The Tau Directive

by Tomas Black

  A well-dressed man stepped out of the main Lloyds’ entrance and walked towards him. He wore a navy, three-piece suit, and a dark overcoat across his shoulders. He recognised the dark hair and chiselled features of Victor Renkov.

  “Good morning, Benjamin.”

  Drum neither rose nor acknowledged the greeting, but pointed to the chair opposite. Victor nodded and sat down.

  “Pleasant weather—a little on the chilly side, don’t you think? How have you been, Benjamin?” said Victor.

  “William died a few months ago. Killed by Russian agents, acting on the orders of your friend Vlad Abramov.”

  Victor looked shocked. “Benjamin, I am sorry. I liked William—and Abramov was never a friend of mine. The man was a fool—”

  “Either way, Victor. You suckered me into working for the guy, and that got William killed. Alice holds you responsible—I hold you responsible.”

  Victor shifted uneasily in his seat. “Benjamin—Ben, don’t do anything rash. I never intended for you or William to come to any harm. Believe me.”

  A waiter, a short stocky man in a white apron with a silver streak of hair down one side of his head, appeared at their table. “What can I get you, sir?”

  “An Americano, black,” said Victor. The waiter retreated with his order and returned to the cafe, keeping watch through the window.

  “Why are you here, Victor?”

  Victor looked around, assessing the situation. Drum wondered if he was expecting a snatch squad to materialise at any moment or Alice to turn the corner. “I’m not here out of choice. You could say I’m under orders.”

  “To do what? By whom?”

  Victor placed a hand on his lapel and tapped his finger, showing he was wired. “I’m here at the behest of the Russian government.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “Regrettably, it’s true.”

  Drum frowned. “You’re many things, Victor, but a Russian agent isn’t one of them. Who are you really working for?”

  “That is also true. I’ve always acted in my own self-interests, I admit that. But my swift exit from the country last year put me in the debt of some powerful people back home. Now they want paying. Arranging this meeting with you was part of the deal.”

  “Why send you? There must be a dozen agents in London who could have easily done the job.”

  “They knew you would want to meet with me—if only out of revenge or curiosity. I told them it was a bad idea—”

  “You’re so full of shit. Why don’t I just kill you now?”

  The waiter returned with Victor’s coffee. He placed it on the table and drew a gun from his apron, a silenced Walther PPK, and placed the stubby suppressor against the side of Victor’s head.

  Victor tilted his head away from the gun, keeping his eyes locked on Drum. “It’s best you hear me out, Benjamin. Call Alice.”

  ~~~

  Alice stood by the window in Drum’s office. Light sparkled on the Thames like diamonds in the bright morning sunshine. William always loved this part of London. She turned to the young man lounging in Drum’s chair, the gun in his hand pointing straight at her.

  “More tea, Sergei?” she said, in fluent Russian.

  “Thank you, yes,” replied the man, in English.

  Alice moved to the desk and placed her cup back on the tray. She picked up her prized teapot and refilled the young Russian’s cup. She poured herself a little more tea and sat down on the couch.

  “You’re very young for this type of work, Sergei.”

  Sergei smiled. “I know what you are doing. I have been well briefed.”

  “I’m just making conversation—while away the time.” Alice adjusted her hair, her hand coming to rest on the enamelled butterfly of her hairpin. It was a gift from her dear Giles, shot dead by a Russian thug. They hadn’t briefed her young Russian friend well enough.

  “There are rumours about you—or someone like you,” said Sergei. “Prizrak,” he said in Russian. “Ghost. They say you have killed many agents. But here we are, drinking tea, my gun trained on you. I think these are the stories of old men.”

  She smiled. “Your English is very good, Sergei. Just a hint of inflexion here and there. Nothing you can’t work on.”

  “Thank you. Your Russian is perfect. You could be one of my teachers back in Moscow. How did you become so fluent?”

  She sat back, remembering. Images of her mother drifted into her mind. She hadn’t thought of her in years.

  “My mother—she was Russian.”

  “Ah, that explains it.”

  “Tell me, Sergei. What will you do if Captain Drummond decides not to cooperate?”

  Sergei shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “He will—and if not …”

  Alice smiled. “Have you ever killed a woman, Sergei? Some men find it hard.”

  Sergei looked away momentarily. “It won’t come that. He’ll do what we say. I will obey my orders.”

  Alice smiled, half to herself. She was like that once. It would be a pity to kill this young man for doing his duty. But that was her curse.

  Her phone buzzed on Drum’s desk where the Russian had told her to place it.

  “Answer it, please,” said Sergei, pointing with his gun. “Put it on speaker.”

  Alice rose and picked up her phone, answered the call and placed it back on the desk in front of Sergei.

  “Alice, it’s Ben. Everything alright?”

  “Hi, Ben. Yes, I’m here with Sergei. A nice young man. We’re having tea.”

  There was a pause on the line. “I’m here with Victor.”

  Alice froze. She looked straight at the young Russian who visibly flinched at the change in her demeanour.

  “Alice, you there?”

  “Kill him, Ben, don’t worry about me—”

  Sergei sat up and levelled the gun at her. “What are you saying, you crazy woman—”

  “Alice,” said Drum, “stay calm. Brock is with me. I need to hear Victor out.”

