The Colours: A spy thriller packed with intrigue and deception

by T. M. Parris

  He laughed quietly and his gaze returned to the canvas on his knee.

  Two interesting things about that, thought Rose, intellectualising her way out of the rising mist of anger. One – he knew a lot more about her than she was comfortable with, even her role within MI6 after he’d left Russia and the resources of the FSB behind him. Two – he actually admired John Fairchild. It made sense in a way. They had certain things in common.

  With the most gentle of touches, Grom repositioned the paper over the surface of the painting and rolled it up again on his knee. He levered the roll into a backpack that was by his feet, fastened it tightly and put it by his side on the seat, keeping his hand on it as though it were a favourite pet.

  They drove on in silence, winding ever upward.

  Chapter 52

  Once the sails were set and the course steady, they sat on deck, Zoe at the helm, Fairchild barefoot stretched out on the starboard side. Silence for half an hour, then Fairchild asked:

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “Corsica. Plenty of places there to load up.”

  “And then what?”

  A small shrug. Out here some of Zoe’s bravado had melted.

  “Corsica is quite an obvious destination from Monaco. Someone on your tail will look there for sure.”

  “Then we just have to be quick. Stop overnight, set sail at dawn.”

  “That’s not quick enough.” She already knew that, he could tell. “You can’t outrun them. They can always get there faster.”

  “Then what?”

  “Outsmart them. Like you have already. But if you want an easier life, be invisible.”

  “Invisible how?”

  “Change identity. Don’t be Zoe any more. You and the boat.”

  “A fake ID? You know people who can get those?”

  “Sure.”

  “On Corsica?”

  “Maybe.”

  She thought. “You’re not invisible, are you?”

  “No. I’m John Fairchild and I live that way even though plenty of people don’t like me very much. But I can disappear if I want. Get through borders, go off grid.”

  “I need to be Zoe Tapoko. At least some of the time.”

  “Why?”

  “I got holdings in my name. I need to sign to get to it. Show my ID.”

  “You can be different things to different people. As long as they stay separate. What kind of holdings?”

  She looked pleased with herself. “Big ones. Offshore ones.”

  “And where did it all come from?”

  “I stole it.” No trace of shame. “I stole from people who steal from other people. Or worse. Nothing they can’t afford.”

  “Well, they won’t see it that way.”

  “I know a lot about them,” she said. “Wouldn’t be worth them causing a public stink.”

  “Public, no, but what about private? Do you know how to use a gun?”

  She looked up at the unexpected question. He carried on.

  “Can you disarm someone who has a gun? What if someone boarded this boat at night? Would you wake up in time?”

  She looked queasy. He knew what was going through her head. Was this her life now?

  “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “But that threat will always be there.”

  She looked up at the mainsail, tears in her eyes.

  “I’m not ready. I’m not ready for that. This is all too quick.”

  “You can get ready. You just need to get through the next few days. You stole from Yunayev. He isn’t going to forgive that. He’ll track you down and so will the Russians. It wasn’t difficult for me to find you, Zoe. They’ll do the same.”

  A long inward breath. Anguish in her eyes. What had she done? He knew that feeling well enough. It was a part of his journey just as much as hers.

  “You just need to know they’re coming,” he said. “Plan for it. What do the tacticians say? Don’t start a fight you can’t win.”

  She swallowed and looked straight at him, brave.

  “So let’s be tactical, then,” she said.

  Chapter 53

  They drove on, ever upwards. Grom stared out of the window. The driver was intent on the road. The other guy was on a mobile phone. Every time they came to a sharp bend they slowed right down. The car doors were locked. Could she unlock them from the inside? There was only one way to find out.

  Approaching a curve, the land fell away on Rose’s side, disappearing behind a low stone wall. A sizeable four-wheel drive was approaching the bend the other way. The driver stepped on the brake. The slowest part would be the middle of the turn. Rose tensed. All eyes were elsewhere.

  The car turned into the bend. With one movement, she pulled the handle and rammed herself against the door. It opened. She rolled to the ground, scrambled to her feet and ran.

