My initial training took place in the hotel pool, surrounded by a mixture of Eastern Europeans and Russians in permanent party mode.

  Bikini-clad women adorned the pool-side loungers sporting oiled bodies and expensive-looking jewellery. Their male companions were lively, noisy and seemed to spend most of their time at the bar. They also liked to show off; several times, as I went through my underwater drills, I experienced the human equivalent of depth charges as one of them leapt into the water to cool off.

  Apart from Catherine and the dive-school staff, there seemed to be no other English speakers. That surprised me a little, given what Toni had said about the hotel being used as a recuperation venue, but I soon forgot about it as I began to enjoy myself.

  On the third evening, Catherine invited me to join her for a beer. We sat chatting with the dive staff at the pool bar. Thankfully, on this particular evening, the other guests seemed to be engaged elsewhere and the customary loud music had been turned down. I ordered cold beers for the two of us and enjoyed listening as the instructors regaled us with tales of sea creatures spotted on the reefs and amusing stories of customers’ diving skills. The small group seemed very relaxed and had no problem with my being amongst them. One of them – an older man called Mike – was the senior instructor. Catherine informed me Mike had been a navy diver before moving out to Sharm to help start up the dive school.

  Catherine and I were teased a bit as it seemed the last time she had a one-to-one with a learner diver they had started a relationship. She explained that they were still in touch and most evenings she would talk on the phone to him at his home in Rome. She was hoping to join him for Christmas if the dive school would give her the time off.

  As we chatted, I mentioned the other hotel guests, and Catherine explained the men were in business and the women were mostly their trophy brides – ‘arm candy’ was the expression she used.

  There was one notable exception, she said: Marica – a Romanian girl in her early twenties, who was having private lessons. She was very beautiful, Catherine commented, and many of the men seemed in awe of her. But she was accompanied at all times by a man who seemed to be more of a minder than a husband or boyfriend. The girl spoke quite good English, it was said, and, unlike the others, seemed well educated. Mike was her instructor.

  Mike stood up to get in a round of beers. Even though it was evening, the air was warm and comfortable. Nobody seemed to be in a rush to head off to bed. Then, exactly as Grahamslaw had predicted, the subject of my work came up. One of the dive staff asked me what I did back home.

  I lied; the convincing, easy lie I had prepared. I said I was a driving instructor. It caused some mirth as it transpired Catherine had still to pass her test, having failed it three times. And, just as predicted, those present soon lost interest in my very normal and unexciting background.

  As Mike was returning from the bar with our beers, I had my first sight of the Romanian girl.

  Marica appeared near the entrance to the bar area with an older man. Catherine was right; she was stunning. Slim, with short, jet-black hair, she wore a tight, cream-coloured jumper with stretch-fit blue jeans and flat shoes. The man with her was also casually dressed, in jeans and a loose-fitting shirt. I recognised his demeanour immediately. He was a bodyguard.

  He waved to Mike, beckoning him over, and, as he did, I could see him scanning the bar, checking and assessing those present. He was weighing up any danger, looking for a threat, his manner sharp, attentive and professional. As he looked in my direction, I avoided his eyes. You can tell a lot from a man’s eyes. If this man was as skilled and as experienced as he appeared, I was aware he might see something in mine I would prefer he didn’t.

  When Mike returned to our group he wasn’t happy. ‘She wants to do an advanced course to follow the open-water,’ he said to Catherine.

  She shrugged as she reached for her beer. ‘Is she up to it?’

  ‘Yes, but I really need to have her with someone else – a buddy.’

  Catherine hardly paused for breath before turning to me. ‘How about you, Robert?’

  I was confused. It showed, so Mike explained. The Romanian girl was due to finish her basic training at the same time as me. She wanted to add on another two days’ instruction to do the advanced course. Mike was committed elsewhere but she was a prestige customer at the hotel and he had been told to give her whatever she needed. Catherine was the only spare instructor, but she was assigned to me for the week.

  ‘How do you fancy doing the advanced course, free of charge, of course?’ Mike offered. ‘We’d just need you to be a dive buddy to the Romanian girl; Catherine will teach the both of you.’

  ‘Does the minder go everywhere with her?’ I asked.

  ‘Everywhere except bed, the
head … and under the water,’ Mike laughed.

