The shock seemed to clear his vision a little. Up this close he saw that the man and woman were their late thirties, maybe older. Fit looking. Fitter than him, anyway. Dressed in dark clothes; heavy shoes, black jeans and fleece jackets with no logos. Activist chic, as if they were about to go out and break a few windows, lob bricks at some cops and torch a few cars. Up the revolution, down with capitalism. All they needed was the Guy Fawkes mask and a couple of banners and they’d be ready to rumble.
But this was no rumble, where the figures would fade into the background and disappear as soon as their job was done or the opposition got serious. The man had the face of a boxer, lightly bearded, with short dark hair, high cheekbones and a crumpled nose. But it was his eyes that held Rik’s attention. Light blue, with unusually large irises, they seemed to drill right into him as if reading Rik’s very thought processes.
And the taser didn’t help.
He looked at the woman. At a distance she might have been described as ordinary. But the hard face and down-turned mouth negated that, with an air of aggression coming off her in waves. She had gingery hair, wild and curly like a crazy halo, and eyes that might have been dark brown. Medium height and stocky, like a gymnast. Princess Merida, he decided, only a long way short of pretty.
He wasn’t sure which one to be most afraid of. His instinct was veering towards the man, mainly because of the taser. But there was something decidedly off about the woman’s vibe. And off vibes were the worst of all.
‘What happened to Nebulus?’ he said at last, to unlock the sense of fear growing in him. An image of a grungy apartment block was emerging slowly in his head, with the memory of large balconies, dirty windows and the fumes of burnt cooking fats rising up the cold stairway like an invisible miasma. The place had had the feel of somewhere he didn’t want to be, but it was too late to turn round. He’d knocked on the door but there had been no response. Knocked again, louder this time. But all he got was the dead sound of an unoccupied space inside. Then he’d heard the scrape of footsteps behind him and … nothing.
‘What have you done to her?’ he demanded, because letting this staring match go on was too scary to contemplate.
‘We? We haven’t done anything,’ the man said. ‘She wasn’t there.’
‘Why?’ Rik muttered, trying to make sense of it.
‘Why what?’
‘Why were you there?’
‘Ah, I understand.’ The man smiled. ‘Let’s say we were acting on information from your friend Nebulus.’
‘What information?’ Keep them talking, he thought furiously. Shake this bloody fog out of your brain but keep them talking. Maybe then there might be a way out of this nightmare.
‘She was assisting us on a project we are working on. She has certain skills, has she not? Skills not available to everyone. We needed some of her expertise.’
Christ, no, Rik told himself. She wouldn’t. Not her. Nebulus was a hacker – and a bloody good one. But she wouldn’t trade her skills to people like this.
‘However,’ the man continued quietly, interrupting his thoughts, ‘she decided to disappear without fulfilling our agreement. So we put a watch on her communications and … your name came up.’ He gave a massive shrug. ‘What else could we conclude but that you were in the same line of work? Which, as we have already discovered from a background check, is very … fortuitous. Is that the correct word – fortuitous?’
‘It’ll do. But I don’t see how that involves me. I’m a friend, that’s all. Passing through.’ He was thinking fast; not quite on his feet but close. There was something that didn’t ring true in this man’s voice, as if he was reading from a script. ‘I know she was into IT in a specialized way, but that’s all. She didn’t talk much about what she did. She liked to play it close to her chest.’
The man sniffed. ‘That’s a pity.’ He turned away and took three steps in a tight circular movement, returning to stand close to Rik, leaning over him. ‘Let me cut to the chase, Mr Ferris – or may I call you Rik? I’m Kraush, by the way. We’re likely to get to know each other a lot better in the next few days, so let’s do away with all that formality. See, if you don’t cooperate with us instead of stalling, we will hunt down your absent friend, this Nebulus, and see how long she can stand this little toy of mine.’ He held up the taser. ‘I should tell you that this is no ordinary device but can be ramped up much higher than others if the target requires a little more … persuasion. Do you understand?’
Rik nodded. There was really nothing else he could do in the face of this nut-job and his helper. He’d come across people with hair-trigger responses before, and wasn’t about to deliberately antagonize these two without having at least a tiny attempt at getting out in one piece.
‘We have some time,’ Kraush continued, ‘but not unlimited. So it would be good to reach an agreement as soon as you are able.’ He reached inside his fleece jacket and took out a notepad and pencil, which he placed on Rik’s lap. ‘Write down whatever you remember seeing in the files and archives.’
‘What?’ Rik stared at him. ‘What archives? I don’t understand.’
