Rule 53

by Elaine Nolan

  “They’re not stretched,” he argued back.

  “I beg to differ. You’ve been sneaking around, trying to hide your rekindled relationship with her. You’ve been caught in intimate and compromising positions, and you don’t see why I’d be concerned?”

  “So it was you who sent those photographs to the Irish Embassy.”

  “Jake, every time you open your mouth, you dig that hole you’re in a little deeper.” He was about to give a snippy retort but took a measured breath instead and closed his mouth. “Wise choice,” she told him.

  The car pulled up at her office, and he jumped out, grateful for the fresh air and the moment away from her intense scrutiny before opening the car door for her and following her into the office.

  CHAPTER 52

  Emily Walters fixed a pleasant enough smile for the security guard at Huntington’s gate. Thanks to Leigh uncovering Lantry’s double-cross, security had tightened. Anything, everyone and everything entering or leaving underwent a thorough search, even the director.

  “Evening Ma’am,” he greeted her.

  “Good evening George,” she answered.

  “The usual checks, Ma’am.”

  “Work away,” she said, pressing the button to unlock the boot.

  “Is that a bag, Ma’am?” he asked, spotting it in the back passenger foot well.

  “A carryall,” she told him. “I’m away for a few days, treating myself to a spa.”

  “Well deserved Ma’am, but I still have to check it,” he said, and she nodded, releasing her grip on the steering wheel, attempting to relax while he checked through the car for anything resembling files or any form of documentation, even searching her wash bag and make up bags for a thumb drive. Even her lip gloss and foundation bottle didn’t escape his scrutiny.

  “Where are you headed, Ma’am?” he asked, keeping the conversation going as he worked.

  “Edinburgh,” she answered and he made a gruff sound.

  “Too touristy and up its own arse, if ya ask me,” he told her, and from his own accent she guessed he was from west Scotland. “But you’re nae from Scotland yourself, are ye?”

  “No, I’m not” she answered, in her neutral English accent giving nothing away.

  Finished with her bag, he moved on to the car boot, checking under the removable base, meticulous in his search around the spare wheel. He found nothing, but she reined in a sign of relief as he lowered the short chunky bollards, and waved her on. So far so good, she thought, and released the breath she’d held, grateful for the hidden compartment in the rear passenger seat, the one he’d rested the bag on.

  She reached her destination in Edinburgh and checked into the luxurious hotel and spa. Every deception required an element of truth, and this was no different. She needed a cover for the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours. Hers started with a facial and a deep tissue massage, then an early night to make up for the early start the next morning.

  Dressed casually in a hoodie, jeans and trainers, she looked a world away from the power-dressing, high-heeled director of a national intelligence agency, but that was the point. Another hooded figure walking the streets of Edinburgh at early light hardly drew attention as she slipped out through the staff entrance, carrying only a canvas shoulder bag, taking no identification except for her official warrant of appointment, and enough cash to get her to London and back. If she got stuck, she knew her credit card numbers and their security codes by heart. She left her phone and any other piece of identification back in the room, and to anyone watching it looked like she was taking this spa experience seriously.

  At Waverly train station she paid cash for the ticket to London, only paying for one way. At that hour of the morning she was already conspicuous by paying the exorbitant fare with cash and not a credit card. Paying for a return ticket with that much money on her would’ve been suspicious, especially dressed as she was.

  The four-hour train journey arrived into London just before 10am and stepping off at Kings Cross station brought a tight smile to her face. She was back on familiar ground. Not where she originally came from, but she’d learned her tradecraft on these streets. Her time in the counter terrorism unit had paid off; she knew her destination and how to get there, knew the surveillance points along her route and shielded her face from them.

  Her route took her to Paddington station and the Underground Piccadilly Line to Hyde Park Corner. From there it was a quick four-minute walk to the Irish Embassy. It was too much to hope for making the 10:45 train back to Edinburgh, but she planned to be on the noon one, and still have the evening to relax and attend a theatre show. It all hinged now on getting to talk to the right person here.

  While there was an Irish Consular in Edinburgh, going there was too obvious, too easy to watch, especially when she’d announced that city as her destination. If she was being watched, every place she’d likely target for help or pass information to, would be under surveillance. The Embassy in London was her only option. She asked for the Attaché, only to be asked which one.

  “Whichever one also deals with intelligence gathering,” she said, receiving blank look.

  “We don’t do that kind of thing here,” the Embassy official told her.

  “I have vital information I need to get to one of your other embassies,”

  “Have you considered posting it?”

  Walters took a breath to calm her rising temper, now realising Harte’s sass was cultural as much as it was her innate personality.

  “One of your colleagues, in another embassy is in danger. I need to talk to someone who can help?”

  “If it’s a threat, then you need to contact the Irish Department of Defence.”

