by Matthew Dunn
“Do you have children?”
Roberts shook her head.
“Imagine explaining to a child that their daddy isn’t coming home. That new chapter you speak of may never come to me, let alone my son.”
That evening, Parker was in Sign’s lounge. Sign, Knutsen, and Roberts were also present. Sign had made mince pies and mulled wine. He handed out the food and drink to the team before taking his seat.
Parker said, “The head of security and I interviewed and briefed Messenger, Pendry, and Logan.”
“All three of them together, or individually?” asked Knutsen.
“Individually. But we didn’t have much time, given it was arranged at short notice. We had thirty minutes with each officer.” Parker took a sip of his mulled wine. “Ooh, this is good. You’ve put something different in here.”
“Ginger.” Sign tapped his finger against Logan, Messenger, and Pendry’s names on the chalkboard. “How did you couch the interviews?”
“As we agreed. I told them that the interviews were not part of the upcoming formal application process to become chief. I added that, if anything, today’s meetings were designed to bolster their knowledge of security matters and thereby enhance their chances of success within the application process. I said matters were becoming urgent. All three of them were aware of the suicides of Archer, Lake, and File. We told them that MI6 is cooperating with the police but MI6 is also conducting its own investigation. I said that it was probable that the suicides were linked; that all three may have taken their lives because they were in some kind of conspiracy that compromised the integrity of MI6. Most likely they were blackmailed by a foreign intelligence agency. They cracked and took the easy way out.”
“Good.” Sign brushed chalk dust off his fingers. “Do you think they bought that falsehood?”
“Of course not. But not one of them indicated they knew I was lying.”
“To be expected.” Sign closed his eyes. “Logan, Pendry and File. Two of them may be potential victims. One of them may be the whisperer.” He opened his eyes and stared at Parker. “Which one is the whisperer?”
Parker sighed. “I couldn’t tell. Messenger has fourteen aliases. That means he’s fourteen different people. Pendry has adopted the mantle of spin doctor. Anything that comes out of his mouth is utter shite. Logan is ruthless and arrogant. He prides himself on speaking five Asian languages with fluency. He keeps his cards close to his chest.”
Sign repeated, “Which one of them is a killer?”
“Come on Ben! We’re all in that ballgame! It’s like gathering a bunch of lunatics and asking them ‘Which one of you has been a naughty boy?’”
Sign ignored the astute comment. “Messenger is head of MI6’s European Controllerate. Fourteen aliases is a heavy burden. At peak, I did sixteen. Managing that for years induces schizophrenia. Pendry is Head of Communications. That means he needs to speak to every component of UK government, together with the media and foreign governments. He’s a political animal. Power has rubbed off on him. He knows how to manipulate the world. Logan is the dark horse. He thinks like an Asian. Family is essential; the lives of others are not. He’d happily cut out your eyes if it meant he could save his wife and kids.” Sign wrote three words next to the suspects on the board. “Schizophrenic, megalomaniac, psychopath.” He looked uneasy as he spoke quietly to the board. “Which one of you is the whisperer?”
CHAPTER 19
John Smith entered the chief’s office in MI6 headquarters. The large room contained framed photos of every chief who’d served in the organisation since it was created in 1909. Typically, each chief served five years before being told to retire. The current chief was no exception. He had three months left in MI6 before he’d swap his cloak and dagger for something more benign. Smith was counting down the days for that to happen.
He sat opposite Henry Gable. “You wished to see me, sir. I have to say it’s inconvenient. I’m running a misinformation exercise in parliament. MPs are nibbling at the false intelligence I’ve fed them. It should sway them on their vote on Syria.”
Gable sighed. “Games, games. You were always very good at them. But yes – we need parliament to vote the right way.” He ran a finger around his tea cup. “That’s not why you’re here. Archer’s dead; Lake’s dead; File’s dead. That leaves you and two others in the running for my job.”
“Who are the others?”