  A screech of brakes. Shouting broke out. She vaulted the wall and landed badly on the scrubby slope. Her ankle gave way. Heavy footsteps were right behind her. She half-slipped, half-ran, gritting her teeth every time her foot jarred the rock. She let gravity help, unsure if she could stop if she wanted to. She could see nothing below except the slope and, a long way down, waves gently breaking on rocks making swirls of white.

  The footsteps were still right behind, two sets. She tripped and lurched head first, managing to turn so that she fell on her side. She was rolling down and couldn’t stop. Panic set in. She was gaining speed, had to slow down. She grabbed plants and rocks, but nothing held. She reached a hand and found solid rock. Her wrist took the strain as she held on against the downward momentum. She got a grip with her other hand, feeling the force in both elbows. Her legs now below her, she lay on her front gripping the rock, gasping for breath, her mouth full of dust. She looked up. Two pairs of feet stood on either side of her.

  They weren’t gentle, pulling her back up to the road, one on either side. Grom was standing leaning on the car with his arms folded.

  “An admirable attempt, though futile,” he said. “If you behave like that all the time, you’re your own worst enemy. Search her.” The latter was to his men. “Be thorough.”

  They were, and that was the end of her mobile phone. She was surprised they hadn’t taken it off her earlier. All their phones had location trackers. When her team started to search for her, they’d be able to place her here, but no further. The men pushed her back into the car.

  They set off. Grom settled himself just as before and looked at her dourly. Rose was covered in dust. Her foot and wrist throbbed and her skin was grazed in a dozen places.

  “Like I said before,” she said. “I don’t know why you need me anyway. You’ve got what you want.”

  Grom’s hand settled again on the backpack. “I’ve got one thing back that was stolen from me,” he said. “But there’s still the other. I suppose you think I don’t know about that.”

  His gaze was pointed, but Rose had no idea what he was talking about. She kept her face neutral.

  “You’re not denying it, then?” he asked. “That it was you lot? It has your smell all over it. Typical of some bureaucrat’s petty envy. Any symbol of success, any hint that someone’s managed to rise above their own small-mindedness, how snippy and vindictive they get. So what happened to the proceeds, then? Gone to charity? Or into someone’s back pocket? Quite a decent sum you got for it, though a lot less than a craft like that is worth.”

  His yacht. He was talking about his yacht.

  “Oh, I know some of it went on some fancy sloop or other,” he continued. “Someone’s hobby, unless it’s going to be used for MI6 training days or some such excuse. I don’t know if that was supposed to be a secret, but I’ll find that little side-interest, don’t worry. Wherever it’s gone I’ll track it down and whichever bent officer did this. People don’t play with me without getting burned.”

  Rose focused on looking calm, but a deep sense of dread was building up in her gut.

  Zoe. This had to be Zoe. What had the woman done?
<
br />   Chapter 54

  They had to carry Pippin out, thick hands gripping him under each armpit. He couldn’t keep his head up. It lolled from side to side as they manhandled him into a large sunlit room filled with period furniture. A reception room. Pippin was being received. That was after he’d been punched and kicked and slapped and left for hours, and then had it all done again.

  In the kitchen they had hung him up by the wrists like a piece of meat, pulverised and tenderised. It was just the two Russians, Clem’s friends, not Clem.

  “You talk?” they would say in French, offering respite from the onslaught. Pippin wanted to talk. But he had nothing to tell them. They spoke to each other in Russian.

  “You think he knows anything?” one of them said to the other before he rammed his fist into Pippin’s stomach. Pippin spewed what was left from his gut, vile-smelling acid dripping off his chin. His feet slid around on the slimy floor. His wrists chafed. Every muscle in his arms burned.

  “Maybe he does,” said the other. “Or maybe Khovansky’s lot are worse than us.”

  They looked at him thoughtfully. Pippin could only see through one eye. The Russian landed a punch on the other one.

