Spring Showers Box-set

by Avell Kro

  Pimlico was an area favoured by intelligence operatives because of its close proximity to both

  Vauxhall Bridge and Thames House.

  For that very reason Rob Moore had stayed only a month in the flat the firm had organised for him

  when he moved to London before getting the hell out and finding a nice one bedroom upstairs flat

  in Camden. He’d thought himself smart, getting away from the prying eyes and constant paranoia

  of Pimlico, and it had taken him a further two months to realise the old lady downstairs was the

  widow of a Special Branch officer.

  Not only was she an associate of the intelligence community but he knew for a fact she had

  allowed operatives from both 5 and Special Branch to search his flat while he was out. They both

  knew the other knew but he liked the flat, liked Camden and even liked the old bird, so they

  continued their little dance of pleasantries and innocuous conversation.

  At 7pm he unlocked the front door to his flat and pushed the door open with his foot, swinging his

  daypack in ahead of him in one hand, the other laden with a couple of Tesco’s bags.

  He was halfway through the door when he realised the alarm panel in front of him in the vestibule

  wasn’t beeping. He dropped the daypack and started to reach for the door before he felt a presence

  above him on the stairs.

  Archer had a suppressed Sig pointing down at his head. His face was flat and emotionless.

  ‘Come inside, shut the door.’

  Moore slowly put the grocery bags down and shut the door behind him. He raised his hands,

  fighting the urge to look at his daypack. He was unarmed but the bag contained a can of CS spray,

  and he wondered if he could get his hands on it. It seemed unlikely; Archer had him trapped in the

  vestibule and would drop him before he’d taken a step.

  ‘Not exactly my normal welcome home,’ Moore remarked calmly. His senses were in overdrive but

  he couldn’t tell if Archer was alone.

  The barrel of the suppresser didn’t move. Archer’s gaze remained flat and unforgiving.

  ‘What’d you expect, roses and a nice bottle of red?’

  ‘Wel you’re acting like a prick and it looks like there’ll be claret spilled, so you’re not too far

  wrong,’ Moore retorted. ‘What the fuck is this about, Arch? You dropped your nuts already?’

  ‘You know what this is about. I’ve been chasing Will o’ the fucken Wisp here since the start and I

  want to know why. I’m tired of the games, Rob. Tell me what the fuck’s going on before I jump to

  the wrong conclusion.’

  Moore shook his head. ‘I should’ve known this would bite me in the arse.’

  Archer cocked his head inquisitively.

  ‘Not like that, you idiot. You. I should’ve known you were the wrong man for the job. The Director

  asked my opinion before you were recruited. I recommended you, but it looks like it might the last

  mistake I make.’ He held Archer’s gaze. ‘For an officer you’re not that fucken smart, Craig.’

  ‘Really.’ The word dripped sarcasm. ‘Why don’t you educate me then.’

  Moore sighed. ‘Can I at least put my hands down? I’ve just done arms and shoulders and I’m seizing

  up.’

  Archer gestured with the gun for him to sit, and Moore slid to the floor against the wall, the door

  beside him on one side, a shoe rack on the other. A size eleven Cat made a decent weapon, but it

  wasn’t as fast as a 115 grain 9mm Parabellum.

  Archer moved half way down the stairs and sat facing him, the Sig held casually. Moore was at a

  distinct disadvantage here and they both knew it.

  ‘You’re sick of chasing ghosts,’ Moore said. ‘You’re grabbing at smoke and always a step behind.’ He

  smiled thinly. ‘Welcome to the world of espionage, friend. This is what it’s like. Remember what I

  told you when you first got here?’

  ‘Smoke and mirrors.’

  ‘Exactly. Believe nothing. Trust no one. And always watch your back.’

  Archer inclined his head slightly. ‘Kinda why I’m here.’