“You know full well who they are.” Gable wondered how MI6 would fare if Smith was made chief. Still, Smith was exceptionally bright and ruthless. Maybe that’s what the service needed right now. “I’ve been advised by an external agency not to protect you and the other two candidates. As contrarian as it sounds, the rationale behind that advice is that we must weed out the bad apples. Are you a bad apple?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be flippant with me. Do you have any links to Archer, Lake, and File?”
“Of course. We’ve all gained seniority in MI6.”
“And they’re dead.”
“And I’m not.” Smith looked at the pictures of the chiefs. Soon, he’d be up there. “You’ll be going out having hit the zenith of a remarkable stint of service. But you won’t matter when you’re gone. The service will put a picture of you on a wall. It’s the equivalent of getting a gold pen at the end of a career where you’ve sacrificed everything and received little in return.”
“So, why do you want the job?”
“I want to change things. Get rid of the pomp and bullshit in The Office.”
“Do you now?” Gable chuckled. “You have ambitions above your station.”
Smith shook his head. “You’re in charge of a bunch of free thinkers who don’t give a shit about what you say. Name me one other government organisation – Crown Service, military, Civil Service – that contains people like that.”
Gable was silent.
“Free thinking is crucial. But I want us to adopt a U.S. model – more militaristic in chain of command; and I want UK special forces to report to the chief of MI6, not the director of UKSF. In fact I want the post of director scrapped.”
Gable frowned. “You want control of the SAS, SBS, and SRR?”
“And MI5. It’s about time those knuckle heads were merged with MI6. I’ll sack most of them and get people with brains to replace them.”
Gable said, “You’d be building a fiefdom.”
“I’d be building a streamlined and efficient structure. Come on Henry. We both know this has been under consideration for a decade or so.”
“And rejected. UKSF is very different from MI5, which in turn is very different from MI6.”
Smith breathed in deeply. “MI6 sets the bar. It’s gold standard. The others are not. With good selection and training, we can change that. I’ll redefine the benchmark of excellence.”
“Save your speech for the interview process.” Gable sipped his tea while keeping his eyes fixed on Smith. “Why do you think Archer, Lake, and File killed themselves?”
Smith shrugged. “Logically, there’s only one explanation – they did something wrong. A foreign intelligence agency knew that and decided to try to blackmail them. They’d have been wracked with guilt. They did the honourable thing and took their lives, rather than risk shame and prison. Which foreign agency did this is unknown. But, it will have been one of the usual suspects – Russia, China, maybe Iran. You know all this. My views are shared by you and other senior MI6 management.”
Gable nodded. “Why this has happened is not the priority. What matters is that we get a new chief. Are you sure you don’t have any skeletons in your closet?”
“I’m a career spy. If you raked over my past in the field, you’d discover actions of mine that might be morally ambiguous. That’s true for all MI6 operatives. But, I’ve never passed secrets to foreign agencies without strict authority to do so from our service; I’ve never slept with a foreign spy; never taken cash; never misappropriated funds; never done anything that would compromise my a
pplication for your job. If I was approached by a hostile agency who thought it had dirt on me, I’d laugh and tell them to do their worst. They’ve got nothing on me. I’m armour plated. Clearly, Archer, Lake, and File were not.”
“Yes.” Gable addressed Smith by his real name and said, “As you’ve described, I think you would be a force for change if you were appointed. We shall see. You’re up against two other highly qualified candidates. They’re different from you, but they also have huge strengths. When you’re interviewed for the job, I’ll be there – alongside the prime minister, foreign secretary, members of the Joint Intelligence Committee, psychologists, police chiefs, and plus as you know we always throw in a wild card such as a senior former KGB defector. But know this: my voice will be heard. If I smell a rat, I’ll exert my influence.”
Smith smiled. “Of course, sir. You have nothing to worry about.”
Two hours’ later, Hilt sent Smith a text message with a photo.
This guy turned up at Sign’s place last night. Knutsen met him at the door. Know who he is?”
The photo very clearly showed the man’s face.
