“You know the rest of the money went straight into General Abasi’s bank account,” I shrugged. The rights and wrongs of what we’d done were academic – given the circumstances I reckoned it was a fair compromise. “It’s a no-brainer - you look after your brother or watch Abasi buy more guns and gold-plated limousines?”
When the rebels arrived, shortly after the Xaboyo fled, I asked for them to radio Tony Ismael. The rebels relaxed when we mentioned his name, had heard of our tank-busting exploits at the Afuuma road bridge. While we waited, Oz and I buried Ruben Grey overlooking the spot where his betrayers had perished. He was a spiteful little bastard. I liked to think he’d have appreciated the gesture.
Ismael showed up a few hours later, delighted to see us alive. His men had smashed straight through Afuuma, the Presidential Commando diverted to defend the westward thrust of Abasi’s forces. The rebel general, backed by a surprise Ethiopian false flag operation, had tanks and warplanes at his disposal. The Ethiopians had been an uneasy ally, reluctant to commit troops until they knew Afuuma would fall. Marsajir fell quickly afterwards, Aziz bundled in front of his palace and shot by a firing squad.
Sometimes history turns on a pivot. General Abasi reckoned the Afuuma road bridge was his. Had the government forces taken the bridge, Afuuma would have never fallen. Tony Ismael was promoted to Colonel on the spot.
“Here,” I said, handing Colonel Ismael the sack of loot. “This belongs to Zambute, I suppose.”
Behind me, Duncan Bannerman looked like he was sucking lemons. In his imagination, he should have had more treasure. Still, we’d kept one block of the diamonds, which we split between us. After I’d sliced the block of diamond-studded resin five ways, we had fourteen carats worth of stones each. For the clarity and size of my rocks I ended up making a shade under three-quarters of a million Euros, even after thirty per cent laundering costs.
The money went straight into my war chest. War is many things, but most of all its expensive. And it was war I was planning, on The Firm.
We were escorted to Afuuma, the rebels bemused by our honesty in handing back the stolen money. The Chinese warships were gone, the news full of stories about Beijing furiously denying culpability for the outrage at Buur Xuuq. In Afuuma, Juliet contacted SIS and filed an initial report. Within twenty four hours a team of UK Special Forces were bundling us into a heli. The next stop was a dusty Kenyan army base.
We were left in situ, while Juliet and Mel Murray were spirited away the same evening. Juliet was taken for debriefing in Nairobi. She played it straight, leaving out nothing except for the diamonds sewn into the lining of her kit bag. She confessed to her relationship with Dancer, that she’d shared secrets with him she shouldn’t have.
As for us, The Firm sent us to Serbia for decompression while the dust settled. Juliet told me what happened next, over dinner in Belgrade, six weeks later. We sat on a terrace overlooking the Danube, enjoying the late autumn sun. It was warm enough for Juliet to wear a strappy summer dress, her feet in simple leather sandals. “SIS thanked me for my honesty and hard work,” she explained. “Then they invited me to resign. “With all the good will in the world, Jools, this has been a major fuck-up,” she laughed, mimicking her upper-crust bosses. “You were having an off-policy relationship with a man who turned out to be a major security threat to HMG.”
“What then?” I asked, topping up her glass with slivovica.
Her eyes, grey as flint, narrowed. “It was the most reasonable sacking ever,” she explained, emptying another glass. “They offered me a job working with Mel Murray at Focus Projects. Mel’s going to be away for a while, recovering from what happened…”
“You got Dancer’s old job?”
She nodded. I looked at her. Her face was still tanned and weather-beaten, a spray of freckles across her perfectly-imperfect nose. Her russet hair, fine and gold-flecked, fell across her face. Juliet, I decided, was one of those most appealing of women: a beauty that didn’t fully realise it.
I’d offered to manage the sale of her diamonds, over that drunken dinner in Belgrade. She reluctantly agreed. Early the following morning, when she shared my bed, Juliet’s crying woke me. We made love, urgently, both of us knowing it was unlikely to happen again. And when we were spent, we fell asleep to the noise of the wind in the trees.
“What are you going to do next?” she said when we woke. Her arm trailed across my chest, her belly hot against my flank.
“I’m going to be a better man,” I said.
Juliet laughed. “Good luck with that, Cal Winter.”
We kissed then she wriggled on top of me with a wicked smile. When I stirred at sun-up, Juliet Easter was gone.
We’d only spoken once since then, to arrange the meeting in Antwerp. I left her alone, figuring that if she wanted to see me she had my number. Juliet had the chance to live a good life, and the last thing she needed was me in it. I wanted to ring, of course. Why wouldn’t I? She was beautiful and smart and brave…
…but I didn’t make the call. I’m the fly in the ointment, the oil slick on a pristine beach. I know that.
We left the Christmas market and stepped into an old Flemish-style tavern. Bannerman, Oz and Alex were sitting in a corner booth. The men were drinking foaming glasses of beer, laughing and goofing around. They quietened when they saw us.
“It’s done,” I said. “Your cheques will be in your Tete Noir accounts by Christmas Eve.”
“That calls for another drink,” Bannerman declared, wiping froth from his lip. He’d exaggerated the story about me threatening the Xaboyo at the Red House with his Claymore. Now it sounded like something out of Braveheart.
“Nothing for me,” said Juliet. “I’m sorry. I’m flying back to London tonight.”
I tried to catch her eye, but she looked away. I wondered what she was doing for Christmas and the New Year.
“How’s Mel?” asked Oz.
“He’s slowly getting better,” she replied. “Although he doesn’t want to talk about Tom or what happened in Zambute. He’s shaken by the disloyalty, I think. Mel’s very old-fashioned.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Easter, but that sonofabitch Dancer is better off dead,” Bytchakov shrugged. He drained his beer and motioned to the waitress for another, “and so is Duclair.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she said quietly. “Thanks for everything you did. You saved my life. If I can ever begin to return the favour, you know where I am. Consider Focus Projects at your disposal.” And, with a shy nod of her head, she was gone.