  ~~~

  Victor looked shaken. “That was Alice, your office manager?”

  “Yes,” said Drum.

  “They said she used to work for MI6, but I dismissed the idea. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “If you and your friend Sergei want to leave in one piece, I suggest you deliver your message,” said Brock, sitting down with his gun levelled at Victor beneath the table.

  “If Sergei doesn’t hear from me in the next half hour, he has orders to shoot her,” said Victor. “Not my idea, I can assure you.”

  “Get on with it,” said Drum.

  Victor nodded. “About a month ago, a secure data centre on the outskirts of Moscow was attacked.”

  “Attacked?”

  “A cyber attack, I think you call it. Very sophisticated, or so I’m told. This computer stuff is over my head, but let’s just say it caused quite a stir in Moscow.”

  “What has this got to do with me?”

  “I’m getting to that,” said Victor. “Initially, it was thought to be the Americans. They didn’t believe the UK had the technology or the balls to attack Russia. America denied it, of course, but there was a follow-up attack.”

  “What did they take?” asked Drum.

  “They won’t tell me, but it must have been something huge. Then the attacker got sloppy and left an IP address that was traced to a location in Cambridge. At first, Moscow thought it was the UK’s retaliation for the Salisbury attack—” Victor tapped his lapel. “Alleged attack.”

  “What am I missing?” said Drum, getting irritated by Victor’s prevarication.

  “Right, right. Moscow pinpointed the attacker’s IP address as originating from the campus of Salenko Security Systems.”

  Brock shrugged. “I’m lost.”

  “The new assignment I’m working on,” said Drum.

  “I say we hand our Victor over to British Intelligence and let them sort him out,” said Brock.

  He had a point, thought Drum, but knowing Victor he had
another ace up his sleeve.

  “That would be a mistake,” said Victor, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Think of Alice.”

  Drum smiled. “I’d be more worried about your man, Sergei.”

  “Listen, Ben. Trust me on this one. It’s best we work together. We can help you.”

  “Why would I want to cooperate with Russian intelligence?”

  Victor squirmed and tapped his lapel once more. “This is not my idea, you understand. I’d rather be back in my villa in Croatia. But Moscow anticipated your reaction and the fact that Sergei might not be successful in his mission. Which is why they have made contingencies.”

  Drum’s eyes bored into the Russian. “What contingencies?”

  Victor gulped. “Svetlana Milova.”

  Brock turned to Drum. “Who?”

  “Stevie.”, said Drum.

  Brock rammed his gun into Victor’s stomach, his face turning crimson. “You bastard. Anything happens to Stevie I swear I’ll hunt you down and kill you myself—slowly.”