Colin Parker.
Smith texted back.
We have an insider helping Sign. Meet me in one hour at the safe house in Chelsea.
In West Square, Knutsen stood in front of the chalkboard. “You, me, and Roberts could individually follow Logan, Messenger, and Pendry.”
Sign replied, “We’d be spotted by them.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Maybe; maybe not. Regardless, the risk of scaring them off is too great.”
“What about their mobile phones? If we could get hold of them, I know a hacker in Peckham who could work wonders. I could insert tracking devices. Possibly even intercept devices to monitor their calls, texts, and emails.”
Sign chuckled. “How very Jason Bourne of you. Alas, the real world of espionage doesn’t work that way. When Pendry, Logan, and Messenger go to head office, they are required to hand over their mobile phones to security. The phones are examined with state of the art equipment designed by GCHQ. Any tracking or intercept devices will be discovered. We would have blown our game and made future steps considerably harder.”
Knutsen paced. “There must be something we can do!”
Sign interlaced his fingers while deep in thought. “Let’s presuppose that the whisperer is either Logan, Messenger, or Pendry. The end game is that one of them becomes chief. The whisperer has two chess moves that are difficult to defeat: first, he’s killing the competition for the post; second, it’s hard to resist the assumption that the shortlist is being murdered by a hostile foreign agency. But the third chess move plays to his strength but also his Achilles heel. Whichever man on the shortlist is left standing will know that he’s the suspected whisperer. MI6 will wonder why he wasn’t killed.”
Knutsen disagreed. “MI6 is desperate for a new chief. Once that person takes office, he’ll be protected day and night. The whisperer has done his work. He doesn’t need to kill again.”
“You think MI6 will turn a blind eye and move on?”
“Yes.”
“I fear you may be right. However, there is something you’re missing.”
“What?”
Sign smiled. “You and I won’t turn a blind eye.”
At nine twelve PM, Smith and Hilt moved silently into the rear garden of a detached rural property in Oxfordshire. It was dark; they were wearing clear, thick, plastic black overalls. Underneath Smith’s external garment, his suit, shirt and tie were visible. Beneath Hilt’s overall, he was wearing a jumper and jeans. Both had shoes that were too big for their foot size, but had toilet paper stuffed inside them to compensate for the size–differential between foot and shoe. Over them were blue disposable covers of the type that doctors wear when performing surgery. They had Sellotape wrapped around their fingers, gloves on their hands, face masks covering their mouths and nose, and gaffer–tape wrapped around every thread of their hair.
A dog was barking nearby, but not at them. There were two other houses that were one hundred yards away. No other properties were within miles of the tiny hamlet. Bats were flying overhead, chasing midges in a star–encrusted sky. A fox screeched close to them, sounding like a woman or child screaming. It was probably just calling to its mate or cubs, or it was warning the barking dog to back off from its aggressive tone.
Hilt was the first to reach the rear kitchen door of the two bedroom property. Through the gap between the hallway and two doors, the lounge was partially visible. A middle age man was sitting on a sofa, watching a natural history program. There were no other signs of life. This was to be expected. Smith had told Hilt that the man lived alone and had a boyfriend who resided six miles away at the end of a country lane. Hilt tried the door. Locked. He used lock picks to open it. He entered, holding a silenced pistol. Smith was close behind him. Hilt wasted no time. He punched the man on the head, though not hard enough to render him unconscious, wrapped his arms around the man’s arms, yanked him out of his seat, maintained his vice–like grip as they crashed against a wall and slumped to the floor, and wrapped his legs around the man’s legs. The victim couldn’t move an inch as Hilt held him in place.
“Hello, Colin,” said Smith as he stood over the man.
Colin Parker looked shocked. Though most of Smith’s features were covered, his eyes were exposed. There was no doubt it was Smith. “You!”
Smith sounded bored as he replied, “Yes, it’s me.”
“You’re the whisperer!”