‘Intelligence archives in MI6, your Secret Intelligence Service. You did some work there and looked in some files, for which you were dismissed.’
‘But that was years ago! How do you expect me to remember anything?’ It was a feeble statement and Kraush probably knew that. Experience in IT usually relied a great deal on recall. If a user didn’t have it to begin with, repetition and demand created it. The pattern of words and numbers, the layout of code which was meaningless to most people, eventually became, if not second nature, then familiar.
Once he began writing he knew he’d find the digits and letter groups spiralling relentlessly out of the recesses of his mind, no matter how far back they came from – especially those last days, which were imprinted on his memory like a bad dream. Some things you never forgot completely, even if they were only vague snatches of something seen in passing.
Kraush was unmoved. ‘I think we both know better than that. Start simple, with headings, file names and folders, and build from there. It will come to you.’ He leaned closer, his face serious. ‘I am not like you – an expert in IT. But I know enough to know this is true.’
Rik wondered whether Kraush was telling the truth or stringing him along as a means of retrieving the information he wanted. He took a gamble on the former and said, ‘But you won’t know what’s relevant, will you?’
Kraush hesitated then said, ‘Show me what you can and I will tell you which ones you can ignore.’
Rik felt a tiny thrill of victory. Kraush was just a middle man. He’d been told enough to recognize what was needed, but he’d have to show the details to someone further up the line for confirmation.
‘What if I can’t remember anything?’
Kraush blinked as if at the absurdity of the idea. ‘Then we have a problem. If you will not – or do not – cooperate … and your friend Nebulus cannot, we will return you to London, to your MI5, your Security Service, in a wooden box. Think about it.’
With that he turned and walked out of the room, handing the taser to the woman as he passed.
She made no sign in return but slipped the device into her back pocket. As soon as Kraush’s footsteps had faded, she stepped forward, and before Rik could react, slapped him hard, knocking him off the chair. Multi-coloured fairy lights sparked about in front of him and a feeling of nausea swept through him at the sour, oily smell of old concrete. He felt a coldness down his cheek followed by a trickle of warmth, and realized she must have cut him. Through a veil of dizziness, he looked up and saw her rubbing her hand, where a large metal ring sat glinting in the dull light.
‘You really should consider this, Mr Ferris,’ she said softly, watching him climb back on the chair. ‘Time might be shorter than you know. The clock is ticking. You really don’t want to die here, do you?’ She gestured over to one corner, where he saw the vague shape of what looked like a ma
ttress and a blanket. ‘In the meantime, make yourself comfortable.’
Then she was gone, sliding the door closed and leaving him to the silence and the dark.
‘You haven’t told me what you’re looking for!’ he shouted. But the words sounded futile, bouncing back off the walls, dulled and flattened by the cold air and rotting brickwork around him.
EIGHT
‘This Ferris thing,’ said Sir Iain Colmyer. ‘What’s the situation so far?’ The question was aimed with a degree of impatience at long-time MI5 officer, Richard Hough.
The two men were in Colmyer’s private office just outside the Westminster bubble, to which Hough had been summoned. It wasn’t on the list of approved sites, but Colmyer evidently had sufficient clout to have temporarily overridden any concerns from Whitehall’s internal security watchdogs.
Hough was feeling puzzled. Off-campus meetings were fine in the intelligence world, even accepted as part of the ducking and diving necessary to do the job. Back-street meets in faraway places were his norm – had been his norm – for a long time. Unless you were one of the techno-masters at GCHQ, wired into the electronic pulse that was now the new world order, you simply couldn’t do the kind of work he’d been doing all his life stuck behind a desk. But politicians engaging in the practice made him nervous. For a start he wondered how long it had been since this office had been swept for electronic devices.
Colmyer – pronounced, he liked to demonstrate, with emphasis on the second half – Col-myah – claimed a family lineage going back to somewhere in the nineteenth century, before petering out altogether. As Hough was aware, Colmyer was a cabinet member with the title of Parliamentary Secretary to the Treasury and Chief Whip. He was on the right side of fifty – just – for such an energetic and important post, but after hovering over two shock cabinet resignations like an opportunistic buzzard over a road-kill, one male MP due to a sex scandal and a female colleague on medical grounds, Colmyer had been in a position to make sure there were no other serious candidates in the running for the post.
He also made no secret that he considered his next move to be the natural progression and reward of many years’ hard work. Along with this arrogance and a natural sense of entitlement was a complete absence of tact, evidenced by his enjoyment for strong-arming any MP who looked like stepping out of line at crucial moments.