  Drum placed a restraining hand on Brock’s shoulder. “There’s something else.”

  Victor had turned pale and was visibly shaking. “Yes—yes! We have something for you. A goodwill gesture. Information you will want to know.”

  “Spit it out,” said Drum.

  “Charles Renshaw. We know who killed him.”

  ~~~

  Alice’s phone buzzed again on Drum’s desk. She accepted the call and placed it on speaker.

  “Sergei, it’s Victor. We have reached an understanding. Stand down.”

  Sergei felt the tip of the stiletto blade press into the side of his neck. A trickle of blood ran into the well of his collarbone, staining his shirt crimson. “That might be a problem.”

  There was a pause on the line.

  “Alice, it’s Ben. Don’t kill him.”

  Alice stood behind Sergei, her long, steel-grey hair hanging down her back. In her hand, she gripped the butterfly wings of the disguised stiletto that was pressing ever deeper into Sergei’s flesh. “What understanding?”

  “I’ll explain, later. But in the meantime, we need Sergei alive.”

  “And what about Victor?”

  “He lives for now.”

  “You can’t trust him, Ben. You can’t trust any of them—”

  “Alice, I need you to do this for me.“

  Alice hesitated, then reached down and took the gun from Sergei. She released the pressure on her blade and withdrew to the window, keeping the gun pointed at the young Russian.

  Sergei let out a sigh of relief. He pressed his hand against the side of his neck and examined the blood on his fingers. “I am unharmed,” he whispered into the speaker.

  “What do you want me to do with him?” asked Alice.

  There was the sound of a heated discussion.

  “You both need to leave for Cambridge straight away. Stevie may be in trouble.”

  Part Two

  A Cambridge Affair

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alice

  It was late Friday afternoon when Alice and her new Russian friend arrived at Cambridge station. The journey up from London had been a silent one, with Alice contemplating the set of circumstances that had thrown her and a member of Russian intelligence together. It was strange watching the young man sleep. He must have trusted her because he slept soundly for most of the journey. They grabbed a cab at the station and headed for Market Square. It was late afternoon and many of the market traders were packing up. Alice decided they should browse the market for a while.

  “What are we doing here?” said Sergei, flipping through some vintage records on one of the many brightly covered stalls.

  “We’re blending in—waiting for Stevie to turn up,” said Alice, pretending to look through some old bric a brac. “Didn’t they teach you this sort of thing back in Moscow?”

  Sergei stopped his browsing and turned to face her. “Of course. But why not call her?”

  “I’ve tried that,” said Alice, “but she’s not picking up, which means she’s in some sort of trouble.”

  “Or she’s in bed with her boyfriend—or girlfriend, whatever she’s into,” said Sergei.

  Alice thought this a possibility, but it was unlike Stevie not to check in now and again, and it was rare for her not to reply to her voicemail. It would be dark soon, so she decided to stake out one of Stevie’s regular locations that she’d mentioned in the past.

  “Let’s go, Sergei,” she said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To get a drink.”

  Sergei’s face broke into a wide grin. “Now that is a good idea.”

  They walked out of Market Square and headed down St. Mary’s Street and soon found the cafe tucked on the corner.

  Sergei’s face dropped. “I thought we were going for a drink, Alice.”

  Alice smiled. They went into the cafe and ordered two Americanos and then sat at a table close to the bay window. It was cosy inside and the window gave them an excellent view of the street.

  “What makes you think she’ll come in here?” said Sergei, slouching back in his chair.

  “This is where she hangs out. There are fewer students.”

  Sergei nodded.

  Alice noticed he hadn’t taken off his coat—a smart, leather bomber jacket that fitted snuggly around his broad chest. “Are you armed?” she said.

  “Of course. Why?”

  “Just don’t start flashing it around. You’ll frighten the natives.”

  Sergei smiled. “Of course.” He looked at her for a moment and said, “would you really have killed me?”

