‘Call London. Tell them what’s happened.’
Eva sucked in a breath and turned away, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘After all this time? How do you think that’s going to go down?’
‘A lot better than when someone else lies about how Jeffrey Dukes died.’
‘Kelly could be lying.’
‘And I don’t have the means to check her story from here.’ Nathan stepped closer. ‘Please. I need to know what’s going on. I need to know what the hell Marie’s got herself into, and I need to know why they were given that mission.’
Chapter Seven
London, England
* * *
Miles Newcombe watched with growing alarm as a representative from the Prime Minister’s office paced the room in front of a satellite image displayed on the opposite wall, and ignored the nudge to his elbow from the man on his left.
He was getting a crick in his neck after several hours listening to theories and excuses while self-appointed experts and advisors provided their opinions, each becoming more frantic while new information was issued and disseminated amongst the assembled men around the oval beech-coloured table.
The current speaker was a man in his late twenties, sweat patches under the arms of his Oxford blue shirt while he wore out the carpet tiles with his nervous pacing.
A lingering stench of body odour, burnt coffee granules and panic filled the space as the young man spoke, his message clearly enunciated.
They were all in the shit, and the Prime Minister wanted to know what they were going to do about it before the opposition leader caught wind of the debacle and demanded her immediate resignation – along with theirs.
Heads would roll, that much was certain.
Now it was simply a case of deciding whose – and when.
Miles blinked and loosened his tie, then rolled his neck from side to side before lowering his gaze to a coffee stain on the inside flap of the manila folder he’d been handed upon entering the conference room five hours ago, the current speaker’s words doing nothing to alleviate the growing sense of unease emanating from the men around him.
Except for the man who sat to the left of Miles.
Gerald Knox – Section Chief, Cold War veteran and ex-MI6 stalwart emitted a sigh, exquisitely timed to fill the space left behind as the Prime Minister’s man paused to take a breath from his monologue.
‘That’s all very well, Sebastian,’ he said, holding up a hand to silence the man from the Home Office seated opposite who had opened his mouth to protest, ‘however you fail to understand the complexity of the situation at hand––’
‘Not to mention the delicate handling that this matter will require,’ interrupted a sandy-haired acolyte from the Ministry of Defence, who shot a glare across the table.
‘Handling that your department would have done well to partake in several days ago, instead of assuming this was another paper-shuffling exercise.’
Knox’s barked retort bounced off the thin walls.
The MoD man’s mouth dropped in shock, his face turning red.
Miles fought back the urge to smile, and instead reached forward for a glass of water and took a sip.
He watched as the PM’s man – Sebastian Forbes – shrivelled under the scrutiny of his more experienced peers, and wondered if his degree in political science had prepared him for the full wrath of an interrogation by proxy.
Probably not.
After all, it was the Prime Minister who had determined the meeting should be held at short notice and without preparation.
As Knox had said to him before the meeting, this was a face-saving exercise.
The resulting hours were simply to decide whose face wasn’t going to get saved this time around.
Miles lowered the water glass and cleared his throat.
‘When was the shipment agreed?’ he said. ‘And, who signed it off without checking it matched the purchase order and the manifest?’
‘Now, listen here––’ The voice belonged to Edward Toskins, Minister for the Department of International Trade. He leaned forward in his seat at the head of the table and banged his fist on the veneer surface. ‘I will not have this outrageous claim undermine the important work we do with regard to foreign trade development.’
Miles reached for the water jug as it wobbled alarmingly, then flicked to another page in the dossier compiled by MI6. Ignoring the shocked glances aimed his way, he held up a manifest obtained by a keen-eyed customs official in Ízmir.
‘Several items in this arms shipment contravene Her Majesty’s Government’s own policies and your export watch-lists,’ he said. ‘Not to mention the fact that the Prime Minister has expressly stipulated in recent press briefings that past mistakes will not be repeated. On top of that, we now have four missing Hellfire missiles that no-one in this room can account for, am I right?’
Sebastian’s face showed the first signs of relief since the meeting had started, his shoulders relaxing as he interpreted Miles’s intervention as an excuse to scurry back to his seat.
‘Those missiles went missing from the shipment after the deal was signed off by this department,’ Toskins blustered. ‘We had no idea––’
‘Therein lies the problem, Edward,’ Knox drawled. ‘You have no idea.’
A smattering of laughter filled the room as Toskins pushed back his chair.
‘I’ve never been so insulted in my life,’ he said. Turning to Sebastian, he gathered up his papers and shoved them into a battered leather briefcase. ‘When the PM decides that she wants to have a sensible conversation about how to handle this matter, perhaps you could ask her to afford me the courtesy of a private meeting instead of expecting me to explain matters of departmental interest to her post-graduate lackey and this… this… kangaroo court.’
Miles shook his head as Toskins strode towards the door, wrenched it open and slammed it back in its frame, causing the walls to shake. ‘And the general public wonder why it takes so long to sort out government policy.’