  ‘In the Army it’s usually easy to know who you’re fighting; they’re the ones shooting at you or

  trying to blow your balls off with an IED. In this world the enemy are usually the least of your

  worries. It’s your friends in the other agencies you’ve gotta worry about.’ Moore shrugged. ‘You

  can’t just react to what’s happening in front of you, you gotta be thinking five steps ahead.

  Everyone has their own agenda.’

  ‘So what’s yours?’

  ‘The same as it’s always been. Protecting New Zealand’s interests, working for my government.’

  ‘Who else’re you working for?’

  ‘Don’t be so naive, mate. I’m one of the good guys, remember? Have you ever questioned my

  integrity before?’

  Archer didn’t reply, but he was starting to feel foolish.

  ‘Blades don’t go to the bad side mate, so don’t even go down that track.’ Moore let out his breath and

  shook his head. ‘I’m going to try and open your eyes a bit here, because if you don’t sharpen up

  fast, it’ll be game over for you before you even get started.’ He gave Archer a hard look. ‘And once

  this is over, you and I are going to clear the air properly. Right?’

  Archer gave a brief nod, giving nothing away. ‘Crack on.’

  Moore cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts before speaking.

  ‘Take this whole thing back to basics; what’s it all about?’ He ticked points off his fingers. ‘It’s not

  idealism. There’s no political agenda here. It could be lust, envy, revenge.. it could be greed. Thirty

  two million quid is a lot of dough in anyone’s book.’

  ‘It’s a drop in the ocean for the Saudis,’ Archer pointed out.

  ‘But Yassar’s dead, remember? Who benefits from that?’

  ‘He stepped outta line in the family business. He was an embarrassment to them. He had to go.’

  ‘So the Saudis paid Boyle to pop him?’

  ‘Could be.’ Even as he said it though, Archer knew he was wrong.

  ‘Possible but unlikely. Boyle’s been in it with him, but he’s a heavy hitter among these guys. He

  doesn’t need some spineless, snivelling rapist as his running mate. He benefits from Yassar being

  taken out.’

  ‘Thirty two mill buys a lot of potatoes. But he’s not on the inside.’

  ‘Finally.’ Moore smiled slightly. ‘So look at Boyle. How did he escape? How did he know you were in

  Samoa?’

  The cogs started turning in Archer’s head. Moore pressed on.

  ‘Remember he had all night with you guys in Samoa. He could’ve bled you both dry for hours. Even

  you would’ve broken, but Tracy would’ve given up the Crown Jewels before too much longer.’

  ‘He wanted to know who’d killed the CHIS.’

  Moore shook his head. ‘No, he wanted you to think that. He asked a question he already knew the

  answer to.’

  Archer stared at him. ‘Smoke.’

  ‘Exactly. If this is a game of chess, he doesn’t realise he’s just a pawn like Yassar. He has a handler.’

  ‘And the handler’s on the inside,’ Archer realised.

  ‘Mirror mirror, on the wall,’ Moore said softly, ‘who’s the dirtiest of them all?’

  44

  Many banks around the world were happy to do business with no questions asked, providing

  financial and other services for the criminals, terrorists and paranoid. One such bank was located

  in a narrow walkway
in the City.

  A long standing customer, Michael Levre, made his way through the security screening at 11am. He

  was quickly shown to a private windowless room with just a plain table and two chairs for

  decoration. The bank officer, a slightly built, effeminate Pakistani man, left him with a safety

  deposit box and closed the door behind him.

  Livingstone punched his PIN into the keypad and lifted the lid. Inside was a large plain brown

  envelope. He ripped it open and dumped the contents on the table.

  A Canadian passport and drivers license for Bryan Lawrence, a 45 year old IT consultant from

  Vancouver. A Visa card in the same name. Two wads of cash-greenbacks and sterling.

  He tucked them into the inside pocket of his charcoal suit jacket, re-secured the box and left it

  where it was. The attendant opened the door as he reached it, which made Livingstone wonder

  about the presence of hidden cameras. He paused and scanned the room again but still couldn’t

  spot one. Maybe it was just good timing. Maybe he was just paranoid.

