by Mark Dawson
Phoenix
Mark Dawson
Contents
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part 2
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Acknowledgments
A Word From Mark
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About the Author
To Emma, Matt and Phoenix.
Part I
1
Beatrix Rose waited in the antechamber outside the office. She hated to wait. Punctuality was important, and it had been drilled into her during her time in the military. Control had asked to see her at midday, and she had been here on time. It was twenty past now, and she knew that either he didn’t care what she thought of being made to wait or he was making a point. It was, she suspected, the latter. Control was not the sort of man to do anything without consideration, and she guessed that he was reminding her who was in command of Group Fifteen. She was Number One, the senior agent, but it was Control who sent her, and the fourteen others with whom she worked, out on assignment. There had been one conversation that she recalled, near the start of her career in the Group, when he had suggested that he was a craftsman and that the fifteen of them were his tools. She had taken an instant dislike to him then, and nothing that had happened in the intervening period had changed her mind.
Captain Tanner guarded access to the door. He was Control’s private secretary and managed the inconveniences of his position with a warm smile and ready wit that belied the fact that, by rights, he should have been resentful. His leg had been blown off by an IED on the road outside Kabul. A promising career had been forestalled and replaced with a life as a superannuated functionary, making excuses for his boss when he pulled rude stunts like this.
There was a light above the door that shone red when Control was not to be disturbed. Beatrix remembered a doctor she had seen when she had been a child; there had been a similar system then, but that was thirty years ago.
“Ah,” Tanner said, looking up at the light. It had changed to green. “He’ll see you now, Number One. Sorry for the wait. Please—go through.”
* * *
The office was large and pleasant. Beatrix was not in the habit of frequenting the members’ clubs that could be found off Pall Mall, but she imagined that those rooms would have more in common with this office than the offices of similarly senior intelligence officers in the SIS building at Vauxhall Cross. There was a wide window that offered a view out onto the Thames, and the prints on the walls had been expensively framed. There was a fireplace with a marble mantelpiece, and sitting atop it were pictures of Control’s wife and three children and another of him as a much younger man wearing full military uniform.
Control was seated behind his enormous desk. There was no computer; he was too old-fashioned to use one and still dictated his communiqués for the secretaries in the typing pool that Beatrix guessed was maintained solely for his benefit. His emails were delivered to him in a leather folder for him to scribble his amendments in red ink.
He looked up as Beatrix approached the desk. “Sit down, Number One,” he said, flicking his fingers in the direction of one of the chairs. It was a repulsive gesture, at once dismissive and demeaning, as if he were shaking something distasteful from his manicured nails.
She did as she was told, waiting quietly as he finished amending the document he had been working on. He sighed, swore under his breath, and pushed the piece of paper away.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Beatrix said.
“Yes, I do. I have something for you.”
Control picked up a file and slid it across the desk. The Group had been active for many years and still maintained some of the same protocols that it had adopted in its early years. Some of those continued methods were because of administrative inertia, but others had become more useful as technology had ostensibly left them behind. The Group’s files were a case in point. Mission orders were typed on paper and provided to the receiving agent within a manila folder. It was a curious anachronism, but justified because these files—proof that Her Majesty’s agencies occasionally reached out from Vauxhall Cross and snuffed out lives around the world—would have been politically incendiary if a hacker had been able to break the security on the SIS servers.
Beatrix opened the file and flicked through the meagre papers.
“I can give you the summary,” Control said. “The target’s name is Igor Koralev. He’s a geneticist, Russian by birth. Seventy-four years old, although he’s fit and active for his age. He emigrated to the USA just after the collapse of the Soviet Union and has lived just outside Boston ever since. He’s a widower. He’s rich, no wife or any other family that we’ve been able to ascertain. He’s cautious and careful and very smart. He might be old, but this won’t be easy.”
“Genetics?”
“That’s right,” Control said. “But it doesn’t matter what he does. He’s a job. No more, no less.”
“So why are we after him?”
“We’re doing a favour for the Americans. Koralev and a colleague worked for the Soviets. This was twenty years ago—a classified program, some kind of research. Genetics, as I say. From what we know, they saw how much money they stood to make in the real world and they defected. They offered their work to the CIA, Langley said yes, and they continued to work on it in a multimillion-dollar facility just outside Boston. The CIA set them up with a front company and poured money into the project.”
Beatrix read down the first page of the briefing. “This is Daedalus Genetics?”
“That’s right. They’ve been engaged in R&D, for the most part, taking money out of the DARPA budget. But it turns out that Igor is even more greedy than the Russians or the Americans expected. He and his colleague were due to attend a meeting at Langley last month, but he never showed up. The CIA asked us for help and GCHQ found him when he turned up in Caracas. That’s where he is now—Venezuela. You’ve got pictures in the file that a local stringer shot of him last week.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“The CIA wants him back. They don’t have an active network in Caracas and we do, so we’re doing them a favour, as I said. Returning him is the primary goal. But, between us, we’d like to know why he’s got them so worked up. So your orders are these: find him, secure him, then question him.” He let that word—question—hang in the air, although it really wasn’t necessary, because Beatrix knew exactly what it encompassed.