  When he was carried out to be received, his shoes dragged over a polished parquet floor. He dripped on it. They threw him onto a sofa. Not a sofa: a chaise longue, elegantly tapering at one end. It was bright pink. Fuchsia. No – incarnadine. Pippin curled up, expecting them to stop him, but they didn’t. He was getting blood on it. It bothered him more than it should, that he was bleeding onto the chaise longue. He lay, eyes closed, not moving, while his body shrieked at him from head to foot.

  Something moved; he heard it but didn’t see it. He opened his eyes a crack. A large form was seated in the high-backed armchair opposite. It was Clem, of course, watching him. Clem watched Pippin and Pippin watched Clem. Pippin wasn’t capable of anything else.

  “You ever been beaten up like this before?” asked Clem.

  Pippin shook his head.

  “Never been in prison?”

  He shook his head again.

  “I’ve been on both sides. I’ve given and taken. I didn’t enjoy either, but you do what you have to do.”

  He leaned forward in his chair.

  “They came to me, these people. You must understand that. French, Italian, Corsican, those are my contacts. That’s my world. But worlds collide. One of them heard something, thought there might be some pieces in the Freeport worth having. Then the Russians got word of it. They approached me. These people aren’t nice. I say that as a warning. Don’t try and resist, Pippin. Give them what they want. To survive. I did. And now you must.”

  The words kept blurring. Clem was kind, wasn’t he? He didn’t try and shoot him, anyway. Clem was in the same situation as Pippin.

  “Can I have a glass of water?” asked Pippin.

  After a pause, Clem carried on as if Pippin had said nothing.

  “Why did you take it to Arles?”

  There was no point in denying anything. Pippin took a breath and answered in a low voice.

  “To hide it.”

  “Why not lock it up somewhere?”

  “What kind of lock would keep something like that safe? Locks just tell people there’s something to steal. Hiding it…” He felt dizzy. “Hiding it – somewhere no one would think…”

  “Why Arles?”

  “I told you before. I was taking it home. Back to where it came from.”

  “Why didn’t you tell your contact about it?”

  A pause. “I wanted to keep it for myself.” It was weak, but he couldn’t give Clem the real reason.

  “It’s not where you said it was. Someone took it. Who?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t expect anyone to take it. I thought it would stay hidden.”

  It could have been there for years, lying where no one would think of looking. And if it were found, it would be discovered by someone who knew what it was, what to do with it. But already it was gone. Despite everything, despite the situation it left him in, somewhere deep down that gave Pippin a tiny spark of hope.

  Clem shifted. Pippin opened his eyes and tried to focus. Clem was standing up now, looking down at him curled up on the chaise longue.

  “Time to sit up now, Pippin,” he said.

  Pippin didn’t move. Clem grabbed his arm, sending shards of pain into his body. He pulled Pippin upright so his feet were on the floor. He reached out for a small stool and lifted Pippin’s left foot onto the stool.

  “You expect people to believe a story like that?” He leaned in close, head to head. “People like those Russians in there? People like me?”

  Pippin felt faint. He had nothing more in him. He couldn’t lie any more. He was finished with that.

  “It’s the truth,” he said.

  Clem stayed still for a few moments, as if absorbing this.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay. If that’s what you say, that’s what you say.”

  He straightened. Pippin took a breath. Was it over? Did Clem believe him? Surely Clem would believe him.

  Clem looked up, out over Pippin’s head, as if admiring the view from the window. Then he lifted his foot high and stamped down hard on Pippin’s raised knee.

  Something snapped. Pippin screamed.

  Chapter 55

  They turned up a track leading to tall wrought-iron gates which swung open on their approach.

  “This is your luxury villa, I suppose,” said Rose.

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Grom. “I know full well my villa is already crawling with Kremlin acolytes. I do have spies, you know.”

  They wound up a long drive and approached a complex of pinky-brown buildings with tiled roofs, like a reconstructed Provençal village.

  “This is a rather exclusive hotel,” said Grom. “From where we will exit. As you said, I’ve got what I want.”

  The blue of a swimming pool started to emerge amidst the pseudo rural cluster, and beside that the H of a helipad, on which a helicopter was sitting. In the front of the car the guy in the passenger seat was on the phone again. He pointed the driver straight to the helipad.

