by Mark Dawson
And she had proven herself again. Pope knew that he underestimated her, that he was guilty of it all the time and that she interpreted his reluctance to involve her as a lack of trust. She clearly found that irritating, and he couldn’t blame her. But it wasn’t a lack of trust. It was because of an obligation that he had already abused, one that he had no intention of abusing again.
Pope had promised Beatrix, Isabella’s mother, that he would do his best to keep her safe. He had done that. He had wiped her identity, scouring all traces of her from government records and turning her into a ghost. She had gone back to Morocco after Beatrix’s death.
Pope could have left her there.
He should have left her there. She would never have been found.
Instead, he had visited her and offered her a chance to work for him. He knew that she would accept. He had only had to spend five minutes with her for it to be obvious that she was hungry to live up to her mother’s reputation.
Beatrix had trained her in the year that they had spent together before she had died. Her daughter was prodigiously talented. That talent had seemed obscene to Pope when he compared it to the pastimes of his own daughters. Clem and Flora were older than Isabella, but that was artificial. Just numbers. They had been brought up in a household of loving care, wanting for little, cosseted from the sewage in the world through which Pope was paid to navigate.
Isabella had not had their good fortune. She had lived through so much already, and it had made her older than her years.
And Pope had gone to her and made his offer. Encouragement was unnecessary; the offer itself was more than enough.
And one thing had led to another had led to another.
She had volunteered to infiltrate the household of the man suspected of financing the London attacks. That had led to her abduction and her transport deep into ISIS territory in Syria.
The urgency of the situation was no excuse. Isabella was a fifteen-year-old girl. Her precocity was irrelevant. Her unique background and training were irrelevant, too. Pope bitterly regretted what he had done and, although he had defied orders and risked his own life to bring her out of Syria, he did not feel able to absolve himself. She was still in danger. Being with him made her a target. Yet he couldn’t leave her now. Staying with her was better than abandoning her, but neither was better than what she would have had if he had left her to get on with her life.
The fuel gauge flashed its second warning. They were just approaching Amravati, the last city before Nagpur. Pope saw the sign for a gas station and turned off.
Pope filled the car, took his wallet from the dashboard and went to the store to pay.
The man greeted him in Hindi.
‘I’m sorry,’ Pope said. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Yes indeed, sir.’
‘The fuel on pump two, please.’
‘That will be three thousand, six hundred rupees. Are you paying by card?’
‘Cash.’
He took two jumbo bars of Amul dark chocolate and another bottle of Coke and put them on the counter. ‘These as well, please.’
The man rang it all up.
Pope looked back at the display of the register. A moment ago, it had shown the amount due. In the time since he had stooped to collect the chocolate, the message had changed.
It was very different now.
>> MICHAEL POPE <<
‘Sir?’
Pope did not take his eyes off the display.
>> WE NEED TO SPEAK <<
He knew he was staring at the reader, his hand with the banknotes hovering over the counter.
‘Your cash, sir?’
>> CALL 011 202 879 3240 <<
‘Are you all right?’
The clerk was staring at him.
‘Sorry,’ Pope said. ‘I was a million miles away.’
‘Your cash, please, sir.’
Pope found a smile that suggested embarrassment, nodded his acknowledgement and counted out the money.
‘Thank you, sir.’
There was a stack of yesterday’s papers on the counter and Pope took one off the top. It was a copy of the Hindustan Times. Pope took out five rupees and put the coins on the counter. ‘Could I borrow one of those pens?’ he asked.
The clerk had a collection of ballpoint pens in the breast pocket of his shirt.
‘Of course.’ He took one, put it on the counter and arranged Pope’s notes in the till.
Pope noted down the telephone number in the margin of white space at the top of the front page and handed the pen back.
The display switched back to the amount that was due.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
Chapter Twenty
Pope pulled out on to the road and continued east. It was a hundred miles to Nagpur. They would be there at ten or eleven. Isabella was still asleep, curled up with her head resting against the window. He was tired, but adrenaline and the ache from his arm kept him awake.
He put the newspaper on the dashboard in front of the wheel. His eyes flicked down to the number that he had written there. Someone had been able to track the two of them, and that person, whoever they were, had been able to spoof their phones, and, when they had discarded their phones, that person had hacked the cash register so that they could pass a message to him.
It was twenty minutes later when he saw what he was looking for. They had just passed through the small town of Nandagon Peth with the highway continuing along the same route as a north–south railway line. He had just gone by the police station when he saw the telephone box. He indicated and pulled off the road, rolling to a stop next to it. It was a red box, similar to the design of the old-fashioned boxes back home, and for a moment it reminded him of what he had lost.
He opened the door of the car and stepped outside into the sticky evening heat. It was thick and damp, an almost physical presence that washed over him as soon as he was out of the air-conditioned oasis of the Altima’s cabin. Overhead power lines loomed over the railway track, the electricity buzzing and popping. The police station was little more than a wooden hut; it was closed, all the windows dark. Pope thought he could hear the call of an owl in the darkness above it.
