Marc angled his hands so his right thumb hooked on the edge of his pocket where the key fob was concealed. Through the fabric of the tracksuit trousers, he pressed the small device up into his fingers, and palmed it.
The Range Rover halted, joining a line of cars ready to cross the roundabout, hemmed in on one side by the high flank of a bus. Marc let his hand slip toward the press-button release for the seatbelt.
He counted to three, head down, just barely able to see the glow of the traffic lights from the corner of his eye.
Red. Red-Amber.
Green for go.
The car rocked as the driver pressed on the accelerator pedal, and Marc made a sudden turn of his head, as if he had seen something out of the left side of the Range Rover. The first guard reacted without conscious thought, turning to look in the same direction, wary of danger.
In the same second, Marc hit the seatbelt release, screwed his eyes tightly shut and pointed the key fob at the face of the guard on his right, mashing the button on the device with his thumb. The triple LEDs gave off a sudden, dazzling flash of light, a million candlepower strobe that instantly blinded the man.
The light was so harsh it was like needles in his head, even through Marc’s eyelids, but he ignored the pain and the dancing blobs of purple across his vision. Blinking away the afterimages on his retina, Marc surged forward toward the driver’s seat and grabbed at the edge of the steering wheel, jerking it savagely to the right.
The driver was too slow to fight him and the margin was too narrow to matter. The Range Rover’s tires screeched as it suddenly veered across the road and broadsided the bus with a grinding crash. The impact blew out the emergency airbag in a cloud of dust, battering the driver into his seat. Marc rocked backward as the Range Rover’s speed bled away. The other guard was scrambling to grab him, but he was a big guy and even the back seat of the SUV was a tight fit for the three of them. Marc propelled his elbow down at the man’s throat and hit him hard. He lolled forward, choking.
Marc turned into a wild punch thrown by the blinded guard, and it rang bells inside his skull. The blow was just a glancing shot, the other man still dizzy, and Marc realized that if the heavy haymaker had connected full-on, it would have been all over for him. Scrambling, he threw himself against the dark-skinned man. He connected with the guard’s nose and felt bone snap. Blood gushed from the other man’s nostrils in a crimson fan.
The Range Rover rocked and stopped abruptly, a dull thud vibrating through the framework as it collided with a concrete bollard on the far side of the street. Outside, a chorus of shouts, car horns, crunches of glass and the sounds of shunted metal began to build as the traffic knotted and clogged.
The driver was dazed, dusted with white powder from the airbag ejection system. Marc’s joints lit with pain from the impact he had taken, but he swallowed it down and lunged a second time, tearing at the man’s jacket, ripping open the inside pocket. He found the stubby metal key rod that would open the mag-lock of the handcuffs, and a leather wallet. He wanted to look for a weapon, too, but he hesitated and lost the chance.
“You piece of shit…” Marc felt a tug as one of the guards in the back grabbed at him, catching the hood of his top and pulling hard on it. “Come here!”
He still had the key fob in his fingers, and he pointed it under his arm, pressing the button again. The second time around, the flash-burst wasn’t nearly as powerful, the internal capacitor of the device barely recharged—but it was still enough to get a snarl of pain from the man he had already near-blinded once.
Marc scrambled over the empty front passenger seat and shouldered open the door, falling forward out of the Range Rover and into a heap on the asphalt. He heard cloth rip as the hood was torn away, flaps of it hanging ragged over his shoulders.
An arena of stalled cars and trucks were all around, the path to the bridge blocked by the bus the car had collided with. Marc sprinted toward the road that passed under the railway bridge, into the shadows beneath. Bus passengers meant people with cell phone cameras, and he didn’t want them splashing his face across a hundred social networking sites before he even took a step.
He knew the security men were coming after him, so he didn’t waste time chancing a look over his shoulder. Instead, he fled around the curve of the road and followed it up toward the taxi ranks outside Waterloo station. As he ran, he released the cuffs and tossed them away along with the remnants of the hoodie.