  Maybe not.

  Livingstone nodded to the man and made his way back through the sterile foyer of the bank and

  out to the grey stone walls of the walkway. A young Polish woman pushing a buggy squeezed past

  and Livingstone followed her towards the street. The walkway always reminded him of a setting

  for an old Sherlock Holmes movie, all swirling capes and thick fog and Basil Rathbone looking

  intense. He let his mind wander for a moment and immediately regretted it.

  A heavy wooden door opened on his left as he past it and Archer stepped out. Livingstone caught a

  fleeting glance of him and had just enough time to open his mouth before a needle slipped

  effortlessly into his left thigh. His momentum carried him another step forward before his leg

  buckled and he began to fall.

  Archer caught him under the arms and lifted him like a rag doll. Livingstone was aware of it

  happening but had lost all control of his limbs and his tongue had stopped working. He felt himself

  dragged backwards through the doorway, the door swung shut and then he was moving down a

  flight of steps into a dank, cold cellar. Another door shut somewhere above them and heavy feet

  sounded on the steps. A lone light bulb clicked on above his head. Archer sat him on a chair and

  moved away into the shadows.

  Feeling started to come back to Livingstone’s core first and he worked his jaw, rolling his tongue and swallowing. His extremities still felt numb and his thigh ached where that prick had jabbed

  him.

  He waited patiently, knowing that time was both his friend and enemy right now. Rush it and he

  was done for. Take too long and he was done for. Either way, it was clear he was walking a fine line.

  Any wrong move would be his last. Livingstone gathered himself mentally, preparing for a final

  push. This was it. Do or die.

  Archer’s shadow fell across him as he opened his eyes. The lone bulb cast a weak cone of light in

  the cold cellar. It had the musty smell of old hops.

  ‘Time to start talking, Livingstone,’ Archer said quietly. ‘I already know what you’ve done.’

  Livingstone didn’t even bother trying to bluster his way out of it. He was a pro and knew when the

  game was up. Instead he gave the Kiwi a pompous sneer.

  ‘You may think you know, pal, but you know nothing.’ He smirked. ‘Besides, there’s knowing and

  there’s proving.’

  Archer gave a half smile. ‘That’s true. But we know. We know you had the American contractors on

  your private payroll; a cell phone number that called them was traced to a shop in Islington. The

  shop attendant remembered you. Funnily enough, apparently because they wondered why a

  ponce like you was buying a cheap pre-paid phone. Lesson for the future, I guess.’

  Livingstone swallowed but said nothing.

  ‘We know that the 32 mill hidden away by Boyle has disappeared.’ He tilted his head and looked at

  Livingstone. ‘Don’t s’pose you want to tell me where that went?’

  Livingstone felt a lift inside. At least that was a start. He sneered up at the Kiwi. ‘If you know so

  much, why do I need to talk?’

  Archer studied him coldly. ‘I just don’t know why. What was it, Livingstone? Tired of serving your

  country? Passed over for promotion once too often?’

  Livingstone’s expression became condescending now, and it occurred to Archer that the man was

  actually proud of himself.

  ‘Oh no Archer, nothing as fanciful as all that.’ He shook his head. ‘No no no.’

  Archer waited. A soft chuckle escaped Livingstone’s throat and he raised his head, looking Archer

  in the eye and laughing properly now.

  ‘It was much more pure than that, you fool.’ Livingstone sighed and his laugh eased. ‘Pure, old

  fashioned greed. Nothing more, nothing less.’

  ‘You caused a lot of aggravation for a lot of people,’ Archer said softly. ‘Caused a lot of hurt. People

  got killed because of you.’ He gave a small nod. ‘By you.’

  Livingstone gave a dismissive snort. ‘So I have blood on my hands, so what? Who cares? How

  many men have you killed, Archer? You’re like all these gung ho soldier types, all guns and bombs

  and killing, kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out!’ He sneered again, angry now. ‘And you accuse me!