“What do we want to know?”
“Read the file. The short version is this: the working assumption is that he left Daedalus because someone was offering to pay him a lot of money. It’s likely another country—the Chinese, most likely, but maybe the French or the Germans. It could even be the Russians trying to take him back again. We’d like to know who it was, the circumstances behind his decision, and the agents who recruited him. But more important than that is what he’s been doing. Langley won’t tell us and, frankly, we’d like a briefing. It’s the least we deserve after helping them out.”
“And then?”
“Exfiltrate him. The Navy has a frigate in the region to stop the local smugglers. They’ll send a boat to pick you up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Th
e usual protocols apply to this, Number One. You’re deniable, so don’t get caught.”
“Do I have any backup?”
“You do. There’s a man waiting for you. He’s SAS.”
She scanned the file without finding mention of him. “The name?”
“Major John Milton.”
She shook her head. “Never heard of him.”
“He’s been on our radar for a while, as it happens. Comes highly recommended. You’ve got a meet set up with him in Caracas tomorrow. Travel has sorted out your flight and accommodation. You leave tonight.”
“Yes, sir.” She got up, collected the file and turned for the door.
Control stood, too. “One other thing, Beatrix.”
“Yes, sir?”
“And this is probably nothing. I’m almost loath to bring it up.”
“Sir?”
He winced, as if the subject he wanted to bring up was distasteful to him. “Are you—well, are you all right, Number One?”
“Of course,” Beatrix replied. “Why do you say that?”
“Your annual evaluation. I’ve looked it over. It’s fine—everything’s where I’d expect it to be, and your work has been excellent, as usual. But they’re still recommending referral.”
“Why would they say that?”
“They think you’re showing signs of distraction. Is that true, Beatrix? Are you distracted?”
She shook her head and, careful not to stare him down, held his gaze. “No, sir,” she said, with as much calm sincerity as she could find. “I’m not. Nothing’s changed.”
“You’re still committed to our work? It’s not—”
“Completely,” she said, talking over him. “I’m as committed as when you recruited me. More, in fact. I’ve seen the world now. What it’s like. What happens in the dark corners. What our enemies are prepared to do. I know better than ever that what we do is important. You don’t need to worry, sir. They can refer me if they like. But they’ll send me back clean.”
Control smiled; as ever, Beatrix found his off-white, vulpine teeth unpleasant. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” he said. “Knew it was nothing. Good luck, Number One. Enjoy the sun.”
2
Beatrix hurried to make her appointment. The clinic was on Harley Street in Marylebone. She took a taxi from Vauxhall Cross and, thanks to traffic as they passed Buckingham Palace, she was five minutes late. Her husband, Lucas, was in the waiting room.
“Sorry,” she said. “Traffic.”
“It’s fine.” He smiled as he kissed her.
Beatrix found that she was anxious, an uncomfortable ache in her stomach. Lucas was nervous, too; he told her as much when she left the house this morning, but he hid it beneath another warm smile as they sat down next to one another. He took her hand in his and squeezed it.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Just… well, you know.”
“Don’t worry. We need to know. Whatever it is, we’ll adjust.”
The receptionist looked at her screen and then looked up at them. “Dr. Wells is ready,” she said. “You can go through.”
* * *
Dr. Wells was a middle-aged man with a warm smile and a comforting attitude. He was expensive, but Beatrix and Lucas had decided that they would not allow budgetary concerns to prevent them from engaging the best professional available. And one thing was clear: Dr. Wells was an authority on his subject. Their previous appointments with him had been productive, and they both had confidence that he would provide them with the information—and, if necessary, the treatment—that they needed.
They sat down opposite him in his well-appointed office. An assistant brought in a tray of coffee and biscuits.
Beatrix shifted uncomfortably, anxious to get started. “Do you have the results?” she asked.
“I do,” the doctor said. He gave her a consoling smile, and Beatrix felt her stomach plunge. “I’m afraid the news isn’t what we might have hoped.”
Lucas squeezed Beatrix’s hand. “Go on,” he said.
“As you know, we tested you both. I’ll start with you, Beatrix.”
She thought that she was going to be sick.
“The ultrasound showed no obvious issues. Your egg reserve is fine. Your biological clock has years left to run. Your ovaries are in good shape, certainly healthy enough to ripen eggs. The blood flow to your ovaries and follicles was checked with what we call a colour and power Doppler and, again, it was excellent. We assessed your uterus: no polyps, fibroids or any other factors affecting implantation or anything that might cause miscarriage. And the blood flow to the uterus and the lining of your womb was also good. There is no reason why you wouldn’t be able to implant embryos, and your chances of miscarriage are the same as any other fit and healthy woman of your age.” He shrugged, as if dismissing any concerns that he might have had regarding her. “There’s nothing wrong with you at all, Beatrix. You should be able to conceive.”
