by Alex Shaw
Tate knew of the group. The fact that they had managed to get a Shahid – the Arabic term for martyr – to the UK and launch an attack meant that they had become a significant and ongoing threat to the UK, and had to be eradicated. Battling those above him who, rightfully so, claimed that he was too personally invested in their demise, Tate’s brother had obtained permission to task E Squadron. Tate joined the deniable unit for the personal mission. They entered Chechnya and terminated the group’s senior leadership with extreme prejudice and without further incident. But revenge had not brought their parents back and the world would never know that it had been the United Kingdom who had ended the careers of the terrorists.
A week later, over his breakfast of Alpen, Tate had snorted with derision at the Russian president on TV who at a press conference praised the FSB for liquidating a terrorist cell in Grozny.
The electronic ping of an incoming email brought Tate back to the present. He opened it. Efficient as ever, GCHQ had obtained the registration details of the two Tahoes. They were leased by a company registered in the Cayman Islands called “LTZ Invest”. It sounded like a nonsense name for a shell company. Tate carried out a quick internet search and found nothing on the company, apart from their Cayman Island registered address. A dead end but telling nonetheless. He put his phone away. He decided not to call his brother. He’d surprise him when he turned up in Washington. He’d hurry things up and get there by mid-week, after a stop in New York.
Tate got up and continued his walk. He’d heard of a little bar with views of the harbour, which looked interesting. It was a tourist spot and it was high time he became a detached tourist. And he also wanted to sink a few drinks.
Georgetown, Washington, DC
Simon Hunter gazed out of the window of his rented Georgetown townhouse at his neighbour walking a poodle. Hunter sighed. The weekend was slowly drawing to a close. Sunday was his favourite day, a time to relax before a busy working week, and as the Head of Station, Washington, for the British Secret Intelligence Service, his working week was busy. As a boy, Sundays had always been special. His parents would let him and his brother sleep in and then they’d be treated to a full English breakfast washed down with milky tea, all prepared by Dad, who only ever seemed to cook once a week.
If it wasn’t raining, they’d go to the park; otherwise he and Jack would persuade Dad to let them watch the WWE highlight show. Hunter missed his parents, and he missed his brother Jack. But unlike his childhood and his parents, he’d be seeing his brother again. SIS had informed Hunter immediately that his brother had entered the country. Jack Tate was an SIS field agent, while Hunter was an intelligence officer – his position declared to the US authorities. The ambassador knew he was “Six”, but in both his social and private life, Hunter remained First Secretary, Regional Affairs – a position that just involved him smiling at foreign dignitaries.
Even his girlfriend, Terri, who was upstairs snoozing, didn’t know his true role. Hunter had told Terri little about his family, and he certainly had never mentioned his brother to her, for the simple reason that, like himself, what Jack Tate did was covered by the Official Secrets Act.
Hunter hated hiding his real life from her, and that included his brother’s existence. Hunter had always thought of Jack as his real brother. When his father had brought Jack home, Hunter had been ten and a lonely only child. The bond had formed instantly but unlike adopting a small child, Hunter’s parents had decided to foster Jack and let him decide later if he wanted to be officially adopted, to become a Hunter. It hadn’t mattered to Simon Hunter that his brother had a different surname and Jack never mentioned it either. When Jack left school to join the army, he’d traded one non-biological family for another and had still remained Jack Tate. And Hunter was fine with that.
Outside, a fat man in a tracksuit wobbled on the sidewalk, attempting to reduce his bulk. Hunter approved. He rose before dawn most days to go for a run, but never on a Sunday. Since being assigned to the British Embassy in Washington and meeting Terri, his Sundays were different. Today they’d gone for a walk, without any real destination in mind, before having a liquid lunch and staggering home. He’d run off the booze tomorrow, he told himself.
He strode back into the lounge, switched on the TV, and selected a TiVoed WWE highlight show. A guilty pleasure.