He slowed as he crossed the road, weaving around a black cab whose driver showed his displeasure with a loud combination of horn and expletives. Marc looked at the windows of the taxi and in the reflection he saw figures a few hundred meters behind him, racing to catch up on his lead.
Up the stone stairs and through the Victory Arch across the main entrance, Marc moved into the station proper, forcing himself to slow to a walking pace. If he ran, he would stand out like a flare on a dark night, and Waterloo was heavy with coppers. The rail terminal was close to a police station, so there was always a blue uniform somewhere in his sightline.
He ducked into a booking office and stood before a ticket machine, using the moment to search the wallet he had stolen from the driver. He took the money—fifty pounds in crumpled tens and fives—and left the wallet on top of the machine.
When he came out, two security officers were already on the concourse, sweeping slowly through the pre-rush hour crowd in his direction. He cursed when he saw the third, the man whose nose he had broken. With one hand the guard was holding a red-stained handkerchief to his nostrils, and with the other he was showing a police officer the screen of his smartphone.
And my picture.
Marc needed an exit vector, and he needed it quickly. A cluster of noisy teenagers carrying sports bags passed in front of him and Marc fell in step with them. Behind their cover he made it all the way to the entrance of the pharmacy on the far side of the concourse.
A risky solution was taking shape in his thoughts, but he went with the impulse. Marc knew he had only moments to find a way out. He didn’t have time to second-guess himself.
Inside the pharmacy, he bought a bottle of water, a pack of lithium batteries, a stubby travel-size can of aerosol deodorant and some condoms. From there, he slipped across to a coffee stand and deftly snatched a stainless steel travel mug from a souvenir display.
He had to misdirect his pursuers, and as quickly as possible. It had worked for him in Dover and it could work now. It was a basic rule of tradecraft—vary the pattern, deceive the watchers.
Holding his purchases close to his hip, he walked on. Marc willed himself to blend in, to stay unremarkable and unseen as he counted down the seconds before he was through the door, and into a nearby gastropub that faced out on to the train platforms.
A sign told him the toilets were tucked behind the bar. He threaded between the tables, pausing to grab a metal knife off an uncleaned food plate. He vanished into the Gents, locking himself in a stall.
If they came at him in the next few minutes, he would have no way out. He was taking a big risk, but it was all a calculated gamble now. Given how near they were to Vauxhall Cross, given what Marc knew about the response times of the security services … They would have a net thrown over Waterloo less than fifteen minutes after the initial alert call went out.
Acting quickly, Marc filled one of the condoms with water and suspended it inside the cap of the travel mug. The knife was blunt, but it had enough of an edge to cut into the casing of the batteries, and he sawed at them until he had exposed the gray lithium within. The broken batteries went into the mug along with the little aerosol can, and he carefully clamped the modified cap back in place.
He hesitated, holding his breath to listen. He was still alone. On impulse, he chugged the rest of the water and tossed the plastic bottle aside, before giving his improvised device a sharp shake and setting it atop the toilet cistern. A thin wisp of white smoke emerged from an air hole in the top of the travel cup.
Th
en Marc was walking away, out of the men’s room, crossing the bar, forcing his stride to stay casual and unhurried as he made for the exit.
Speed and confidence were key. If you were fast enough, if you seemed assured about it, you could get a long way before someone looking right at you caught what you were doing.
He was at the door when the exothermic reaction between the water and the lithium become hot enough to burn through the pressurized aerosol canister. There was a loud, flat bang of combustion from the toilets and the sudden acrid stink of burning chemicals; a second later the shrill clarion of the pub’s smoke alarm sounded. Everyone in the room was on their feet, moving, at the edge of panic. Londoners had seen enough bombs on their streets over the decades, enough that the fear of more was an excellent motivator.