  “I did,” Walter’s lied. “They told me to come here, that someone here would take the information I have.” It was a gamble, but she knew it worked. It was a trick she’d used before, and it always worked at the front desk, knowing they were never privy to hush-hush dealings, but who didn’t want to be responsible for not letting the right people in at the right time. They ushered her to a waiting room, the information leaflets and forms left stacked on a side table told her it was used for passport applications.

  “Can I help you…? Miss…?” the male voice startled her, surprising her by his quiet entrance.

  “And you are?” she asked.

  “You’ve come into this embassy with a wild story, I think I’m entitled to ask the questions first,” he said, and she knew she had the right person. Years of training made it easier to spot another operative. She pulled out her warrant card from her hoodie pocket and opened it for him to see, watching his reaction, and he didn’t disappoint, his eyes widening a fraction before narrowing.

  “So you recognise who I am,” she confirmed.

  “Why is the director of a UK Intelligence Unit paying us a visit in such a… clandestine manner?” he asked.

  “Because I need to get information to one of your people in the embassy in Washington.”

  “Have you tried registered post?”

  She glared at him, thinking he was being humorous, but found he was serious.

  “I can’t risk this falling into the wrong hands.”

  “We don’t have any active people in Washington,” he told her.

  “Yes, you do, because I sent one over.” His eyes narrowed again. “She’s one of yours, but on a… secondment, I borrowed her for a while. Now she’s in danger,” she explained.

  “I need to check this out,” he said, and she nodded as he left her alone again.

  While she waited another person came in to offer her something to drink, and she accepted the coffee, if only for something to do, unused to this level of waiting. It was likely the middle of the night in Washington. Damn, she hadn’t taken that into consideration, hadn’t thought for a second that she wouldn’t be believed once she showed her credentials. It felt unsettling, and a different sense of uncertainty from her time in the field.

  He carried a notepad when he returned an
d sat at the desk, indicated a seat.

  “What is the nature of this information?” he asked, and she knew he’d talked to someone in the other embassy. Instead of sitting, she placed her canvas bag on the table and began taking out files, stacking them on the desk, adding cd’s and a thumb drive.

  “You can send a message with these,” she told him. “Tell Leigh that I’m sorry, this was all I could save.”

  “This is Commandant Leigh Harte?” he asked, confirming why he’d taken so long. “She’s the one working for you?”

  “It’s complicated, but she’s one of yours.”

  “Then uncomplicate it, Director.” She pulled herself taller at his harsh tone, used to hearing it from her contemporaries who continued to challenge a woman in what they saw as their domain. This was different though, more a rival in a game of chess.

  “I sent her to the States to find someone who wasn’t supposed to leave Ireland. Your people assigned her to the embassy there, and while investigating the missing person, she became involved in an ongoing… project. The two seem to be connected.” She pressed her fingers on the stack of files. “This is evidence that will help her.”

  “Why not bring it to your own people? Sounds like it’s your mess she’s trying to sort out.”

  “It is,” she admitted, hated having to admit it. “But it involves both countries, and with wider implications across the EU. Your people over there are key to putting a stop to it.”

  “And what exactly is… it?” he asked, still sounding unconvinced, but subtle little cues betrayed him and she knew that he knew what she was talking about. She folded her arms.

  “It’s your turn to stop playing games, young man,” she said, and damn, he was good, not betraying himself by feigning surprise. What she wouldn’t give to have someone of his calibre on her team. “Together, we have the power to stop a resurgence in terrorism. I’ve done my part. Will you help me get it to the right people?”

  “Yes Director,” he answered. “I’m authorised to tell you arrangements are being put in place as we speak to get it there as soon as we can.”

  She allowed herself a heavy breath, relief at this happy conclusion.

  “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 53

  The return train journey was uneventful, having made it to Kings Cross station in time for the noon train. It gave her time to catch her breath and work out her next couple of moves. The train journey may have been quiet, but it was a counterpoint to her efforts to get back to King’s Cross.

  She spotted the surveillance team as soon as she exited the Irish Embassy, unsure if they watched for a specific reason, but she hoped her hood shielded her face enough to make her hard to identify. Maybe that’s what started the ensuing foot chase through the city streets. While her dark-coloured hoodie gave her some anonymity in amongst the late morning bustle, it restricted her view and made her counter-surveillance more obvious. Without her shoulder bag, left behind at the embassy with its sensitive contents, she knew she’d be harder to spot.

  Instead of retracing her steps back to the underground station at Hyde Park corner, knowing she’d be cornered, she changed direction and walked at a brisk pace, then jogged in places, making quick changes and turns, and catching the team following her unawares with her erratic behaviour. They adapted to her tactics, their training the same as hers, even if their experience didn’t come close to the depth of hers.

  Where she could, when the opportunity presented itself, she used shops and shopping centres to cover her escape, sprinting across busy roads and open ground, and leading her pursuers on a merry chase. She felt confident she arrived at her target destination without being seen and wasted no time purchasing a returning ticket from the machine in the ticket hall. The machine had the facility to photograph or record her face so she kept her head down, pulling her hood further over her forehead and eyes. It was a risk, but she calculated the odds of a person at the ticket desk remembering her was greater than hiding from a machine.