‘Indeed.’ Knox rose to his feet, raised his hands on the table, and took a moment to eyeball the remaining men in the room. ‘Despite the Minister’s comments that this meeting was convened in order to single him out for embarrassment, the fact is that everyone in this room is responsible for the security of this country, and every single one of us failed to protect the shipment before it reached Ízmir. In the circumstances, gentlemen, we expect your full cooperation in our ongoing audit of events as to how those Hellfires went missing.’
Murmured responses accompanied an uncomfortable shuffling of arses in seats at the Section Chief’s words – arses that Miles had no doubt Knox would kick from here to the Arctic Circle if they didn’t form an orderly queue at his office door with their updated reports by the end of the week.
Knox relaxed, and gestured to Sebastian. ‘This would be a good time to adjourn this meeting, Forbes. I do believe the Prime Minister can expect a full and thorough update by close of business Friday.’
‘Thank you, Gerald,’ said the PM’s representative, his voice emboldened by the chief’s interference. ‘Much appreciated, everyone.’
A rumble of voices filled the room while chairs were pushed back, shoulders were slapped, and a loud braying voice belonging to a middle-aged man from Toskins’ department suggested drinks at the sports bar down the road.
‘The mobile phone reception’s crap,’ he said with gleeful enthusiasm to a colleague he grasped by the shirt cuff, ‘so no chance of being interrupted. I don’t know about you, but I need a bloody drink after that.’
As the room emptied, Miles swigged the last of his water, slipped his papers and laptop into a black canvas backpack propped against his chair, then rose and stretched his back muscles.
Beside him, Knox thumbed through his emails on his phone, then shot him a tight smile.
‘That went as well as could be expected, don’t you think?’
‘You enjoyed every minute of it.’ Miles shouldered the
backpack and followed the chief to the door. ‘I’m not sure Sebastian’s going to get a warm welcome back at Number 10 though.’
‘He’ll live.’ Knox elbowed his way past a pair of delegates from MI5 who had sensibly remained silent during the heated discussions, and led the way out into a low-ceilinged corridor underneath Lambeth Palace.
‘Sir? Chief?’ Knox’s secretary beckoned to him, her voice carrying across the throng from where she stood beside the opposite wall. ‘It’s urgent. Ops room, sir – now.’
‘I’ll see you shortly.’ Knox gave Miles a curt nod, and turned away.
‘Actually, he’s required as well.’ Jenny gave an apologetic shrug. ‘They didn’t say why, only that you were both needed ASAP.’
‘What’s going on?’ said Knox as they drew closer.
Jenny lowered her voice. ‘The code word provided was “Buchan”, according to Greg who intercepted the signal.’
A familiar kick in his chest accompanied Miles as he hurried out of the conference room after Knox, accompanied by familiar feeling that was both anticipated – and dreaded.
‘We’ll reconvene with Sebastian once we have more information from MI6,’ the Section chief was saying under his breath as they passed the lift and turned along a narrow windowless corridor. ‘I want to make sure whatever went wrong with that arms shipment doesn’t come back to bite us in the backside or present us with new problems. I mean, for goodness sakes – what the hell was Toskins thinking?’
‘What about Jonathan Amberley’s insistence about delicate handling?’ said Miles as they reached a sealed door. ‘The MoD might have a point there.’
‘We’re the Section,’ Knox growled, stabbing a finger at a series of buttons set into a security panel in the reinforced concrete wall. ‘We don’t do delicate.’
Chapter Eight
A cold spike of adrenalin wound its way through Eva as she watched Nathan monitoring a secure line through his laptop to their old paymasters.
Ever since they had retreated from London, ever since she had barely escaped her last mission with her life, they had severed contact.
She and Nathan had ignored repeated attempts to connect with the Section, cut themselves off from the old drop-off locations and hoped they would be left in peace.
She turned away and peered through the net curtain over the front window, watching as rain droplets ran down the glass, capturing the dull daylight before pooling on the sill. A small group of tourists passed beneath the flat with bright umbrellas raised as they hurried after a tour guide, no doubt eager to find a café within which to shelter.
She sighed, took a step back and lowered the blind designed to shield the flat from prying eyes – and heat sensor equipment.
It was just one of many modifications she and Nathan had made since arriving back in the city, and another way to ensure their privacy and safety.
A single trail had been left open for those in need though, and despite knowing she would do it again if she had to, Eva was beginning to wonder if it had been worth the risk.
If someone could arrange for a rogue Reaper drone to murder a special adviser to the British government, then what were their chances of finding out who, and why – and surviving?
‘I sent a request through five minutes ago,’ said Nathan, rousing her from her thoughts. ‘It’ll depend whether he’s in a meeting or in the middle of an operation but…’
A loud ping sounded.
‘That was quick.’ Eva uncrossed her arms and dropped into a seat beside Nathan.
‘Maybe he’s missed us.’
She didn’t reply, and instead watched as the encryption programme he had written began to process the connection from London, binary code pouring down the screen like rainfall before it cleared and two familiar faces appeared.
‘This had better be good,’ Knox said, his eyebrows knitted together.
‘What he means is – are you both okay?’ said Miles, aiming a glare at the Section chief. ‘I presume this isn’t a courtesy call given the code word used.’