He lost himself in the world of sports entertainment for the next half-hour until he heard footsteps on the stairs. Terri appeared, her tousled blonde hair hanging across her face. She was dressed in the yellow Hulkamania T-shirt she’d bought him. Hunter grinned. Terri padded toward him as brilliant rays of evening sunlight fell across her, silhouetting her and confirming she was naked beneath the T-shirt. She dropped into his lap and put her arms around his neck. He kissed the top of her head, enjoying the closeness of the woman he loved. ‘What do you fancy doing tonight?’
‘You.’
‘I thought, perhaps, we could go a grab a bite at that place you like?’
She looked up at him. ‘Which place?’
‘You know, the one that does the huge calzones.’
‘Yeah, that narrows it down, not.’
‘The one with the Russian waiter.’
‘Boris the Pervert?’
Hunter chuckled; the man had roving eyes. ‘That’s the one.’
‘I don’t want to go out again. Let’s order takeout and stay in.’ Terri pushed herself up and walked away. In the doorway she took off the T-shirt and threw it at him. ‘Help me work up an appetite?’
*
Akulov was not at all surprised that he had been tasked to undertake another immediate assassination. The weekend, and Sundays especially, were his favoured time to operate. This was because at these times, more so than any other – with the exception of public holidays – targets were usually to be found off-guard, relaxed, or simply drunk. Sunday afternoons were preferable. His target, the Englishman, was completely unaware as he screwed the blonde that he was less than a minute away from a violent death.
Akulov wasn’t a spiteful man; he would let his target go out with a bang before another bang ended his life. The issue, however, was that he refused to take the life of the naked woman beneath the target. She would not become what Oleniuk and the Americans called “collateral damage”. He did not like the phrase. Wasn’t it the title of an old Schwarzenegger movie? He liked American action movies – guns, explosions, and semi-naked women.
He readjusted his position. The woman was stunning, and he imagined expensive – obviously a fantastic lay. Once this was all over he’d spend some money on women and vodka, blonde women and Russian vodka. He’d have his pick, as always, but one woman in particular came to mind. Her name was Tatiana, and like him she worked for Oleniuk and was in Washington. His mind flicked briefly back to a weekend they had spent together, over a year before, and then Monday morning had come and she was sent off on assignment.
He blinked, reprimanded himself for giving in to his emotions, and brought his focus back to the present. He continued to watch his target’s copulating, this time getting aroused, and silently congratulated the Englishman on his technique and stamina. After another two minutes of athletic rutting, the target’s back straightened up and his head rose. The Russian waited a beat then applied pressure to his trigger … a single suppressed round from the Blaser hurtled through the open space between the two buildings, tore apart the glazing of the window opposite, and exploded the target’s head before it bored into the heavy wooden headboard.
Akulov was impressed; the German-made Blaser had certainly proved to be a wonderful weapon.
Chapter 8
Georgetown, Washington, DC
‘Oh my God … oh my God!’ Terri screamed as Hunter fell on her. She lay still for several moments, unable to think, unable to move as his weight and warmth gently suffocated her. A moment frozen in time that seemed to linger forever but in reality lasted no more than a handful of seconds. The room was silent, save for her ragged breaths as a ge
ntle breeze blew in through the window.
‘Does that mean I hit the spot?’ Hunter asked lazily as he rolled off.
‘Y … Yes … you did.’ Her voice was still strained, as she panted for breath.
‘Glad to be of service.’
‘Not bad for an old man.’
‘Old? I’m thirty-seven!’
‘Sorry, very old!’
‘Cheeky cow.’
‘Simon, you know I love it when you talk dirty.’ She rolled to her left and grabbed their half-drunk bottle of Californian white and took a large swig. She nimbly straddled him, looked down and then blew her mouthful of wine over his head and chest. ‘Cow indeed!’
Hunter burst out laughing. ‘And your udders are first rate!’
‘Udders?’ She ground her hips into him, then bent forward and gently bit his lower lip. ‘I’ll show you udders!’