Marc allowed himself to be carried out with the pub patrons, and he crossed the eye line of a policeman and kept on going. Hurried but utterly normal, he turned and walked down to the escalators leading to Waterloo’s Underground station.
Still nothing. No cry of alarm, no shouts of Stop Him!
Two minutes later he was on a northbound tube. As the doors closed and they began to roll away, Marc was certain he glimpsed the guard with the busted nose on the platform, but then the tunnel blacked out the sight of the man and he was away, free and clear.
For now.
* * *
At the committee level, the décor of Vauxhall Cross abruptly shifted from the modernist-minimalist style of the lower floors to something closer to the halls of a gentleman’s club. The carpets were richer, the walls paneled with polished wood, the chairs upholstered with oxblood leather.
Royce self-consciously straightened his tie as he crossed the small anteroom outside the office of the deputy director, slowing to a halt. The director’s secretary, a bullish woman with the face of a sour old aunt, peered over the top of her monitor and nodded once. “Go right in,” she told him. “You’re expected.”
He took a breath and turned the brass handles, stepping into the room beyond. Tall windows with a greenish-gold tint filled one wall of the office, looking out over the Thames toward Millbank. They framed a massive regency desk the size of a small car, hemmed in on both sides by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
Behind the desk, the deputy director looked up from a sheaf of papers bearing the “UK Eyes Alpha” imprint, and inclined his head toward a chair. “Sit,” he commanded.
Royce did as he was told. “Sir Oliver—” He began, but the other man waggled a finger at him, and he fell silent.
Sir Oliver Finch-Shortland was one of the most powerful men in the British intelligence community, a scion of a family that had served the crown since the Wars of the Roses, up through the formation of the SOE during the Second World War and on into the new millenium. Of average height, he was well past the back end of his fifties. Finch-Shortland had a narrow aspect that was all sharp angles, and in his younger years it had lent him a wolfish quality. These days, he didn’t show his fangs so often, but when he did, it was clear he had lost little of the strength that had made him. Behind his back, they called the deputy director “the Old Dog,” and that was as much a joke as it was a warning about his bite.
He put down the files—Sir Oliver refused to read anything that wasn’t presented to him on paper—and turned a leaden glare on the Royce. “I really don’t enjoy interfering on a departmental level, Donald. I try to find people who can do the job without me looking over their shoulders. That’s you.”
“Thank you, Sir Oliver.”
He ignored the reply. “That’s you,” he continued, “if you don’t make a right balls-up of the whole thing.” The deputy director prodded the papers on his desk with a thin, well-manicured finger. “Dear god, man. A dozen suspects and an entire team of officers blown to pieces? This sort of thing does not happen to us!” His lips thinned. “All this sound and fury, that’s not how we operate. That’s not how I want my subordinates to operate.”
“Sir—”
The finger came up again. “And then I’m told you have a man, a survivor of this catastrophe, a potential turncoat, no less, who slips the net no more than a mile or so down the street from this very building!” Finch-Shortland’s voice shifted as he spoke, becoming a harsh snarl. “I relish the moment when I will have to relay that little detail to the PM and the rest of the cabinet office.” When Royce didn’t say anything, the deputy director gave him a terse flick of the wrist. “You can speak now. And what I want to hear are answers, and not excuses.”
Royce took a breath and launched in. “The officer in question is Marc Dane, a mission support specialist from OpTeam Seven, the group compromised in France. He got away from three of Welles’s men, setting off a small, improvised firebomb to cover his escape. Our colleagues at MI5 are assisting, they’ve seized all closed-circuit camera footage, and are sifting it now for leads.”
“Much to their amusement, no doubt. Have you given Five the full story? They do so enjoy seeing their sister agency being made to look foolish.”
“I’m not about to tell our friends at Thames House any more than they need to know, sir. Dane’s identity has been flagged at all borders and the Met have him on a watch list. We’ve given them the standard cover. Anti-terror investigations, that sort of thing.”
