“Sir?” Talia asked, with genuine concern.
He waved her away and stood up straight. “Some days I hate this bloody job.” Royce straightened his tie. “Right. Let’s go and walk the room, then.”
“There’s something else,” she told him, frowning. “We have a visitor from the ninth floor.”
* * *
He was outside the operations center. Sandy-haired, handsome and poised, the man looked as if he had just stepped off the cover of GQ magazine—but he had a sneer that gave every expression a little cruelty to it. The mission director shot him a brisk nod by way of greeting. “Welles.”
“Royce,” came the reply. The man fell in step with him. “It seems that you have—”
Royce stopped dead in the corridor and turned on his heel to stare the other man in the eye. “Victor,” he began, in a low, steady voice, “if you are about to say something asinine about whatever “mess” I have myself in, I warn you that I will smack that smug Oxbridge attitude of yours right off your bloody face. This is not the time. Are we clear?”
Welles narrowed his eyes. “When did you sleep last, Donald? You should get some rest. It’s making you bad-tempered.” He folded his arms. “Despite whatever personal disagreements you and I have had, I would never denigrate the loss of officers in order to do something as crass as score points. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
Royce turned away. “Why are you even here? Isn’t there enough for you to do up on nine, sniffing out drunkards and honey traps?” But the mission director knew exactly why Victor Welles was there. The ninth floor of the MI6 building was home to MI6’s internal investigations department. The spies who watched the spies.
“A catastrophic mission failure took place on your watch,” replied Welles, matter-of-fact. “Eight officers are dead, Royce.”
“Hasn’t been confirmed…” he said, grimacing.
“That’s more than enough reason. Control and the JIC agree. The foreign secretary has ordered an investigation to start immediately.”
“We’re still picking up the pieces!” Royce fumed.
“I’ll stay out from under your feet,” Welles told him. “You do your job and I will do mine.”
“And what exactly does that mean?”
The other man pushed past him toward the command center door. “I’m here to determine if Nomad was lost due to enemy action … or other causes.”
* * *
The truck lurched and Marc blinked awake. He had a momentary flash of disorientation, then remembered where he was.
The chem-light was almost dead, a feeble green ember burning cold in the middle of the hide. He scanned the faces of the illegals crowded in there with him. Most of them were dozing. The still air was dull and thick with human smells, enough to make anyone drowsy. Marc shook it off and ran his hands over his pockets. The Sig Sauer was still there.
He rubbed his eyes. Marc had no recollection of dropping off, not of the truck boarding the ferry and the passage over the channel. It was as if some part of his body had seized the moment and shut him down for the duration, trying to rest where it could.
The truck was moving, and by the sound of the wheels on asphalt, he could tell they were no longer on the cross-channel ferry. There was a lot of stopping and starting, and all around Marc could hear the grumble of other vehicle engines. He moved a box away and listened hard. Voices reached him, and although he couldn’t parse the words, the rhythm of them was English, not French. They were in Dover, most likely somewhere still inside the port.
The vehicle moved out of a queue and drove slowly, the ambient noise around them dropping. Something hit a wrong note with Marc. If they had passed through customs, they should have been on the exit road, picking up speed, making for the motorway.
The truck halted. Again he strained to listen, picking up a muffled, indistinct voice. It was the driver, and it took a moment for Marc to realize he was hearing one end of a telephone conversation. Then the cab door opened and closed and everything fell silent.
He looked back into the hide. The other passengers were watching him now, picking up on the urgency of his actions. They knew something was wrong.
Marc pushed aside more of the boxes and wormed his way to the side of the trailer. He found a loop of the flexible curtain barrier hanging slack and pulled at it, making a gap.
Peering outside, he saw lines of other trucks. The driver had left his load on a parking apron, a short distance from the main cargo terminal.
As quickly as he could, Marc squeezed out and dragged himself up and over, on to the roof of the trailer. He dropped flat on his belly and slid toward the rear, in the direction of the driver’s retreating footsteps.
The man in the lumberjack shirt was approaching a group of people coming the other way, men and women with torches and blue jackets. The driver gave them a wave and Marc understood. The man was playing both sides of the people-smuggling game. He had his money, but now he was calling in customs officers to arrest the illegals he had brought from Calais, pretending he was the good citizen.
Marc swore. If he was caught, arrested with a gun on him … His face would be all over the criminal database within the hour.
He needed to get away, now. And to do that, he needed a distraction.
Marc swarmed along the top of the trailer, staying low. The cab was locked, but there was a sunroof over the driver’s seat that broke cleanly when he stamped on it. Inside, the cab was a mess of overfilled ashtrays and fast-food wrappers. He pawed through the glove compartment and storage bins, hoping to find the envelope of money the driver had taken for his work, but it wasn’t there.
“He’s not that stupid, then,” Marc muttered. He needed a plan, and something began to form in his thoughts as he caught sight of a crumpled high-visibility vest lying in the foot well.
* * *
Marc exited the cab, chancing a look back. The driver was returning with the customs officers in tow. There was less than a minute to make this happen.