“So it’s me?” Lucas said. “I’m the problem?”
Wells looked at him sympathetically. “Well,” he said, “it does appear that that’s where the problem is arising.”
“Or not,” Lucas said, his joke falling flat. Beatrix squeezed his hand; he relied on humour when he felt vulnerable, and she knew that he felt exposed now.
“We ran the full battery of tests, Lucas. And it seems that you were dealt a bad hand when you were born. Fertility is often a matter of genetics, and there’s not much that can be done if you are unfortunate in that regard. We think you have what’s known as Klinefelter syndrome. It’s a chromosomal condition that affects male physical and cognitive development. It’s caused by a subject having one additional X chromosome. It interferes with male sexual development, often preventing the testes from functioning normally and reducing the levels of testosterone.”
“Is it something I got from my parents?”
“No. You can’t inherit it. Research suggests it’s caused by random events when the eggs and sperm are forming in the parents.”
“Can it be treated?” he asked.
“There are options,” Wells said. “We can look at collecting your sperm. We would obtain a sample using a thin needle inserted into the testicle or through a small incision made in the testicle. Normal sperm are identified and then used for in vitro fertilisation.”
“What are the chances of success?”
“Honestly? Not amazing. Twenty or thirty per cent.”
Lucas nodded. “And how much does it cost?”
“I’ll have to put together a quote. But it’s not cheap. The extraction and a round of IVF would probably be in the twenty-thousand-pound range. We are on the higher end of the scale here, of course. You might be able to get a clinic to do it for fifteen, perhaps.”
Beatrix felt dizzy. They didn’t have that kind of money. She stood, Lucas’s hand slipping from her fingers. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said.
“Would you like me to quote?”
Her thoughts were muddied. She shook her head, mumbled her thanks, and opened the door to the main reception area. Lucas stood, thanked the doctor, and hurried after her. She collected her coat and started for the door, ignoring the cheery farewell from the receptionist. Lucas caught up with her as she descended the stairs, pushed open the door and stepped out into the crisp afternoon.
He put his hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “It’s okay. We’ll find a way.”
“How?” she said. “We don’t have that kind of money.”
“We just need to think about it. We could get a loan. I could speak to my parents.”
“No,” she said. She felt a hotness on her cheeks, and her eyes started to well with tears. She blinked furiously, fighting to maintain her composure. She hated to show weakness, even in front of her husband. Yet as she stood there, the world carrying on around them, the traffic passing along the grand buildings that smelt of money and privilege, clinics that represented hope and opportunity that she
knew they would never be able to afford, she didn’t resist Lucas as he brought her into an embrace and held her tight.
3
Beatrix flew Air France to Caracas, changing at Charles de Gaulle. The Group’s Op Support desk had put together a comprehensive legend so that she could go about her business in Venezuela without drawing undue attention to herself or to the true reason for her visit. She had transferred the details to her laptop and, settled safely in business class with no possibility that she could be overlooked by her fellow passengers, she opened the files. She was fastidious about preparation, and, even though she had already absorbed the information, she decided to review it all again. And, more than her desire to be prepared, throwing herself into her work would be a distraction from the riot of thoughts that she had struggled to contain since the meeting at the clinic that afternoon.
And so she read. Her name was Rebecca Smith. She was married to John Smith, and the two of them—husband and wife—were the proprietors of Boutique Getaways, a travel agency that specialised in providing well-heeled travellers with expensive holidays to unusual parts of the world. Meetings had been arranged for the Smiths with hoteliers on the Isla de Margarita, a destination in the Caribbean about forty kilometres to the north of the mainland. There was a page of notes extolling the virtues of the island, and Beatrix spent time memorising them: the two peninsulas linked by sand and the mangroves of the Parque Nacional Laguna de la Restinga, the fifty sandy beaches, the fabulous surf off the Playa El Yaque and the boat trips into the mangrove, where pelicans and flamingos could be observed.
By the time Beatrix was au fait with the detail, she was tempted to return with Lucas so that they could enjoy the facilities for themselves. She knew, of course, that that would not be possible. For one, they wouldn’t be able to afford it. And the meetings would not go ahead—an excuse had been prepared—and ops would handle the follow-up correspondence. Boutique Getaways was a real company, with a website and real customers who had no idea that their patronage was contributing to a front that allowed Group Fifteen agents to move about the world under a cloak of fake legitimacy. It was likely that Margarita Island would feature among the company’s future destinations. The deception was thorough and utterly credible. No expense was spared in making it so; no inconvenience was enough to prompt an easier path.