Smith laughed, though the sound was muted by his face mask. “The whisperer? Is that was Sign calls me?” He angled his head while thinking. “Actually, I like the name. It makes sense.” He looked at Parker. “I’ve bought you a gift.” From the small holdall he was carrying, he pulled out a one and a half litre magnum of Johnnie Black Label. “It’s twelve years old. I believe it’s your favourite tipple, though you’re very cautious with booze – only a dram once or twice a week. You don’t drink beer, wine, or any other alcoholic beverages. I always think that middle age is when men make steadfast decisions about what they like and dislike. It brings clarity to the mind, after years of putting up with shit we don’t like. Regardless, your alcohol tolerance will be very low.”
“What do you want?”
Hilt gripped harder. Parker gasped.
“What I want is for you to have a drink, in a slightly different way than normal. It’s always good to try out new things, even at our age.” He unscrewed the bottle’s cap and crouched in front of Smith. Out of his bag he withdrew a plastic funnel that was attached to three foot length of rubber tubing. “You may be aware of this technique of supplying food and drink into someone. The Russians used it on prisoners in the Cold War. I must warn you, it will hurt.”
Hilt adjusted position so that his hands were around Parker’s head, while retaining the lock on his arms and legs.
“Open wide.” Smith forced the tube into Parker’s mouth.
Parker writhed, sweat pouring down his face, his eyes screwed tight.
But Smith’s hand was steady. He pushed the heavy tube down Smith’s gullet, and kept pressing until the tip of the tube was in his stomach. “There we go. That wasn’t so bad.”
Parker was in agony.
“So, here’s the tricky bit. You’re going to polish off this magnum in stages. What I need you to do is take a deep breath through your nose. Then I’m going to briefly block your nasal airway. Ready, steady, go.”
Parker inhaled air.
Smith clamped his nose shut with forefinger and thumb and poured whisky into the funnel. He waited a few seconds before releasing his grip on Parker’s nose. “Breathe now. We’ll continue in a moment.”
Smith repeated the process twelve times, before the magnum was empty bar a few drops. He pulled out the tube. “That should do the trick.”
Parker was moaning but still conscious, though he was paralytic. Hilt released his grip on him and stood.
Hilt said, “Breathing’s fine, for now. But he’s blacked out.”
“Good.” Smith moved fast. He put Parker’s finger prints all over the bottle and screw top, grabbed a tumbler from the kitchen and put Parker’s finger tips around the exterior and his saliva on the rim, poured the tiny amount of whisky left into the glass, swilled it around, and placed the glass and empty bottle on a coffee table next to the sofa. He picked up Parker’s mobile phone. “Key code protected. But here’s the thing – Parker was never good with numbers. He’s right handed.” He grabbed Parker’s right hand and placed his thumb against the unlock function. “There we go – thumbprint recognition. I’m in.” He scrolled through the list of contacts. “Got you.” He examined texts previously sent by Parker to his boyfriend. He wanted to see his style of language. He typed a text to Parker’s boyfriend.
Feeling a bit down this evening. Got any whiskey? Am coming over. Don’t say no. x
He sent the message. Within seconds the boyfriend was ringing. Smith ignored the call. “Car keys, car keys! Where would they be?” Smith found Parker’s keys in a tray in the hallway. “Time for some heavy lifting.” He placed the phone in Parker’s pocket. “I’ll bring his car to the rear of the house. Make sure you lock the kitchen door behind you.” From the locked front door, Smith took out keys that were on the interior side of the door. He put them in Parker’s other pocket. He smiled as he looked at Parker. “There we go – house all locked up, and you’re about to make a journey to see your lover. Cops will take a dim view of that, given how much you’ve had to drink.”
Smith left to get Parker’s car.
Hilt hauled Parker onto his shoulder and walked out of the house. Previously, the former special forces operative had carried men twice Parker’s weight over miles. This was child’s play. Without dropping Parker, he stopped outside the kitchen door and used the lock picks to secure the entrance. He carried Parker to his car. The engine was running. Smith was standing by the car.