‘Correct, and yes we’re okay but we have a dying drone pilot on the premises and information about a potential blue-on-blue strike in the Middle East.’
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Eva took some satisfaction in the shocked expressions on the two men’s faces.
Knox held up a hand, then lifted his gaze to someone off-screen and clicked his fingers. ‘Greg – clear everyone out of the room who doesn’t have level five access. Now.’
Eva heard a scuffling of feet, voices in the background, and then silence.
When the Section chief’s attention returned to them, she saw the weariness in his eyes.
‘Details?’
She kept the briefing short – Nathan would provide more information offline if the chief wanted it. Her job was to maintain their cover here in Prague and keep an eye on the access points around the bookshop in case they were compromised while a strategy was put in place.
‘There’s one more issue,’ she said in closing. ‘Kelly mentioned that her intelligence officer may still be trying to reach us. Marie Weston.’
A flicker of recognition passed Miles’s eyes, and he opened his mouth.
‘My sister,’ said Nathan.
‘I thought so.’ Miles ran a hand across his face. ‘How certain are you that she’s on her way to you?’
‘She was the one who provided Kelly with the code phrase and details about how to find us,’ said Eva. ‘Obviously if whoever shot Kelly finds her first, then––’
‘Your position is compromised if they get her to talk rather than kill her straight away,’ said Knox.
‘Exactly.’
‘What are your plans?’
‘I only have limited access to data from here,’ said Nathan.
‘That was a choice you made when you decided you both wanted to retire,’ said Knox, with more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice. ‘And, as far as I’m aware, you’ve both actively avoided attempts to trace your whereabouts to discuss your future with the Section.’
‘Can we have this argument later?’ Eva demanded. ‘Such as when we find Nathan’s sister and work out what the hell is going on? I mean, why would someone use a Reaper drone to murder a special adviser to the Foreign Secretary?’
She saw the look that passed between the two men, and frowned. ‘What the hell is going on over there?’
Chapter Nine
‘We’re still trying to ascertain the facts,’ said Knox.
’Spoken like a true politician, Chief,’ Eva shook her head. ‘All right, let’s hear it.’
‘What we do know is that an arms shipment was intercepted before it arrived in Ízmir last week. Four Hellfire missiles were stolen from the cargo during transit. Somehow, the seals on the container from the suppliers in the US were broken and then replaced somewhere along the ship’s route. We now have to assume that those missiles were used by the drone piloted by Kelly O’Hara and her crew.’
‘Shit,’ said Nathan, grimacing.
‘Exactly,’ said Knox. ‘Given what was stolen, we have to also assume someone is gathering armaments for an impending offensive strike. The other problem we have is that we don’t know where that offensive strike will take place – there are a number of countries in the region with instability issues that could be potential candidates. Added to that, we have no proof about who was involved in the theft – it’s too early in the investigation and everyone involved in legitimate arms sales within the British government is busy trying to work out who to blame and how to cover their own arses.’
‘And now we have no witness, either,’ said Miles, his face glum. ‘That’s if your drone pilot is telling the truth about who their target was.’
‘It’s second-hand information,’ said Eva. ‘Unless and until Maria can confirm that’s who she saw, it’s hearsay isn’t it?’
Knox’s brow puckered. ‘If this drone strike happened two days ago, it does make me wonder why no-one from the Foreign
Secretary’s office or the other security services have commented one of their people has gone missing out in the field. Usually that sort of gossip goes around upstairs like wildfire.’
‘It’s a remote location,’ said Nathan. ‘I took a look on a basic satellite image earlier. The road Jeffrey Dukes was travelling on, if our intel is correct, is a single track that winds alongside a mountain pass. It’s a rocky desert either side of it, no large townships for a couple of hundred miles… it could be days before word got out that he was missing, especially if he was being careful who he shared his itinerary with.’
‘I’ll see what we can find out from this end – on the quiet.’ Miles loosened his tie and frowned. ‘What are your plans, Eva? Are you going to wait and see if Nathan’s sister turns up?’
She nodded. ‘As long as there are no threats and we see no-one who gives us cause for concern, we’ll stay here – forty-eight hours, max. Anything longer than that, and it’ll start to get too risky.’
‘Agreed. I’ll get onto Waddington where the RAF’s drone aircraft are based,’ said Miles, his brisk tone implying he was already two steps ahead of the rest of them. ‘I’ve seen no intel about a crew going missing, or any security alerts about a missing drone for that matter.’
‘Don’t hang around waiting to get that sort of information over the phone. Get a car to drive you up to Lincolnshire the minute we’re done here,’ said Knox. ‘Speak to Kelly’s commanding officer and ask him if any other crews have been threatened or approached in the past few weeks.’
‘Speaking of drones,’ said Nathan, ‘I wondered – if the drone hadn’t gone missing with the crew, then how the hell did the bloke masquerading as a colonel manage to get hold of one? Are you aware of any that have been hacked and stolen?’
‘No,’ said Knox.
‘What about drones that are missing in action – crashed, I mean?’
Assassins Rogue Page 4