Lies and Retribution (Alex King Book 2)

by A P Bateman

  This floor, however, always felt so clinical. Like or hospital or a court building. He doubted whether it would ever feel any different. There was a larger degree of soundproofing on this floor. All of the windows in the entire building were bullet resistant to .50 calibre. The curtains were Kevlar woven fibre and were essentially blast curtains. These were installed at the time the so called Real IRA were firing mortars on government buildings, including Downing Street attempting to destabilise the Good Friday Peace Agreement. The .50 calibre resistant glass was installed later, but not to deflect sniper fire, it was found to be the best insurance against parabolic microphone systems aimed from a distance for listening in. The ballistic rating was merely a bonus for the occupants.

  Ahead of him, the overhead lights flicked on before he reached them, behind him, the first few were already switching off. This had been an initiative fought for by a committee to save money and encourage green measures throughout the building. In essence there were no more light switches and activity meant that the lights remained on. In The Ivory Tower, as people referred to the top tier of MI5 headquarters at Thames House, it merely made for a tension building scene in a horror movie. As with many civil service institutions, it had not been properly thought out.

  Forester reached the end of the corridor and opened the heavy oak door. Below the top tier the doors were solid hardwood with glass security peep panels. They were utilitarian fire doors and many were self-closing. Many offices had open doorways with no doors at all. Not a money saving measure, merely a practical open office environment for free-flow information. Of course there were many security grades, but these were tiered and there was very little chance of a low level grade hearing or seeing something they shouldn’t. The higher security clearance was always behind closed office doors. But not like this one. This door was stately. Forester had heard rumours of how much the director’s refurbishment had cost, but like many matters he was either too busy to care or too sceptical to put much stock in the office rumour mill. As he opened the door, however, he was hit with the notion, as he always was, that it must have been quite true. The floor was parquet. Not effect, but actual individually laid parquet blocks, herringboned. The Security Service emblem was inlaid in the centre of the office, in what Forester assumed to be marble, although the director once told him it was polished concrete and therefore entirely affordable. Though, the man had conceded, undeniably unnecessary.

  “Hello Debbie. Who’s in?” Forester asked the pretty secretary behind the curved mahogany desk.

  “Oh, hello Mister Forester,” she looked up, but Forester knew she would have seen him approaching down the corridor. The CCTV system was both movement and heat sensitive. “Ms Chalmers is already inside.” This secretary was good, others always gave away a tell when referring to Elizabeth Chalmers, Joint Deputy Director of MI5 and Director of Administration. Some would wrinkle their noses, others would almost spit out the name, but when mentioning her, Debbie had been impassive. Which was partly the reason she was the Director’s personal secretary. Another reason was she was stunningly beautiful and going against both perceived stereotypes and womankind’s best efforts, high level clearance secretaries are always the best looking since the Emily affairs of the late Sixties.

  Back in the height of the Cold War many of the secretaries serving in both MI5 and MI6, not to mention the Ministry of Defence, were unmarried career women, usually plain to look at, hard-working and lacking both a social life or the chance to meet a man to marry and start a family. These women were often referred to by the Soviet Union as Emily’s (the equivalent Russian name being a rather plain one) and often reaching their forties whereby they were spinsters and on the shelf. These women were targeted by handsome younger Soviet men and given the time of their lives both in bed and out of it. They were harvested for information and many key victories by the USSR during the Cold War were down to information gained by these men during pillow talk. Soon directives were initiated and the intelligence services were keeping their best looking staff to work as assistants and secretaries in the high level security areas. The thinking being that better looking women were more confident and less susceptible to being picked up and won over by flattery and attention. It was a directive that had remained. Cynically, these women were now regarded as style over substance, but in truth they were the best at their jobs as well.

  “Anybody else?” Forester asked.

  “Plod,” she said. “And he’s bought along his superior for, well, company I think.”

  “Right.” Forester nodded.

  There was going to be a handover by the look of it, these matters rarely went smoothly. The police were better placed for certain investigations and they knew it. The Security Service knew it too, but there was a protocol with such matters concerning national security. And an age old tradition of hierarchy. That’s why you needed a degree to join MI5 and MI6, and to be able to read and write and spot the difference to join the police service. Or so Joint Intelligence liked to joke.

  Forester opened the door to the office of the most powerful man in counter-terrorism and surveillance. Many thought that Charles Forester should have been given the job, but he wouldn’t hear of it. As director of operations, he was in control of what MI5 did in the field, how it worked within its own remit and he could shape its direction. As director, he would be a politician more than an intelligence officer. He was in his middle-fifties and comfortable in the fact that this was his final position in a thirty-year intelligence career. He had bought his property at the right time and was now mortgage free. His two children had recently finished university, his wife had given up her work after inheriting well and they had both saved prudently throughout their careers. If the axe were ever to fall he would sit back and enjoy his retirement. He had already been offered a six figure fee to join the American university, security and business lecture circuit. It was an enviable position to be in, and the politicians knew it. The deputy director of the Security Service was both financially and professionally secure and therefore incorruptible.