  They stopped on the tarmac next to the pad. The heavies in the front came round to Rose’s door and gripped an arm each as she got out. Grom, the backpack casually over his shoulder, strolled over to the chopper without looking behind. Rose tried a few moves on her guards but they were good, very good, rock hard responses to everything. She gave up and let them walk her over. It was early evening by this time, and the sun was setting over a spectacular view of the coast. The exclusive hotel was in a very nice spot. Of course it was.

  They all got in. The pilot’s seat was empty.

  “Tell him to hurry up, for God’s sake,” said Grom. One of the men jumped out. Grom’s gaze fell on Rose.

  “I’ve decided not to take you with me,” he said. “You’re too annoying. Too mouthy. But none of it interesting. Just blah blah blah.”

  Rose kept quiet. It was a compliment, coming from him.

  “But I’m not letting you go, either,” he said. “I just want rid, to be honest. In the easiest way possible. Probably I’ll throw you out once we’ve cleared land.”

  Rose glanced out at the expanse of sea.

  “Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” said the old man. “We won’t be all that high, the sea’s warm, the coast isn’t far for a strong swimmer, pretty good chance of survival. I’m afraid not, though, because I’m going to shoot you first.”

  Rose let her gaze wander over the man’s form. It was news to her he was carrying a gun. Maybe he hadn’t felt the need to show it before, or maybe he was bluffing. But it didn’t sound like a bluff.

  The pilot door opened.

  “About time,” said Grom.

  The pilot strapped himself in and flicked a few switches. They powered up. Grom was passed headphones and a mic; clearly the other passengers would have no audio except for the roar of the engine. They took off, Grom and the pilot
in dialogue. The craft turned as it lifted and headed seawards.

  Movement on the ground caught Rose’s eye. Cars, big black saloons, were speeding up to the helipad. People jumped out. People with guns, semi-automatics. They took aim. Grom gestured at the pilot, his shouts almost audible. A loud drumming as bullets hit the undercarriage. They rose. As the nose dipped, a bullet caught the glass. Cracks rippled upward directly in front of the pilot. This he didn’t like. He was shaking his head, gesturing to Grom, who shouted back. They hovered, the ascent paused.

  The gunfire stopped. Grom carried on shouting at the pilot, but whatever he was saying had less and less impact. An intractable look settled on the man’s face. They descended towards the pad. Grom was screaming now, but the pilot was unmoved.

  Once the bird was safely down, the pilot put his hands in the air. A clear message to the shooters who now surrounded the pad: this isn’t my fight. Take your man and leave me alone. Rose was hoping the same might apply to her.

  The door opened and a barrage of angry Russian voices replaced the dying engine roar. They knew exactly who they were after. Two of them stepped up and forced Grom out. One of the bodyguards struck out. Fists and bodies collided. A muffled gunshot. The loyal bodyguard yelped and collapsed. The Russians dragged him and his more passive colleague out. While this was going on, Rose silently reached for Grom’s backpack and put it on.

  If she were hoping to slip away unnoticed, it wasn’t going to happen. The helipad was as crowded as a Moscow metro station at rush hour. Arms grabbed her and forced her into the back of a saloon. Large bodies clutching weapons piled in on either side of her. They joined the convoy out towards the coast road.

  Clearly Grom wasn’t the only person who had spies.

  Chapter 56

  The fuel station at the port of Ajaccio, Corsica, was busy into the evening. It was pretty late when the sailboat Ocean Joy, bearing a Monaco flag, arrived and came aside to fill up, before berthing at a floating pontoon. Lovely looking boat, traditional wood finish, very nice. The skipper wasn’t bad either, according to the dock attendant, who liked to chat. The rules were that the skipper had to stay on board during fuelling while everyone else disembarked. It was immaterial to this one, though, because she was single-handed. Pretty unusual, and on top of that she was a young black woman. She’d just come from Monaco and was keen to get away the next day. On destination, she was a little vague, probably Italy but nothing definite.