*
As he lay next to the woman he now knew he loved, Simon Hunter was happier than he’d been since he was a child. Twice his life had been ripped apart, when he’d lost those he’d cared for, and he had doubted if he would ever achieve true happiness. He didn’t know what it was; perhaps the two bottles of wine they had managed to put away since lunch had made him philosophical but Hunter found himself reliving his past like an old man. Shit. His thoughts were all over the place. Old man. He loved Terri, he really did, but that was what she called him. In jest. He was thirty-seven now and although Terri joked that he was an old man he did not consider himself to be one, no old men were “Boomers” like his dad …
His feelings for Terri had troubled him at first as the scars caused by his past somehow seemed to be more livid. He’d not told Terri about either event, not wanting to saddle her with his sadness. He’d lost an ex, his first love – Sofia Antonova. She’d died at the wheel in a fatal car crash. But lying there he felt guilty about remembering her. He had loved her, and he hadn’t been a kid – they’d been in their twenties. Occasionally over the years he’d dreamed that she was alive, and with him. He sighed. He had to forget her, if he was going to move on.
But he couldn’t forget his parents. It was late August and the anniversary of their deaths was approaching. Yet all this was the past; Terri was with him in the present and he hoped she would be a large part of his future.
Perhaps soon, if Terri felt the same way about him as he did about her, he would have to have “the conversation” – after she had been fully vetted of course, where he would come clean and tell her what he really did at the British Embassy in Washington. He was a fool for not openly declaring his relationship to the SIS, and knew that if found out he would receive a reprimand but he hadn’t wanted to go through what he saw as the humiliation of potentially vetting Terri only to lose her. Beside him Terri started to gently snore. Hunter cracked a wide smile; perhaps he should record it so that finally she’d believe him? The gentle sounds of a Washington summer evening wafted in on the air as he closed his eyes, drifting off into what he hoped would for once be happy dreams …
He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep for but far away Hunter heard a duck quacking. He was a boy, walking with his parents in the park. He tossed a chunk of bread to a mallard and another bird jostled for a piece of its own, but the quacking persisted and grew louder. It was rhythmic, it was mechanical …
‘That friggin’ phone!’ an irritated, but sleepy voice mumbled.
Hunter opened his eyes; he’d been asleep, dreaming. The quacking was the ring tone, which he found funny, of his secure iPhone on the bedside cabinet.
‘Ignore it,’ Terri ordered tersely.
‘I can’t.’ Hunter stretched for the phone, grabbing it as it rang off. He looked at the display, a colleague from the embassy. He was about to return the call when a text message arrived, a single word, a code word he had never received before and had hoped he never would. It was a security protocol introduced two years before to battle the ever-growing sophistication of foreign intelligence agencies and enemies of the Crown. Awake, alert, with all thought of sleep vanquished, his chest was tight. ‘I need to get to the embassy.’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’ Hunter sat up. ‘Something has come up.’
‘Again?’ Terri reached for him.
Hunter got out of bed. ‘I’m serious. I’m needed there.’
‘What is it? What’s happening?’
‘Terri, I’ve got to go.’
‘Ugh.’ She pushed her head back into the pillow. ‘You are a diplomat not friggin’ 007.’
‘I know. I love you.’ Hunter dressed in fresh boxers and socks then grabbed a pair of chinos. He searched the room for a top. Terri threw the Hulkamania T-shirt at him. He shook his head and retrieved a blue oxford shirt from the wardrobe.
‘How long will you be?’
He shrugged. ‘Sorry, I really don’t know. I’ll call you.’
‘You’ve abandoned me!’ Terri declared dramatically. She closed her eyes and pulled the covers back up.
Still in a state of shock, Hunter got into his eight-year-old Land Rover Defender. The code word meant that a member of the diplomatic mission had been killed. He knew nothing more than that, and there was no way he was going to risk making a telephone call. Secure or not, he had no doubt that somewhere, someone could listen in to his every word. He swung the boxy 4×4 away from the kerb and powered up the deserted street, the diesel engine roaring like an angry lion. At this time of day, he’d make the office in seven minutes, less if he put his foot down.