The other man brought his hands together, the fingers forming a steeple. “This fellow. His escape from custody represents a serious failure on the part of your staff, you and Welles.”
“With all due respect, Sir Oliver, I didn’t want Dane taken off the premises for debriefing in the first place. We could have done that here.”
Finch-Shortland’s gray eyes flashed. “I hope that wasn’t a veiled ‘I told you so,’ Donald. I tire easily of any inter-departmental politicking in the Service. We leave that kind of game-playing to the Americans. Do you understand?”
“I’m just stating a fact,” Royce replied smoothly.
The deputy director gave a soft grunt and leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. “Don’t sweeten the pill. How serious is this?”
Royce let out a slow breath. He had been dreading this moment. “It would seem that the concerns we had about the possibility of a penetration of the OpTeam structure were not unfounded. I’m afraid we have to consider that MI6 may have a Combine asset within it.”
“Those damned gunrunners? How can we be certain?”
“That question is ongoing, sir. Right now, all we have is circumstantial evidence.”
“I wouldn’t call a man instigating a road accident and assaulting three security staff ‘circumstantial.’”
“We don’t have a full picture of Dane’s mind-set,” Royce went on. “He was at the center of a very traumatic incident, there’s a possibility—”
“I know he’s one of yours,” said the deputy director, “but be clear-eyed about this. He ran.” He paused. “How exactly did he do that, by the way? Dane’s a button-pusher.”
Royce bristled. “Not exactly. That’s the mistake that Welles and his men made, considering him nothing more than a field technician. But Dane has training, aptitude. He’s former Royal Navy.”
“Perhaps he had outside help.”
“I don’t think so, sir.” Royce paused, considering. “Frankly, I think his escape proves Marc is more resourceful than any of us gave him credit for.”
“Well, do remember to give the lad a gold star after we clap him in irons.” Finch-Shortland shook his head, glancing down at the papers. “It says here he blinded one of the men guarding him…”
Royce reached into his pocket and placed a black key fob on the desk. “He used one of these. It’s part of our covert devices suite, a less-than-lethal flash unit. At close quarters, it can give off a burst of extremely high-intensity light, strong enough to overload the human optic nerve for a short period.”
The other man eyed the key fob warily. “Where did he get it?”
“I don’t know,” Royce admitted. “There’s no record of Dane being
issued one for the Dunkirk mission.”
“But what he did … Well, that shows forethought, doesn’t it? He planned and executed an escape on the fly, from right under our noses. We trained him, after all. He must have had an idea about our protocols … Where he was going.”
“Maybe that’s why he ran?” offered Royce.
Finch-Shortland gave a low sigh. “I know you will be reluctant to admit there was a weak link in your department, but I’ve read Welles’s report. Dane was under the shadow of suspicion the moment he came through the door. If he didn’t have anything to fear, he had no reason to flee.”
“Again, with respect, I hope you’re wrong, Sir Oliver. Dane is intelligent but he’s not experienced. This could just be … An extreme reaction to an extreme situation.”
“We can judge his state of mind once he’s under lock and key. The last thing we need is a rogue officer on the loose.”
Royce had more to say, but the intercom on Finch-Shortland’s desk gave a strident buzz. “Sir Oliver?” said the secretary’s voice.
“What is it, Judith?”
“Mister Royce’s aide is here. She says it’s urgent.”
“Send her in.”
Royce stood up as Talia entered. She looked stressed and shot him a concerned look. “I’m so sorry to interrupt.” She offered Royce her data pad. “A preliminary report just came in from the information surveillance desk at Five. I thought you would want to see it immediately.”
Sir Oliver got up and came around the desk. “This is about the errant Mister Dane, I take it?”
She nodded. “MI5’s hackers have already set up monitoring of his email accounts and online presence. They found something.”
Royce’s expression hardened. “There are details of a deposit here in a bank account keyed to Dane’s biometric signature. A holding trust in the Cayman Islands.”
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