Phoenix

by Mark Dawson

  “You don’t think he has what it takes?”

  “No, not that. Just that I’m cautious and there are some things I’d like to be satisfied about before I made him an offer.”

  “We can talk about that later,” Control said, glancing over at Bloom.

  Beatrix guessed that he would prefer to keep the business of the Group between them.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “While we’re on the subject of exfiltration,” Bloom said, “I believe you were supposed to fly out of Caracas.”

  “That’s right,” she said.

  “So why didn’t you?”

  She concentrated on maintaining a professional front. “There was too much heat. The attack at the cache wasn’t a coincidence. They knew where we were. And there was a vehicle on its way to Koralev’s house while I was there. It didn’t feel safe to go through the airport.”

  Bloom looked down at the file. “So you drove to Guardia, took the ferry to Port of Spain and then flew out of Piarco International?”

  “Correct. We have a Group asset in Trinidad. I was able to get a new legend. New passport.”

  “Indeed,” Control said. “Rebecca Smith is no more.”

  “No, sir. She is officially retired.”

  The two men shared a look, and Control stood, rapping his knuckles on the surface of the desk.

  “Well done, Number One. Good show—a very good show indeed.”

  Beatrix stood, too.

  “Take some time off,” he said. “But not too long. We’re working on something new and I’d like you to be involved. You’ll be notified as usual.”

  Beatrix nodded and turned away from the desk. She gave a second nod to Bloom, who did not deign to stand, and made her way to the door.

  15

  Control turned towards the window. He could see Vivian Bloom’s reflection in the glass: he was still sitting, his right leg folded primly over his left.

  “Well?” Control said. “What do you think?”

  “She’s impressive. Just as you said.” Bloom gave a satisfied nod of his head. “Thank you, Control. I appreciate your work on this.”

  Control ducked his head in acknowledgement. He sat down and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Did you know the Americans had a second team?”

  Bloom shook his head. “It wasn’t official.”

  “Off the books?”

  “Yes,” Bloom said. “The State Department had no idea—still doesn’t. My usual contact at the CIA has denied it had anything to do with them.”

  “So how off the books is ‘off the books’?”

  “They were protecting the DARPA project. There’s a faction growing up around it—we think it involves Manage Risk. It’s practically paramilitary.”

  “They didn’t trust us to do the job.”

  “I don’t know that it was that,” Bloom said. “More that they felt more comfortable having an insurance policy.”

  “And happy to wipe out our assets at the same time.”

  “No witnesses, Control. We might have done the same.”

  “I’m curious—how did they track them?”

  “We believe it was a satellite,” Bloom said.

  “They re-routed a satellite? Good lord. Manage Risk can do that?”

  Bloom spread his hands wide.

  “How much would that have cost?” Control said. “They were that keen to get him back.”

  “Indeed. Very keen. You can rest assured that I’m looking into it. I doubt we’ll need to involve the Group again, but I’d like to have you on standby.”

  “Of course,” Control said.

  Bloom unfolded his legs and stood, wincing with the effort of straightening out his old joints.

  “We’re both getting old,” Control observed.

  Bloom smiled, noticing that Control had recognised his discomfort. “I always thought that I would have been retired by now. Should’ve been.”

  “How many did the Americans lose?”

  “Three. One killed, two shot.”

  “I told you she was good.”

  “You did.”

  “And Koralev? You said they wanted him alive.”

  “I don’t think they really cared. Dead or alive—they just didn’t want him in play. All’s well that ends well, as far as they’re concerned. They’re happy with the outcome and we get a gold star we can cash in the next time we need a favour.” Bloom stood. “Thanks again.”

  Control watched him go. He knew that there was a lot that he hadn’t been told. It wasn’t unusual. He was often given partial information, the motive behind an operation obscured or hidden behind a veil of national security or internecine departmental rivalry. He preferred to have the full picture, but he was experienced enough to know that that was not always going to be possible. Still, he thought, as he turned back to his window and gazed out onto the river, there were depths here that went beyond what was normal. Bloom was holding a lot back. Control wondered if he would ever find out more.

  He put it out of mind and picked up the file that Tanner had left on his desk. It was an appraisal. The name on the front of the file was MILTON, MAJOR JOHN, and the sheaf of papers inside was a centimetre thick. He had commissioned the report two weeks ago. Beatrix’s approval was encouraging, even if it was equivocal. She was a hard woman to please.

  He took his pipe from his pocket, sat down in his chair, and started to read.

  16

  Beatrix took a taxi to Paddington and then caught the Heathrow Express to the airport. She went to the British Airways desk and bought a ticket to Paris with a credit card in the name of Francine Zimmer, the third legend that she had used in the past week. She checked in, the staff photo card in her purse announcing that she was an executive for an advertising agency with clients across Europe. She bought lunch in the airside concession, bought a novel from WHSmith, and waited to board her flight.

  * * *

  The flight was uneventful. Beatrix passed through immigration without issue, then went to the train station and bought a Paris metro carnet. She took the train into the city, emerged at Châtelet and crossed the Seine. She descended into St Michel and took the southbound train to Porte d’Orléans. She was vigilant throughout, not expecting to be tailed but drilled to be aware of the possibility, her vigilance given extra edge by the knowledge that to be discovered in Paris now would be fatal for her career. The train pulled into Denfert-Rochereau station. Beatrix waited until the doors started to close before she leapt out of her seat. She pressed them open just enough to squeeze through onto the platform and looked back into the carriage as the train slid into the tunnel. A few people gazed at her, no doubt wondering about her sudden urgency, but there was nothing that might have indicated a frustrated tail. She crossed the platform and waited for a train to take her in the opposite direction.