  “Of course,” said Alice. “Mmm, this coffee is good.” She changed the subject. “What can you tell me about this group she’s mixed up with?”

  “They call themselves Vovk—wolves. They’re a kind of hacker collective, mainly Ukrainians. Very active all over Europe and, to a certain extent, Russia, which is how they came to our attention. Small stuff here and there—nothing that would concern Soviet intelligence, but we monitored them.”

  “You thought they might be useful one day,” said Alice.

  Sergei shrugged. “They came back on our radar after we learned of the attack on GCHQ.”

  “Is that so?” said Alice. She wondered how that piece of intel had come their way.

  Sergei paused. “We kept track of the key players and learned that they were on the move—heading for the UK. After the attack on our Moscow data centre, we tracked one of their enforcers to London. A guy called Gleb Vashchenko. A mean son-of-a-bitch. He appears to have an unhealthy interest in your Captain Drummond.”

  Alice put down her cup and gave Sergei her full attention. “Why do you say that?”

  Sergei smiled. “Our surveillance placed him in London. He met with Charles Renshaw. We were curious, so kept him under observation. After the climbing incident, we followed him to Renshaw’s apartment block. He stayed for a short time and left. We lost him after that.”

  “That was sloppy,” said Alice, taking great pleasure in the slip-up.

  “I suppose so,” said Sergei. “Our man confirmed that Charles Renshaw had been killed. We assume it must have been Vashchenko.”

  “Why kill Charles?” said Alice. “How does he fit into all this?”

  “We don’t know. But with Renshaw dead and Captain Drummond taking the assignment for McKinley, we did some digging and Svetlana’s name came up and her past association with Vovk. We assume she’s back working for Vashchenko.”

  Alice bristled at the accusation. “Utter rubbish.”

  “We shall see,” said Sergei, nodding towards the door. “Here she is now.”

  Stevie entered the cafe and walked straight to the counter. She was dressed in tight, black jeans and a loose baggy hoodie with a black leather satchel over her shoulder. She waited for her coffee, her head down.

  Sergei was about to rise when Alice placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Let her come to us. Don’t t
ell her who you are. You’re just the hired help.”

  Sergei nodded and sat back down. They didn’t have to wait long. Stevie grabbed her coffee and made her way to her usual spot by the window, deep in thought. She got as far as the table and paused.

  “Alice!”

  “Hello, Stevie. How have you been?”

  Stevie stood in stunned silence.

  Alice tilted her head to one side and looked hard at her young ward. “Come and sit down, dear.”

  Stevie placed her coffee on the table and sat down. “Of course. What are you doing here, Alice?” She looked at the young man leaning back in his chair and smiling. “Who’s this?”

  “In a moment,” said Alice. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Stevie hesitated. She remained silent, looking down at her lap.

  Alice turned to Sergei. “Give us a minute, please.”

  Sergei moved to a corner table. Alice noticed that he had placed himself with an unobstructed view of the space with his back to the wall.

  “Why are you here?” said Stevie, petulantly.

  “Ben is on assignment here. I thought it would be nice to see you.”

  “Where is he?” said Stevie, looking around.

  “He’s on his way up. When we didn’t hear from you, I came on ahead.”

  “Sorry,” said Stevie, fiddling with the spoon on her saucer. “I should have answered your voicemails. Things have been a little crazy around here.”

  Alice’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s cut the crap, shall we? You’re in trouble.”

  Stevie stared down at her lap and nodded. “How did you know?”

  Alice rolled her eyes. “Good grief, who do you think you work for? What upsets me is that you didn’t think you could talk to me. Tell me everything.”

  “My past,” said Stevie, a tear rolling down her cheek, “caught up with me.”

  “Vashchenko,” said Alice.

  Stevie looked up. “Yes, how did you … oh, right. Bumped into one of his people. He recognised me. A psychopath called Baz Kulik. Threatened to harm somebody I know if I didn’t cooperate.”

  “I see,” said Alice. “I doubt this Kulik bumped into you by accident.”