That left The Firm, and the truth about Fallen Eagle.
When the rebels took us to Afuuma I picked up two fresh sat phones. I sent a message to Marcus on the first, telling him to expect Easter to show up in Nairobi with the full story, and that his Bad Apples were all dead. I hurled the phone in the sea and powered up the second device.
“You’re alive?” said Monty. There was no disguising the disappointment in his voice.
“Tell me, Monty, how did you plan to rescue us with a Hellfire missile?” I replied.
“There were crossed wires with the Yanks on Fallen Eagle,” he wheedled. “You know how it is. I’m grateful that you accomplished your mission, Cal.”
“I lost two men.”
“Yes, but we won’t hold it against you. The job was… challenging, to say the least.”
I liked this new, emollient Monty. I could get used to it. “I don’t believe you. I think it was a tidy-up mechanism, designed to kill us.”
The handler was silent for a moment. “Is there any point making an issue out of it?” he replied. “You’re alive. The mission was a success, of sorts.”
“Where does my knowledge of Fallen Eagle leave me?”
“Do the rest of the team know the truth?”
“Negative,” I lied. “I thought it was best to keep them in the dark. I’m sure you’d agree.”
“Yes, I a-agree,” he stuttered.
I rolled cigar smoke around my mouth.
The view across Afuuma’s harbour would have been peaceful, if it weren’t for the executed security police hanging from cranes. “I hope it guarantees their safety.”
“I’m not saying…”
“You don’t need to, Mister Montague,” I smiled. Sometimes you need to roll those dice more than is strictly healthy. The story from the old forger in Old Street was my loaded pair, which hopefully would come up Lucky Sevens. “Or is it OK for me to call you Owen?”
I listened to the intake of breath at the other end of the line. “How the hell…”
“It doesn’t matter, Owen, I thought a bit of mutually-assured destruction might keep us both in line. Are you in your office down in Kent?”
“What do you mean?” he hissed. “You can’t threaten me.”
“I just did,” I growled. “I’ll find Declan Cross’s family, you know, the lunatics from the Real IRA? Together we’ll look you up, for old time’s sake. I’ll forget how much I hate Republicans if it means screwing you over. Remember that.” I switched off the phone and tossed it as far as I could, into the sea. I hadn’t spoken to Monty since.
I left the bar and walked into the glow of Christmas lights. The tickets for Lapland were in my wallet. I was taking Sam Clark and the kids to meet Santa Claus. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. I was one of those phony, flash bastards, throwing money around to fix broken promises. Snowy slush seeped into my shoes. I hailed a taxi.
Being a phony, flash bastard would have to do for now. I guessed it was better than being a dead one.
EPILOGUE
I sprinted the last hundred metres along the beach, icy waves lapping at my ankles. My time was good: I’d knocked three seconds off yesterday’s effort.
The six-mile circuit was part of my daily routine. I towelled down and returned to the hire car, ducking inside as it started to rain. Fishing an isotonic drink from the glove-box, I switched on the radio and listened to the BBC World Service. There were wars everywhere, more than a mutt has fleas. Bombs, rockets, incursions, slaughters and massacres, too many to report or comprehend. It would be a busy time for The Firm, doing stuff Governments didn’t have the guts to do for themselves.
Yet the phone hadn’t rung. No Monty, no Marcus and no Firm. Since I’d threatened Monty I’d only had coded email, on the first of each month, telling me to maintain my cover. I’d taken precautions anyway, dropped off the map, lest men with guns were out looking for me.
I doubted they’d find me in northern Iceland. You might as well go to Mars.
The farmhouse was in the middle of a bleak volcanic nowhere, in a place with a name I couldn’t pronounce. Stepping out of the car, my fingers brushed the grips of the pistol tucked in the waistband of my sweatpants. There were no fresh footprints in the muddy ground leading to the porch, no vehicle tracks.
“Hi honey, I’m home,” I said.
“Yo,” Oz replied, sitting at the kitchen table. He’d run twelve miles already, was eating a bowl of porridge. “When’s the last time you had a drink?”
“Three months.”
“Good effort. Do you want one?”
“I could murder a Scotch,” I grinned.
Oz tapped the pile of papers on the table, arranged chronologically. Next to them lay reference books, notepads and a laptop. We’d spent our time productively, corroborating the information from Marcus and the material in Harry’s safety deposit box.
“Harry must have wanted to fuck The Firm over as badly as we do,” I said.
“I make you right,” Oz agreed. “The question is what now?”
“Are the others ready?”
“Bannerman’s in Scotland, waiting for the call. Bytchakov is deployed in Thailand, he’s back next week. He says he’ll be ready when we are.”
I studied the maps, plans and photographs plastered across the walls. They listed the management structure, order of battle, logistics and intelligence capability of The Firm from 1953 until Harry’s retirement. It was my old handler’s paper hand grenade, which he’d gifted me to throw. I didn’t know why, but had no doubt I’d find out.
Once upon a time, it transpired, The Firm had been a force for good. We decided the point of compromise, the moment the tree was poisoned, was September 12th 2001.
I wanted to turn back the clock.
“We’ve got two options,” I said finally. “We either kill every bastard with his or her fingerprints on The Firm…”
“Or…?”
“Well, you know my preferred option.”
Oz raised an eyebrow, “you still think that’s possible?”
“Yeah, I do.” I stood and walked to the window. A watery beam of light lasered through the clouds, alien mountains sparkling in the distance. I took a lungful of clean, cold, air and shivered. “I’m going to be the better man.”
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
The Devil's Work Page 29