The latches holding the curtain along the side of the trailer opened with a double fastener, one after another. Marc grabbed a fistful of the vinyl and pulled as hard as he could, opening it up to reveal the nervous faces of the people gathered inside.
“Out!” he snapped. “Run!” He repeated it in French and they caught on, spilling out on to the asphalt. Bright flashlight beams swept up beneath the axles of the truck and Marc heard the rush of boots, strident calls to stop.
The migrants needed no other encouragement, and they bolted away from the parked vehicle in different directions, scattering before the customs officers. Marc broke into a full-tilt sprint, following a Somalian youth around a high-sided container on a flatbed. The instant he was out of the line of sight of the customs team, he threw away his baseball cap and shrugged into the fluorescent yellow hi-vis jacket he had concealed inside the hoodie, immediately altering his outline. Marc took a deep breath to normalize his breathing and wandered back the way he came, feigning a look of surprise.
He almost collided with a pair of customs officers coming the other way. Marc pointed. “Over there, mate! Two of them, running like hell!”
If he had thought about it twice, the ruse might have seemed like idiocy, but it worked. The customs men were focused on the pursuit, reacting first instead of thinking. They were used to seeing dark-haired, dark-skinned men trying to jump the fence, not scruffy blond blokes with London accents. But it was the hi-vis vest that sold the lie for him, the standard uniform for any working stiff, the colors that subconsciously communicated that the guy wearing it was supposed to be there. The customs officers ran on and left him behind, disappearing into the lines of parked trailers.
The next part was the hardest. Slowing his stride to a casual, unhurried pace, Marc walked right past the nonplussed driver and the officer angrily giving him the third degree. The key was to walk, not to run.
He made his way up to the main gate, and the vest did its work again.
Ten minute
s later he was on the main road leading into Dover. The fluorescent jacket went into a waste bin, and Mark hunched forward, pulling his hood up against the biting morning wind coming in off the English Channel.
* * *
At Dover Priory station, the earliest train was preparing to depart and a small but dogged crowd of commuters bound for London were in well before the start of the rush hour. They stood in a loose knot before the departure board, peering at folded newspapers or sipping at steaming extra-shot coffees. They had the morose silence of the not-quite-awake about them, and Marc could empathize.
Wary of the security cameras studding the walls of the station concourse, Marc carefully navigated to the far side where a line of dispensers offered snacks and cans of soda.
He had a few euro coins, but nothing close to the cost of the rail fare. Outside in the car park there were a dozen vehicles he could have hotwired, given time. But he was running on empty now, and he knew it. All the fatigue, all the effort of the past few days was trying to drag him down into its depths. He was in no state to drive, and his thoughts were becoming sluggish. Without rest Marc would start making mistakes, and that would get him caught.
He frowned. When did I start thinking like a fugitive?
He walked down the line of the drink machines until he found the older model he was looking for. Taking care to position his back to block the line of sight of the nearest camera, Marc held down the coin return switch and pushed the six dispensing buttons in a numerical order he’d learned as a swabbie on liberty nights in Plymouth. He did it wrong twice, miscounting and swearing under his breath, but on the third attempt the vending machine’s hardwired operator code kicked in and it dutifully spat out every last coin in the change hopper, until Marc’s pocket jangled with fistfuls of loose change.
In a stall in the men’s toilets he counted out enough to buy a single to Charing Cross, plus a little extra for a cup of tea and a sandwich. The rest he dumped in the hat of a homeless man selling copies of The Big Issue.
He took the first train out. The tea remained untouched as sleep took hold and pulled him under.
* * *
Marc dreamed of Samantha Green.
“Camden Market,” she said. “I loved it in Camden.”
Perhaps he had loved it too, just for a while. Back then, in the summer.
The safe house was a three-story mid-terrace a few streets back from Chalk Farm Road, and it had a set of those walk-up stairs and stone porticos that trendy estate agents always crowed about, along with a windowed basement peering out through black iron railings.
Sam threw him a sly look over her shoulder as she opened the door, holding a hand to keep him on the stoop while she deftly typed a disarm code into the electronic alarm pad right inside the entrance. “Gimme a sec,” she said. In a moment it was done, and she pulled him inside, giving the street a last check before shutting the door.
Marc noted the retrofitted layer of metal on the back of the door, thick enough to absorb small-arms fire. The house was one of dozens of safe points located all over the city, ordinary homes that were deliberately nondescript, set up as bolt-holes for MI6 officers or cover addresses to bolster active legends. Many of them lay idle for months at a time, with the Service quietly paying the bills.
Sam knew the locations of a bunch of places like this, and she knew when they were in downtime, when they were unoccupied. Marc assumed that there was someone in logistics who owed her a favor, but he didn’t push it, and Sam made it clear that was how she wanted things.
Don’t push it. The words had never been said, but by some unspoken process, they had come to an understanding about this thing they had going on. Or at least, Sam had. Whenever Marc tried to shine a light on his place in the dynamics of this relationship, he couldn’t look at it square-on. For now, it was a case of if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
He followed her through the narrow hall and into a galley kitchen. “I like this place,” she told him, miraculously finding a bottle of wine in the humming refrigerator.
Marc washed up glasses in the grubby sink and looked around. “How often have you come here?”