  Howard, the director looked up and held up a welcoming hand. Forester noted he did not stand. Forester countered this by turning to the two guests and leaving the director’s hand hanging. Both men stood, offered their hands.

  “Chief Superintendent Carter,” the taller and significantly smarter man said. Forester recognised him as a politician. Usually it was the only way to get to the top, let alone stay there. He turned to the man beside him. “This is Detective Inspector Hodges.”

  “Pleased to meet you both. Charles Forester, deputy director and head of operations. They were my officers you found.”

  “I’m sorry. But I suppose this is where you say thanks but we’ll handle it from here?” Hodges said.

  “Now Inspector…” Carter started to say.

  “No,” Forester interrupted. “This is where I thank you, enter into a thorough briefing with you and ask you to join me in finding out what happened.”

  Howard leaned forward. “Now, this is highly unusual!”

  Forester turned to the director and interrupted him also. “Then it shouldn’t be. We are a counter terrorism and intelligence service. The Met are right here in this office, they have the best scenes of crime officers and they investigate murders every day. We are not murder detectives, but we have one in this very room. The first detective on scene no less. We can work together because right now, all I want are the bastards that did this off the streets.”

  Chalmers turned to him. She was severe-looking woman with thick spectacles. Her hair was tied up in a bun. She was good at what she did because there was no way she had slept to the top. “We need to operate under the control of certain protocols. It’s what keeps us accountable and our remit concise.”

  “Well, we could debate this. We could get the Joint Intelligence Committee to bring it up in the next COBRA meeting, but what we need is to use the resources we have at this moment. We need a pathologist on the bodies now, we need S
OCO on the quay doing what they do and we need the manpower that the Met can give us. At least for seventy-two hours.” He turned to Detective Inspector Hodges and looked him in the eye. “Will you find the killers for me detective?”

  “I will do my best,” he said. “It’s no cold case. If you can get the paperwork out of the way, and I’ll want my assistant on it.”

  “Done.” Forester stood. He looked at Howard, his mouth agape behind his desk. “We’ll start right now.” He turned to Hodges. “I will sort out security clearances for you and your team. We’ll keep it limited to four on site. You will have full use of an office and communications will be free-flow to your own department. If you prefer to work out of your own offices, I will require regular updates. You’ll be busy, so phone or email will be fine. I will assign an officer to work with you though. I have someone in mind, she won’t be a spy in your camp, but she will be expected to keep me up to date. She has some seniority so I don’t want game play and petty rubbish. Treat her as your second in command.” He turned to Howard. “If that’s all Sir?”

  “Actually, Charles, it’s not. Elizabeth and I have a pressing matter.” He stood, pressing a button. The door opened and Debbie stood in the doorway. “Gentlemen, my secretary will see you out.”

  Forester turned to Hodges. “Security will be cleared for your return. I’ll have my contact details waiting.” He shook both men’s hands.

  The door closed and the atmosphere was tense. He knew Howard would be reeling, but he also knew the man was too proud to make an issue of it.

  “Problem?” Forester asked.

  “Sit down, Charles.” Howard looked at Chalmers. “Do you want to lead?”

  “We…” she started. “We have a security breach.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad,” Howard said.

  “Spit it out then.”

  “A pattern emerged. It may well have been missed but we were running a new algorithm on the system and it flagged up a few worrying discrepancies. An analyst on the middle-east desk pulled unrelated files. Only once, but he ran them and downloaded.”

  “But downloads flag up.”

  “They do,” Chalmers said. “But he downloaded and re-set the system. Tech are on it, but even they’re not sure how he did it yet. If it wasn’t for the new programme sweep, it may well have gone unnoticed.”

  “Domestic or foreign desk?”

  “Domestic.”

  “What were the unrelated files?”

  Chalmers glanced at Howard then back at her opposite number. “Personnel. UC’s and handlers.”

  “Undercover operatives,” Forester’s head swam. “Do we know how much was downloaded?”

  Howard shook his head. “Enough. Those dead operatives discovered last night… their names were on it.”

  7

  Forester had moved quickly. He was reeling. Chalmers and Howard had sat on the situation and time was of the essence. The analyst concerned had been signed off sick by his doctor and admin were duty bound to allow him seven days’ sick leave before sending out a medical accessor. The man had not re-entered MI5 headquarters since the day he was traced to opening and downloading the file in question. That was three days ago and Forester had a feeling he would not be seeing him in the near future.

  He had used his mobile phone as he walked briskly from Howard’s office and set surveillance in place. It was a single watcher unit and they would not have had the time to build in a decent surveillance cover scenario such as roadworks, doorstep market research or commandeering a property to watch from. However, MI5 had the best watchers in the world and it would not take them long to get up to speed.