  She was as confident as she could be that she was not being followed. She felt comfortable enough that it was safe to make her way to her destination.

  * * *

  The apartment was in the Marais, within walking distance of the Place des Vosges, the Picasso Museum and the Opera Bastille. It had been built in the early 1800s and was located in a quiet, secluded courtyard with trees and plants, paved with period cobblestones. Beatrix unlocked the door and climbed to the second of the four floors. She unlocked the door and paused on the threshold. The place was owned by an interior designer who made a little extra cash by letting it on the side. There were small and intimate rooms, each with wooden shutters and an oak floor. Large windows overlooked the courtyard, and the furniture was a charming hodgepodge of eighteenth-century pieces supplemented by flat-pack items from Ikea and Habitat.

  Beatrix gathered herself. She was nervous.

  Lucas must have heard the door. He eased silently out of the bedroom, put his finger to his lips and came over to embrace her. She kissed him and pressed herself into his arms. Lucas had no idea what she did for employment; the idea of his ever finding out was anathema to her. He w
as a good man, and she couldn’t predict how he would react if he knew the truth. She had been a soldier before, and that hadn’t fazed him, but she operated in a world of grey now, when it had been black and white before. She wasn’t prepared to take the risk, even if her silence—and often her dishonesty—was a heavy price to pay.

  He trusted her. He had flown to Paris two days ago, taking a sudden leave of absence so he could care for an ailing relative. They had two weeks. That would be a safe enough margin to leave before he returned to London.

  His trust ran deeper than leaving the country because of an unexplained phone call from the other side of the world.

  She disengaged herself and crossed the room to the open doorway. The bedroom was beyond. It was as charming as the rest of the apartment: a large double bed with a handmade quilt, a vintage rug on the floor, art on the walls—Rothko prints—and a dim lamp in one corner.

  Beatrix stepped into the room. There was a crib next to the bed. Lucas had had it delivered from Printemps du Louvre and he had chosen well. It was wooden, painted white and with oblique legs that were reminiscent of vintage design and looked in keeping with the apartment’s decor. The baby was wrapped in a swaddle, a tight bundle that enclosed her arms and legs. She was sleeping, her soft breathing the only thing that Beatrix could hear.

  She stared at the child, almost unaware of the hand on her shoulder. Lucas was next to her.

  She had been thinking about the child ever since she had handed her over to Lucas when they had met at the apartment. She was the reason that she had left Venezuela through Trinidad. She couldn’t risk taking her through the airport, and, more to the point, she needed a passport for her. The only risk that she had taken was to ask the Group’s stringer in Port of Spain to provide her with two new passports: one for her and one for the child, together with a birth certificate and the associated documentation that would prove that she was Beatrix’s child.

  The man had asked whether she had a name in mind. She didn’t know the name of the child, but Koralev had mentioned Phoenix. Was that her name, or the name of the program that Koralev had been involved with? There was no way of knowing. Beatrix had found her thoughts drifting to her grandmother, a steady presence through a difficult childhood. Her grandmother had been called Isabella—a throwback to the French blood that had always been reputed to run through the family—and the name seemed appropriate.

  When the stringer had finished preparing the passports, Beatrix had taken them, turned to the child’s and flipped through to the picture page at the end. She had taken the photograph herself, the baby gazing solemnly into the lens of the digital camera that the man had had in his workshop. The details recorded her as a British citizen, noted her date of birth as nine months previous, and noted her name along the bottom.

  Rose, Isabella.

  It was as good as any.

  Acknowledgments

  I was assisted by these people in the preparation and publication of PHOENIX. I am grateful to them all. My thanks to:

  My professional team, who waived their fees: Stuart Bache, Jennifer McIntyre, Pauline Nolet, Stuart Grant, Jason Anderson.

  Team Milton, for their usual sterling editorial work, especially: David Turrentine, Barb Harris, Tom Ray, Gus Philpott, Ann Keeran, Eric Taylor, Chuck McKibbin, Tim Corwin, Martin Fraser, Rob Thesman, Angela Herron, Billy, Nick Isaac, Christina Mansour, John W., Dave Vincent, Mark O’Neill, Pete Smith, Hugo Ernst, Jonathan Rigby, Georgette Lamy, Jim Lockard, W David Walls, Linda Bergeron, Peter Hurst – and anyone I’ve forgotten.

  The authors who emailed their readers.

  And friends at Apple, Kobo, Robin Reads, Freebooksy and BookSends for helping to spread the word about the book and the campaign.

  A Word From Mark

  Thank you for reading PHOENIX. All proceeds will be given to Emma Johns so that she can continue her fight against cancer.

  * * *

  If you enjoyed the story, and you’d like to follow the rest of Beatrix Rose’s adventures, I would recommend GHOSTS.

  * * *

  Beatrix and Milton meet again in an adventure that takes them from a botched assassination in London to the freezing steppes of Russia, and sees the unravelling of a mystery that will have a profound effect on Beatrix’s life.

  CLICK HERE TO GET GHOSTS

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