  I agreed. The chance to have extra diving instruction free of charge made it a no-brainer for me. ‘If the rest of my course goes smoothly and I pass the basics, count me in,’ I said.

  The following day was our first away from the pool. And, from the moment Catherine gave me the signal to descend into the warm sea, an unrivalled grin decorated my face. Any fear I had of being many feet below the surface quickly dissipated as I experienced the sensation of weightlessness for the first time. It was as though I was flying, the reefs passing gently below me as we swam. All manner of brightly coloured fish darted through the complex coral. I was transfixed.

  That evening, when I called home, I struggled for superlatives to describe it to Jenny. It wasn’t a long phone call, just enough to touch base and have a quick chat. She was moved to comment that I sounded more upbeat than I had in a long time. In a slightly secretive tone, she also mentioned having a surprise for me for when I arrived home. Despite my efforts, she wouldn’t be drawn on what it was.

  The next couple of days diving saw me progress from complete ignorance to becoming only just competent. I wasn’t the most natural of divers. My comical attempts to stop myself floating to the surface when I was supposed to be descending frustrated me, yet seemed to amuse Catherine no end.

  On the day I passed the basic course, I swam over to Catherine and threw my arms around her. My sheer exuberance was such, if it hadn’t been for our masks and regulators, I swear I would have kissed her.

  I was now definitely up for doing the advanced course. As I enjoyed another evening beer at the bar, Catherine headed to the dive-school office to make the arrangements. The next day, I would get to meet Marica and her bodyguard.

  Chapter 13

  MI5 office, New Scotland Yard

  ‘I don’t agree with this,’ Nell said, angrily.

  ‘It’s my call, Nell. Now, will you please just get on with what I asked you to do?’

  Nell returned to her workstation. What had started off as a difficult morning didn’t look to be getting any easier. Toni turned back to her desk, attempting to ignore the disapproval emanating from her assistant, whose behaviour was making it almost impossible to concentrate on the task at hand – the buff file that contained the personal details of a new addition to the team. A young man called Stuart Anderson would be joining them very soon.

  As the muttering became quieter, Toni said a silent thank-you that a difficult situation now seemed to be over. In her peripheral vision, she noticed Nell lean across and adjust the books she kept as reference material on her desk. One appeared to be slightly out of line. Nell straightened it then sat back as her outburst of temper gave way to normality. It looked as if the moment had passed.

  Toni relaxed. Many aspects of Nell’s personality and condition made day-to-day interactions with her difficult. But when focussed on a research project these challenges became strengths. Others found exhausting the repetitive nature of continued searches and the total concentration required to glean documents for key information. To Nell, though, such tasks were second nature and hugely satisfying. She established routines, applied herself to the job and completely ignored the world around her. Often, she would forget to eat; and woe betide anyone who interrupted her train of thought.

  Abruptly, Nell stood up again and walked across to Toni. She braced herself; it seemed she wasn’t out of the woods just yet.

  ‘Toni, I think it is utterly reprehensible – using Robert Finlay in this way. It’s obvious what you’re doing. You made sure he took the Collins book with him, knowing full well he might bump into the author and get chatting to him. It’s obvious … you plan to pump Finlay for intelligence when he gets back, don’t you?’

  ‘It was too good a chance to miss, Nell. The publishers of that book are staying at the hotel and the CIA need to know where Collins got his information from to write it. He wouldn’t tell anyone normally, but he might get talking to a former mate, mightn’t he?’

  ‘But he’s not a field agent, and he’s in your care because of recent traumatic events. Your cavalier treatment of him is … unconscionable.’

  Good word, thought Toni, and so typical of Nell. But enough was enough. It was time to dead-end this.

  She swung around on her chair, aware her temper was rising. But Nell was standing so close it was impossible to stand. Her legs were locked straight, feet astride, hands on hips. She looked angry.

  Toni looked her assistant in the face and, for a moment, stayed silent. ‘Do you mind?’ she then asked.

  A look of confusion crossed Nell’s face.

  ‘You’re in my personal space, Nell.’

  For a moment, Nell seemed uncertain as to what to do. She didn’t move, didn’t react.

  Toni decided to leave it. ‘What precisely is bothering you, Nell?’