He crossed the dusty parking lot, opened the box and went inside. The heat was unbearable, and he had to prop the door open with his foot so that a little air could circulate inside. The ancient Bakelite handset was hot to the touch, and as he pressed it to his ear, Pope wondered whether it would still work. The dialling tone sounded. Pope folded the newspaper on the shelf, thumbed in two rupees and dialled.
He recognised the first three numbers as denoting a number in the United States and the next three as identifying a number in Washington, DC. He listened to the pattern of clicks as the call was placed and then the intermittent tone as it rang. The tone sounded once, then twice and then a third time.
And then the call connected.
No one spoke. All Pope could hear was the hiss of static on the line.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Mr Pope.’
‘Who is this?’
‘It doesn’t matter. All that is important is that I am a friend.’
The voice was distorted. Pope couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman.
‘How did you do that?’ he asked.
‘Send you a message?’
‘Yes. The phones. The petrol station. How did you do it?’
‘Just a simple trick. Don’t be distracted by it. The means are not relevant. We needed to speak to you.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘The same way that they will. You have been sloppy, Mr Pope. The Altima you stole is equipped with a monitoring device to record data from hard-braking incidents. Motorists are bribed with lower insurance premiums if they use them. But the transponder transmits your location in real time. And the owner has reported the car is missing. Mumbai state police are reporting fifteen cars as stolen in the last twelve hours. We tracked all of them. Whenever each car sto
pped, we hijacked local CCTV and disregarded those cars that were driven by someone else. Eventually, we found you, and we’ve been able to hack your car. The passenger seat belt in the car is engaged – so Isabella Rose is still with you. We can see your route, your speed, how many more miles you could travel before you need to refuel. We could even tell you what radio station you’ve been listening to.’
Pope felt a trickle of irritation. The implicit criticism was not something he enjoyed. ‘So I’ll take the transponder out.’
‘You could do that. But what about the electronic data recorder? The infotainment system? The transponder that allows you to use toll roads without stopping to pay? They are all transmitting. Your car will do everything it can to rat you out. Are you going to disable everything?’
Pope gritted his teeth.
‘I’m not criticising you, Mr Pope. We’re trying to keep you safe. It was easy enough for me to find you. Your enemies are not as good at this as we are, but they’ll find you, too. They won’t be interested in a telephone conversation. They could re-task a satellite to follow you. And then they might send a strike team. They could send a drone.’
‘You didn’t go to all this trouble to rub my nose in it. What do you want?’
‘We want to help you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because our interests intersect. You want to find your family—’
Pope interrupted. ‘What do you know about my family?’
‘We know that they’ve been taken.’
‘Where are they?’
‘We don’t know. We’re looking. And when we find them, we’ll tell you.’
Pope gripped the receiver tightly. ‘Why? Why would you help?’
‘It’s not purely altruistic, of course. The people who took your wife and your daughters did so because you are a threat to them. They sent one of their agents to kill you in Montepulciano. You did well to survive the meeting, truth be told, but they took your family. We want to expose those agents. We want the world to know about them. They are dangerous, Mr Pope. Not because of what they can do, but because of what they are.’
‘So?’
‘You want your family. We want their lies to be revealed. We can help each other to achieve our goals.’
‘How?’
‘A man and a woman have gone on the run from the company responsible for the agent who attacked you. They have information that we can use against them.’
‘Information?’
‘Data. It doesn’t matter what it is.’
‘Where are they?’
‘China. They will sell the data to us. We have been negotiating with them, and we have agreed to the parameters of a deal. We want you to make the exchange.’
‘Why me?’
‘You are an experienced operative. We don’t have men of your talents in our organisation. And it might be dangerous.’
‘Where in China?’
‘They are in transit to Shanghai.’
‘I’ll need more than that.’
‘Of course, Mr Pope. You have this number now. Go to Shanghai and call us. We will know where they are by the time you arrive.’
Pope shook his head. ‘No. I’m going to need more than that. I don’t know who you are and I don’t know your agenda. You’re good at surveillance. Well done. I’m impressed. But you haven’t given me one good reason to believe that you can help me find my family.’
‘A demonstration, then? There is another gas station up the road from where you are, near Mojhri. Go there. They have a fax machine beneath the counter. We will leave something for you.’
Pope heard the sound of a car and turned as lights blazed through the dirty glass of the telephone box. The car continued on, and Pope followed the red of its tail lights as it disappeared around a bend.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll do that. But what do I call you?’
There was no reply.
‘Hello?’
Pope heard the hiss of static but nothing else. The line was dead.
Isabella was still asleep as he got back into the Altima and drove on. He quickly reached Mojhri and then saw the lights of the gas station on the eastern side of the tiny hamlet. He pulled into the parking lot and jogged inside.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Have you had a fax this evening?’
‘No,’ the man said. ‘We haven’t had a fax for—’
He stopped. Pope could hear the chatter of a printer below the counter.