The British Embassy, on the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Observatory Circle, was an unremarkable red-brick building that reminded Hunter of a comprehensive school. Usually lined with parked cars, Observatory Circle was all but empty. Hunter noticed a solitary taxi stood at the corner facing Massachusetts, the driver apparently killing time or waiting for a fare or whatever else taxi drivers did. Hunter brought his Land Rover to a halt at the barrier, and a security guard checked his ID before waving him through. After pulling into the parking lot, he quickly made his way into the embassy building itself. The front desk was manned by Karen King, one of the locally hired support staff. She had a worried expression on her face.
‘Hi, Karen.’ Hunter forced a smile as the American did the same.
‘Everyone is in the conference room.’
‘Thanks.’ He marched along the hallway then peered through the door. He saw that “everyone” amounted to half a dozen junior staff. He continued on to his own office but was intercepted by Eric Filler, the Cultural Attaché. Hunter liked the man, despite that fact that he was known for his notoriously bad short-term memory, which resulted in him constantly misplacing memos, his reading glasses and his phone. Filler was dressed in khaki cargo shorts and a baggy yellow polo shirt, all but unrecognisable without his bespoke Savile Row suit. Hunter asked him, ‘What’s happened?’
Filler took Hunter by the shoulder and led him into his office, two doors down. He sat heavily before his desk. A sprinkling of Post-it Notes with scribbled reminders cluttered the workspace. ‘Dudley Smith is dead.’
Hunter sat, shocked. ‘How?’
‘He was shot.’
‘What?’
‘The police are still trying to determine exactly what happened.’
Hunter blinked; this was horrible. ‘And Dawn?’
Filler smiled ruefully. ‘He wasn’t with his wife; he was off humping that blonde girl from the coffee shop.’
The impact of the news started to sink in … Dudley Smith was the Military Attaché, the highest representative of the British armed forces in the United States of America. Hunter had known about the man’s wandering eye but this was different. All single diplomats in sensitive positions had been specifically warned that anyone they became “involved with” needed to be vetted, something that Hunter himself had guiltily failed to do with Terri, to safeguard against extortion from criminals and foreign agents. For Smith this also safeguarded against sullying the reputation of HM Armed Forces. And on top o
f all this he was a married man. ‘He told me they just met for coffee.’
‘He lied.’
‘How? I mean why? Who?’ Hunter was still in a state of disbelief.
‘Those are the questions the police will be asking us all, but I was hoping you had some idea.’
‘Without any details from the police, it’s all speculation. Get shot back home it’s a big thing, but here everyone and his granny has a gun. For all we know, it could have been an accident, or a robbery.’
‘Or “coffee girl’s” jealous boyfriend?’ Filler pronounced.
‘Shit.’
‘Shit indeed.’
Both diplomats were shaken. The death of a colleague was not something they ever got used to dealing with. Hunter asked, ‘Where’s the boss?’
‘Karen couldn’t raise him. That’s why she called me and why I sent out the alert.’
‘Any idea where he might be?’
‘On his bike?’ Anthony Tudor, the United Kingdom’s Ambassador to the United States of America, was known to disappear – official functions permitting – at the weekends. He loved bicycles and hated cities. Filler checked his watch. ‘I’ll start the briefing in twenty minutes. In the meantime, I’m going to speak to the police to see if there is anything extra they can tell us.’
Hunter nodded. In the absence of the ambassador, as the most senior diplomat, Filler was in charge. He knew he had to contact the Foreign Office but would wait until he was fully briefed.
Washington, DC
Li Tam had been a registered taxi driver for twenty years, ever since immigrating to the US. He had worked hard, providing a good home for his wife and putting his daughter through college. Friends and family saw him as the poster boy for the American Dream, the epitome of honest, hard work. But they were all wrong.
Li Tam was not a taxi driver. Before being transferred to his new master, Li Tam had been an agent of the Chinese Ministry of State Security, a spy. With a sub sandwich in his hands and his light turned off, Li Tam seemed like a man taking a few minutes of “me time” before searching for his next fare. This also was wrong. Li Tam was observing the British Embassy and mentally ticking off who had or had not arrived for the crisis meeting. It had been almost ninety minutes now since the alarm had been raised, and all but three of the diplomatic staff had turned up.