  Next, Forester put an agent on to the target to bring him in. The agent would need either the new Joint Intelligence Committee’s non-case built (reactionary) arrest warrant, or as MI5 has no singular power of arrest, a police unit, in this case Special Branch, would assist. Forester cringed at the protocols. Operating in MI5 within the UK was akin to swimming in treacle. This year his department had halted six terrorist attacks, but it was only a matter of time before they lost ground and another nine-eleven, or seven-seven shook Britain. Of the recent six thwarted attempts only two arrest warrants were issued and the Crown Prosecution Service deemed only one as a successful prosecution, involving three men – all of Syrian decent who held fake Belgian and Swedish passports, which meant twenty-one known Jihadists with intent were free to walk around the country with impunity. Forester was painfully aware how little had been achieved by so much work. It sickened him.

  ***

  The woman was dark skinned. A natural Mediterranean tan that you could not buy in a tanning parlour or spa. Her hair was as black as jet and hung loosely just past her shoulders. She had recently had it styled in an expensive salon. The kind of establishment where the Prosecco was free-flowing and the staff were no older than twenty-five, all of whom styled each other’s hair daily before opening. She enjoyed the experience and relished being worked on by a stylist who was at the peak of their game and culture and was not ten years behind fashion like her home country. Not that defining her home country was easy. She was originally from Ukraine, but her family had moved to Chechnya to be with cousins and start a business venture. Upon reaching adulthood she had moved to Moscow and then to Georgia where she had initially enjoyed her time beside the Black Sea, the poor man’s Mediterranean some called it. But the rich there were far from poor and she had seen and lived the fast life, and seen and lived the hard life too. Those early days at the coast were fun and refreshing, but soon changed. She had been introduced to sex for cash, sex for drugs and sex for survival. She had been so sure that she would die on that stretch of coastline where billionaires ruled and where the poor served and gave all they had. Until she had met a man. Yes, he had used and abused her and yes, he had been no different at first from the men she was forced to sleep with and escort to the casinos and nightclubs, but in time he had saved her. He had taken her away, cleaned her from her cocaine habit and shown her more than she could ever have dreamed of. An ideology, a reason for being. An ideal which would not judge her harshly of her past and expect no more than all of her future. But it would give her meaning and enlightenment along the path she had chosen and to her at that time, and now, that meant everything.

  She had learned how to dress and it showed as she walked along the street, the damp air threatening to cling to her hair, but she was near her destination and she would flick her hair dry when she got there to avoid the frizz. She wore knee-length tan leather boots and dark sheer tights. Her skirt was suede and rode just above her knees. Her sweater was thin, Kashmir and cream. It rolled high to her neck, but shaped well over her ample breasts. She wore a silk poncho style wrap over her shoulders and carried a medium sized leather bag. She would not have looked out of placed in Chelsea or Knightsbridge, at a charity event or stepping out of a Bentley for some lunch at a celebrity chef’s restaurant.

  She was due to meet for sex in a few minutes. Sometimes she enjoyed the sex of course, on a physical level, but emotionally she needed to prepare. She had left that life behind, but she knew she had to make sacrifices also. Everyone with the cause had, and would. She had not wanted this mission, but she was not to choose. She had always made their assignations convincing, choosing to shower first and dress well, even wearing expensive silk or satin underwear. She was completing the illusion and she had needed to be as convincing and appear as willing and genuinely involved in the affair as it was possible to be. The saving grace was she had insisted on using protection, and that barrier not only gave her control but the ability to compartmentalise the intimacy also. In her mind, because of this, the act of sex had become exactly that. An act.

  She crossed the road and turned into Lexington Avenue, just off Soho. She had heard that this had been a rough and cheap part of London, but as she looked at the houses, many converted into flats and apartments, she wondered if the real estate market had changed with heavy investment, or maybe the
se people should go live in Ukraine or Chechnya and see what rough and cheap really was.

  She noticed the white van parked ahead. It was smart and clean and did not have roof racks. That meant it was not a builder’s van, or any other tradesman for that matter. She kept walking, noticed the man in the driver’s seat. He was dressed in a polo shirt and trousers. Neat, tidy and clean. Most probably a delivery driver. She checked for sign writing, but the vehicle was plain. Sometimes delivery drivers hire vans for various reasons. Either they have a lot of miles to cover and a lot of drops so put the wear, tear and mileage on somebody else’s vehicle. Or sometimes their own van is in the garage for work or servicing. Either way, that could explain the vehicle. But what about the man? Delivery drivers have a reputation for driving too fast and parking where they shouldn’t to make drops and many delivering internet purchases get paid barely a pound per drop so time is money and they are frenetic – always on to the next drop as fast as possible. They didn’t tend to take long breaks to read a newspaper.

  She kept walking. Past the building she was heading for and onwards up the street without pausing or glancing. Ahead of her two men were sitting in a Vauxhall Insignia saloon. Both watched the building she had just passed. She slowed her pace and casually took out her mobile phone. She faked thumbing the keypad as she walked past and took a picture of the car, its number plate and the two men in the front seats. She chuckled as she walked alongside, smiling at an apparent text or Facebook post. Both men watched her, men always did, but she did not so much as glance at them. Her heart was pounding. It had been close, but her training had given her the edge. It always did.