  ‘Like I said, I think what you are doing is reprehensible, and I want no part of it … it’s unpalatable.’

  ‘Are you referring to sending Finlay to Egypt or creating him a cover story?’

  ‘Sending him, of course. Finlay shouldn’t need a cover if he is simply going to recuperate. If he is getting into something more convoluted then he should do so knowingly. I think you are seeking to trick a vulnerable man, merely because it is convenient for you.’

  Toni pushed her seat backwards, avoiding having to crane her neck to look her assistant in the eye. ‘Nell, I think things are not quite so black and white here as you might like…’

  ‘But he has no training, no relevant field experience, and, from what you’ve said, is reluctant to even consider working for MI5, let alone embroil himself in a covert operation. This stinks and you know it.’

  Toni breathed deeply and counted to five. This wasn’t going to be easy. ‘Look Nell,’ she lowered her voice, slowed down. This was no time to lose tempers. ‘You need to understand a few things before you start to judge. For a start, he does have field experience. He did undercover work in Northern Ireland when he was in the army. And he is trained – he did courses; the same kind of preparation I’ve done.’

  ‘But at that time he knew what he was doing, he was properly briefed. This time he hasn’t a clue.’

  ‘That’s as may be, Nell. But what you might not appreciate, as we sit here in this nice cosy office, is ignorance can be a distinct advantage. One of the most frequent ways undercover people give themselves away is body language. They see their target and show signs of recognising them – make eye contact or something similar. Someone sees that and they’re blown. Finlay is a clean skin and has no idea who he is mixing with. Not knowing will protect him. He’s been told to avoid the potential embarrassment of admitting he’s a cop by saying he’s a driving instructor. Your job is to make sure his story is verifiable.’

  ‘But that’s exactly my point. By creating him a cover, that’s a de facto admission he is undercover. He’s not … he’s just a cop having a holiday.’

  ‘…Who might just meet someone who spills things to him that wouldn’t be told to any of us. Don’t you get that?’

  Nell stepped back, just slightly. A first indication she was coming around. ‘So what happens when they get suspicious of him?’ she asked.

  ‘They won’t … because you’ll make sure of it. And if he gets into any scrapes then, believe me, Robert Finlay can look after himself.’

  ‘And when he gets back, will you tell him?’

  Toni scrunched up her face. ‘I’ve thought about that, and the answer is … possibly. At the moment I plan to debrief him carefully and learn what I can without alerting him.’

  ‘You want him to work for MI5 don’t you?’ asked Nell, her tone now more inquisitive than accusatory.

  ‘Yes, you know I do. He’d be good, especially if he recovers well. I’d be lying if I said I’m prepared to give up on the idea just because he’s going through some post-trauma issues.’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘Won’t what?’

  ‘Won�
��t join MI5. He made that quite clear during the Hastings debrief.’

  Toni kept calm, her voice reassuring. She was winning the argument. ‘He says that now, yes. But Finlay is working for us without even realising it. If I handle it right – break it to him retrospectively, as it were – I think he might be persuaded. He thinks he’s not up to it. If I can show him he’s been doing it already … well, you never know.’

  ‘I don’t believe his objection is based upon competence. I think he wants family life, plain and simple.’

  ‘Trust me, Nell. Men like Finlay live for excitement. He might crave the comfort of the nest at this moment in time, but it won’t be long before he wants back in the thick of it.’

  ‘But, it’s against regulations. Article thirty-four, para—’

  ‘Enough!’ Toni exclaimed.

  ‘But, it clearly says—’

  ‘I know what the regulations say, Nell, so don’t you go lecturing me on them. This is one of those situations that require us to think outside the box, to use our imaginations to solve challenging problems…’

  ‘To use people, you mean? Like you’re using Robert Finlay?’

  ‘Using people is what we do, Nell. This is the Security Service, not the Boy Scouts. Just remember, it’s my call and my responsibility. For now, your job is to provide the cover story details I have requested … and I would very much appreciate it if you got on with it. How far have you got?’

  ‘Not far. I hadn’t really started.’

  ‘I thought as much. Now just tell me how you’re going to do what I asked?’’

  ‘OK … OK. I can create a self-employed record with the tax office, a new National Insurance number, certification and registration records. He’ll be a genuine driving instructor before midday today.’