‘That’s strange,’ the man said. ‘We haven’t had a fax for months.’
The printer chugged, the old unit whining a little from unaccustomed activity, and then it fell silent. The clerk reached down and collected a sheet of A4 paper. He looked at it, shook his head and then laid it out on the counter. Pope turned it around so that it was the right way for him to see it.
He felt a twist in his guts. He was looking at a photograph from a CCTV camera. It was up high, angled down on three people who were about to pass beneath it. A woman in the middle and two teenage girls on either side, all of them holding hands. The woman’s face was angled up just a little, enough for the camera to be able to capture the anxiety on her face.
It was Rachel.
The two girls on either side of her were Clem and Flora.
‘Why has that been sent here?’ the clerk said.
Before he could answer, the phone started to ring. The clerk picked it up and put it to his ear. He listened for a moment and then proffered the receiver. ‘Are you Mr Pope?’
Pope’s mouth was dry. He nodded.
‘It’s for you.’
He put the receiver to his ear. ‘Yes?’
‘That photograph was taken at Lielvārde Air Base in Latvia. Two days after your wife and children were taken. They boarded a Gulfstream V that we know has been used for CIA rendition flights and were taken here. They were put into a car registered to a corporation based in Bermuda and driven southeast, towards Riga. We lost them there, but we have leads that we are tracking. We will find them. We’re good at what we do, Mr Pope. Our enemies are good, too, but this is our speciality. And, if you cooperate with us, when we find them, you will be the first to know. So – do you trust me now?’
‘No.’
‘But you will cooperate?’
‘What do I have to do?’
‘Go to the luggage lockers at New Jalpaiguri railway station. We will leave passports, tickets and money for you in locker 324.’
‘And the girl.’
‘For you and Miss Rose, then. The passcode is 7-6-7-3-P-O-P-E. Collect them.’
‘And then?’
‘China, Mr Pope. You have to go to Shanghai.’
PART FOUR:
Skopje
Chapter Twenty-One
Vivian Bloom was standing at the rear of a small corridor. There were two rooms to the right, both served by a single door and with smoked-glass mirrors that enabled those outside to view the interior. The rooms were bare and functional and reminded him of the interrogation rooms in which he had interviewed Soviet defectors in Berlin during the Cold War. There were two guards at the other end of the corridor, both armed with holstered pistols and Tasers.
Maia was in the first room. Bloom could see her from where he was standing. She was sitting, her arms folded on the table in front of her. She seemed calm and relaxed. Her face was blank and expressionless and her hands were still.
Nikita Ivanosky and Jamie King were standing just ahead of Bloom.
‘Are you ready?’ Ivanosky asked.
‘Let’s get on with it,’ King replied impatiently. ‘The longer we sit here holding our dicks, the longer it’s gonna take to start fixing the godawful mess that you’ve caused.’
Ivanosky glared back at King, but was wise enough not to retort. ‘You stay here,’ he said instead.
King looked incredulous. ‘What?’
‘I’ll talk to her. She’ll respond better to me.’
‘Fuck that,’ King said, pushing by the professor. ‘I
own her. She’ll answer my questions or I’ll have her taken outside and shot.’
King opened the door and went inside. Ivanosky turned to Bloom, as if ready to say something, but instead he held up his hand to tell him to wait and then followed King into the room.
Bloom did not need to be told twice. He had no interest in speaking to the asset. He was not ashamed to admit that she frightened him. Instead, he stepped up to the window and watched as King and then Ivanosky sat on the other side of the table to the woman.
There were microphones in the room, and they relayed the conversation to outside observers through discreet speakers in the wall.
Ivanosky began. ‘How are you, Maia?’
‘I am well, Professor.’
Bloom folded his arms and watched.
‘How’s your shoulder?’
Maia flexed it, rolling her arm in its socket. ‘Very much better.’
‘That’s excellent news.’
Jamie King was palpably restless. He was sitting forward in the chair, his forearms resting on the edge of the table and his hands clasped together. His jaw was clenched, and Bloom could see the spasms of the muscles in his cheek.
Ivanosky ignored him. ‘And your leg?’
‘It was just a sprain. I’m very close to being—’
King slapped his palms on the table. ‘What did that bitch say to you?’
Maia stopped. A moment of confusion passed over her otherwise expressionless face. ‘I’m sorry, Mr King. I don’t understand. Who are you talking about?’
‘Dr Litivenko. The day before yesterday. What did she say to you?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Try.’
‘She was asking me about my shoulder. We spoke about the operation a little more – about what happened.’
King took his phablet from his pocket and set it on the table. He tapped the screen and an audio recording started to play. It was Aleksandra Litivenko’s voice. ‘If there was something else to explain what happened, you have to keep it to yourself. If they think you’re flawed in some way, if they think you can’t be relied upon to complete your orders, they’ll have no further use for you. You understand what that means, don’t you, Maia?’