“A lot,” she admitted. “It’s a good place to crash. The Stables are just down the road.” Sam pointed with the wine bottle. “Good eats over there. Nightlife.” She smiled. “Maybe I’ll come live here when I retire.”
“You won’t retire,” Marc said it without thinking, with more edge than he expected.
“Don’t be so sure,” she chided, working the cork. “Royce finds out that I’ve been using these places as my own private crash-pads, I’ll be retired right out the door.” She poured a generous amount of wine into each glass, then drained hers halfway. “Still. I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.”
In spite of himself, Marc grinned. She did that to him, her cheeky smile daring him to stay serious, challenging him with every look. It was hard to break away from.
“What are we doing here?” he asked her.
She came closer to him, her arm snaking around his back. “I know what I’m doing.”
“That’s not what I meant—” he began, but Sam shook her head.
“Shut up,” she told him. “Some things you don’t have to think about so much.”
He tasted the rich, burned caramel flavor of the wine when they kissed, and the tip of her tongue pushed at his lips. Sam pressed the curve of herself into him, and he resisted for a moment before he bent into the motion.
There was a bedroom upstairs, but it seemed like it was too damn far to go, so they slipped into the living room where chinks of evening sunset threw honey-gold light over the walls and the threadbare furnishings. Sam pushed him back on to the sofa with a steady, firm pressure, the heel of her hand on his chest and he fell back with a bump. They had more wine between Marc pulling off his jacket and shirt and Sam discarding her blouse. There was something coy in her eyes as she unclipped her bra and rolled it up off her chest and away. Marc traced a line up from her waist, following the edges of her ribs, coming up under her small breasts and matching the curve where they merged with her strong, spare torso. Sam had a build that was part-athlete, part-dancer, and smooth skin that most women her age would have killed for. In the sunset light, her eyes glittered and she laughed softly as Marc gently stroked her nipple with his thumb.
“I’ve got an idea,” she told him. “Let me drive.”
With dexterity, she used one hand to unbutton her jeans and the other to work on the buckle and zip of Marc’s cargo trousers. It took some shifting, but soon they were naked. Sam straddled his erection, pressing into him, her body relaxed and blood-warm.
He cupped her backside, made Sam gasp and give a soft giggle as his long fingers stroked the flesh between her legs. She bent forward, pushing her breasts toward his mouth and slowly rocking her hips forward and back, forward and back.
They both gasped as she let him enter her, and the pace of their motions changed, picking up speed. Marc felt sweat beading his back, his arms, as Sam ground against him. He let himself fall into it.
She rose up and her back arched, supported by the line of his legs, his knees behind her shoulders. He guided her hips as she ran her hands up along her stomach, her breasts and around her neck. Strobe lights blinked and ranged across the walls in bars of cold blue as an ambulance raced past along the street outside. Sam was framed in the light for a split-second, her dark eyes shining. She became a silhouette lined in icy color, and a low moan escaped her lips as she came closer to climax.
Marc tensed, teeth set, unwilling to release before she did. He slipped his fingers between her thighs and stroked her there, building the tempo. Sam tensed and pushed back, and finally it was enough for them both. She gave out a sound that was sharp, like the bark of a vixen, dragging it into a drawn-out sigh. In turn his head lolled forward as a shudder ran through him, a low hiss escaping from his teeth.
All the strength in Marc’s arms, his muscles vanished and he sagged back, his sweat-slick sk
in suddenly itchy against the cotton covers of the sofa. “Oh. Fuck,” he managed. He was dry-throated and hoarse.
“That’s the word, yeah.” Sam whispered, bending down to kiss his chest. She let her weight settle on him and they lay there as the room turned darker, the shadows lengthening.
It seemed like hours had passed before either of them spoke again. “Is this what they call an assignation?” Marc gave voice to the random thought.
“You tell me,” Sam replied lazily. “You’re the one who reads all the books.”
He smiled again. “I am entranced by you.” He meant it.
“More fancy words?” She turned away, staring at the ceiling, and Marc felt a barrier drop between them. She was right there in his arms, but there was a sense of distance that had swept in from nowhere.
He frowned. Even when they were here, she was never really here. She was too reckless, too rootless to ever come to rest, not for a second. It was only on the missions where Sam seemed to draw in, to be full and whole and in focus.
Marc knew that. He knew it. That was who Samantha Green was, and she had never hidden it from him. But still, each time he realized it again, it seemed like a kind of betrayal.
Sam got up and went to the downstairs bathroom, showering quickly, just like they had taught her in the military. When she came back, she had more wine and gave him a careful, measuring stare.
“You’ve never met a girl like me before, have you?”
He shook his head. “And then some.”
“That’s a good thing.” Her voice turned distant. “This life … The job.” She nodded to herself. “It’s not made for relationships. It’s hard on that.” Sam looked back at him, a questioning look in her eyes. “Job on. Job off.” She swilled the wine around. “You get that, right?”
“I get that,” he lied.
* * *
They made love again that night, and afterward Marc dropped into a light sleep. He remembered waking around two in the morning, alone in the silent house, the heat of the day lingering in the empty rooms.
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