  Though she worked out, kept herself fit, the effort of the chase through the city left her exhausted, yet exhilarated. It was these rare moments when she missed fieldwork, but the danger she’d just put herself in was enough of a reminder of why she opted out of this life, taking that promotion that confined her to a desk instead. It offered safety, and the opportunity to grow old. But a part of her missed the thrill.

  The almost five-hour journey gave her plenty of time to reflect on everything. Was it just a coincidence a surveillance team was watching the Irish embassy? Who, or what were they watching for? Mention of such an operation hadn’t even appeared on her daily updates as something being scheduled, meaning either she’d been kept out of the loop or it had only just been put together. It explained how she spotted it, but not why they were there. Had they had followed her from the hotel? Had she been spotted boarding the London-bound train?

  Five hours was long enough when all you had for company were treasonous thoughts. She was under no illusion that hers was the nobler cause, but handing sensitive intel to a foreign government, no matter how chummy they were, was still an act of treason on her part. That she was passing it to an operative assigned to her was no defence. They ordered her to set that operative loose, to disassociate from her. But she knew, if anyone could unravel it, it was Leigh. Whether or not the younger woman knew it, she was embroiled in this mess. She had been since her college days in Germany, but Walters had secreted those files away, taking the lead from Lee senior and secured them for safe keeping.

  She disembarked back at Waverly station in Edinburgh, moving with the crowd as they made their way to the exit barriers. She was back at her starting point, but she still didn’t relax or give in to complacency, most accidents occurred within five miles of home, and agents got sloppy for the same reason, the perception of safety. She’d only relax when she stepped back into her hotel room, but she didn’t get there.

  A car braked hard in front of her as she left the train station, and she turned to avoid it, finding people she recognised from Huntington, and she knew there was no point in running. At her age, no matter how fit she thought she was, she’d never outrun these fitter, younger agents, and she didn’t relish being thrown to the ground. The least she could do now was keep her dignity.

  “Director, you need to come with us,” he said, opening the car’s rear passenger door. “Don’t make me shove you in,” he threatened when she hesitated. She sat in, finding one of the senior directors beside her.

  “Oh Emily. What have you done,” he said, as the car pulled away from the curb.

  CHAPTER 54

  As hard as she tried Swayne couldn’t hide her horror and shock, couldn’t command her renowned dignified expression. She wanted to close the laptop, shut away the scene of depravity, of torture, but as much as it disgusted her she also needed to see the damage it could cause.

  “Do you have a transcript of what they said?” she asked her investigator, but he shook his head.

  “There was no conversation, just… that,” he said.

  “So it’s torture for the sake of torture?” she asked, baffled by Jake’s taste for this perversion, or the pain.

  “You heard what little she said at the start, she made him confirm his safe words, which he did, but never used. In that instance it’s not torture, it’s masochism on his part.”

  “And she never tried to get any information from him?”

  “Again, after they confirmed the safe words, they never spoke to each other, just… did… that, until she released him from the bondage, and then it was full-on sex for the rest of the night.”

  “I don’t think I need to see that bit,” she said, and closed the laptop, pushing it back to him. He put it back into its carry-case. “And he doesn’t know about the surveillance?” He shook his head.

  “Someone must have warned him though, because he swept his apartment, closed the curtains and turned on an anti-listening device.”

  “So they could’ve conv
ersed?”

  “No. Our devices are newer, better, and Wi-Fi enabled on a secure network. The traditional electronic counter-surveillance doesn’t affect them.”

  She sat back, her mothering instincts towards Jake battling with the legalities of the situation. While it appeared he had done nothing wrong per se, there still existed the tiny matter of this questionable activity with a suspected foreign intelligence officer, and in uniform. Jake was obviously enthralled, but Swayne never saw the attraction in a uniform. To her they were symbols of oppression, authority, and aggression. Still, she had to confess, it lent Harte an air of maturity Swayne begrudgingly approved of. If only Harte would stay the hell away from Jake, stop putting his career and his life in jeopardy.

  “What do you want us to do?” her investigator asked.

  “Nothing for the moment. My first priority is finding out who is behind the attacks on the city. Jake’s probably our only link to key pieces of information right now.”

  “And when the investigation is finished?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  CHAPTER 55

  McGregor glanced at the phone screen as it beeped. It was the call he’d been waiting for, but let it ring a few seconds longer. He didn’t want to display any eagerness for having this conversation. He took a breath before he hit the call answer and then speaker.

  “Kellen,” the voice greeted him. “What’s happened?”

  “Why would something have happened?” he hedged.

  “You don’t contact us outside the schedule.”

  “Yes, something’s happened.”

  “Of concern?”

  “Of interest, Leigh Harte arrived on my doorstep.”

  “She… What?” Unusual for the cold, calm tone to have such a reaction.

  “That child has balls.”