  You accuse me? What a joke.’

  He turned away and snorted, lolling back in the chair, relaxed.

  ‘Do what you’re going to do, Archer, whatever it is. But I can guarantee you one thing-I’ll not spend

  a single night in a prison cell.’ He sat up now and jabbed a finger at the man before him. ‘The

  British Government cannot allow it to happen. A hero of the security services, a diligent spy who

  gave his all for his country, fighting terrorism for more than two decades, splashed across the front

  pages of all the scandal rags. Sent undercover and hung out to dry for the Provos, tortured and

  suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, an alcohol problem the firm knew about and did nothing

  to help, death threats from dissident groups that had him living in fear.’

  Livingstone’s expression was more than confident now. He actually believed what he was saying.

  He had the arrogance of a man who knew to his very core that he would be facing the firing squad

  and walking away, maybe not unscathed, but certainly alive.

  ‘You may walk away, but you’ll walk away with nothing,’ Archer told him.

  Livingstone made a scoffing sound. ‘So I lose my pension and my shitty flat in Harrow. Woop-de-

  doo!’ He met Archer’s flat gaze. ‘Take it. It’s the least I can do.’

  He stood and faced Archer. Arrogance oozed from his pores as he studied the younger man.

  ‘You’re a boy in a man’s game, son. You’l learn.’ He sneered again. ‘One day.’

  Archer’s instinct was to flatten his nose across his pompous, well fed face, but he held himself in

  check. Instead he gave a sniff and stepped aside slowly. The invitation was clear. Livingstone made

  to step past him but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

  He stopped, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He felt Archer’s breath on his cheek, his voice barely a

  whisper.

  ‘Count yourself lucky mate. If this was my country, and my rules, there’s only one way you’d be

  leaving this room.’

  Livingstone couldn’t help himself. ‘Yes, well, we’re a bit more civilised around here old boy. There’s
r />   a certain way of doing things.’

  He tugged his arm free and walked to the steps, his head high. Archer’s voice stopped him again.

  ‘Oh by the way. .that bank in Geneva? They had a slight glitch in their system about five minutes

  ago.’

  Livingstone froze with a foot on the bottom step. He didn’t dare turn around.

  ‘Nothing major, just a technical thing, but it appears their firewalls weren’t as good as they liked to

  make out. A certain account is a lot less healthy than it started the day.’

  Livingstone could feel Archer’s eyes on his back. His heart was racing and he felt faint.

  ‘Not entirely wiped out, but close enough. What’s left roughly equates to what your pension fund

  would be worth.’ He gave a small chuckle and Livingstone felt his cheeks flush with humiliation.

  ‘Nothing more, nothing less.’

  Livingstone put a shaky foot forward to the next step, unable to breathe properly, and focussed on

  trying to just keep moving up the steps.

  ‘Best wishes for your retirement.’

  45

  It had taken three days to get to Thailand, and when he arrived Matthew Livingstone was

  exhausted.

  The stress had taken its toll, the frustration of losing his 32 million-his money-and the discomfort

  of travelling incognito in cattle class all the way just exacerbated an already deplorable situation.

  Still, he reasoned, he was lucky to be alive and lucky to have got away. Good planning over the

  years had enabled him to have various legends set up that were unknown to his employers. The

  standard identity set of a passport-preferably Australian, New Zealand or Canadian-a driver’s

  licence and a credit card had been created for him under three different names, and secured in a

  safe drop box in Essex.

  So it was that Andrew Clarke, a 47 year old engineer from the Gold Coast, had arrived in Bangkok

  with newly-purchased luggage and a wad of cash that got him from the airport to a downtown

  hotel. He checked in for two nights, immediately ordered a meal and slipped the concierge a crisp

  $20 greenback to find him a girl for the night.

  ‘Clean,’ he told him, ‘and young but not too young.’

  Nine hours later, Livingstone was woken by insistent knocking at the door. He fumbled in the dark,