For Hough, having this man as the incoming head of the JIO was surely a joke being played on the establishment. And God help us all, he thought. Bullying and hectoring were the more polite words he’d heard associated with Colmyer’s style, but the skin of a political rhino had made him immune to any barbs of criticism. In fact he appeared to enjoy knowing his presence sowed disharmony and had been heard to boast that it gave him an accurate finger on the pulse of the party.
‘Well? Speak up.’
‘Our man has been briefed. He should be up and running as we speak.’ Hough’s reply was instinctively reluctant. As a long-time career intelligence officer, he didn’t like hard-nosed politicos who appeared to think the intelligence services were there for their own amusement. Even less did he enjoy discussing operational matters with people who appeared to have sailed through the rigorous vetting procedures applied to everyone else – even intelligence professionals – with casual ease. It went against every instinct in his being. But his orders had been made very clear by the current head of JIO, Sir Geoffrey Bull: ‘I want you to provide full assistance to the Chief Whip, because short of falling under a bus or being assassinated, he will one day be taking over as your boss.’
‘Why me?’ he’d queried. ‘Can’t someone else handle it? I’m not ready to put my feet up yet and there’s plenty more important work I could be doing.’
‘No, there isn’t.’ Bull had fixed him with tired eyes. ‘It won’t be for long, Richard. And frankly, you could do without getting deeply wired into another project at this point; you’re not long for this place after me, are you? Just get him briefed and keep him happy.’
‘To what level?’
‘I’ll let you be the judge of that. He’s been asking lots of questions already. I’ve given him a briefing about current activities and access to the archives for background at his request. But there’s no way I can realistically put him off much longer, otherwise I’ll have the PM on my back preaching a lack of cooperation. I don’t care for the man, but as the chosen incumbent he needs to know what’s going on in the world. And you’re the one best able to handle him.’
Hough wasn’t so sure. The word around the office was that he’d copped an unpleasant undertaking from which no good would come – especially for him. Being steamrollered by a politician on the up was impossible to resist for someone in his position, and after a lifetime serving the country in the shadows and trying to avoid the bear-pit that was the political hunting ground of Whitehall, Hough recognized a poisoned chalice when he saw one. But he wasn’t going to go down like a cheap whore just because this incomer demanded it.
The problem was, Colmyer was sounding more up-to-date than Bull had suggested. The old man must have given away quite a full briefing, he thought shrewdly. Perhaps he was closer to giving up the job than anyone had realized.
‘By up and running, what do you mean?’ Colmyer demanded, bringing him back to the present.
‘He’s started work on a plan of action.’ It wasn’t strictly correct, but it would do for now. A delaying tactic could only work as long as the opposite party couldn’t check. And there was no way Colmyer would be able to do that just yet.
‘I hope you’re right.’ Colmyer eased back in his chair, making it creak with the effort. He’d made no secret of his views that the intelligence world needed shaking up, and intended to see that it happened. If that meant treading on a few toes, he was more than up to the job. ‘How long before we hear something?’
‘That’s a little hard to say,’ Hough replied. ‘He needs to get up to speed from a standing start, which isn’t easy in his position.’
‘What the hell does that mean? Why do you spooks always talk in riddles?’
‘He’s what we call unattached. Outside the agencies, which I believe was requested, although I’m not sure why.’ He shrugged as if to convey his puzzlement about this issue, which he was sure would irritate Colmyer no end.
Colmyer fixed him with a cold stare. ‘I’m well aware of the status. What’s his name – or are you going to resist telling me that, too?’
Every instinct in Hough’s professional life had been trained against giving out such information, short of having bamboo splinters stuffed under his fingernails and being water-boarded to within a millilitre of his life. That applied equally to non-agency personnel – or former serving personnel in this case. But again he had no choice. If he didn’t cough it up here and now, Colmyer would find out another way, and whatever was left of Hough’s own career, which was winding down fast, would end even more abruptly in some backwater office filling out electronic databases. ‘His name’s Tate,’ he said. ‘Harry Tate.’
‘What the fuck?’ The expletive was as much a surprise as Colmyer’s stunned expression. ‘I’ve heard of him.’
‘Have you? I wouldn’t know.’ Hough was glad he’d been trained to keep a straight face. How did you hear? he wanted to ask but didn’t.
Colmyer scowled. ‘Wasn’t he the idiot sanctioned years ago for a shooting during a terrorist operation? I thought he was finished and gone.’
Hough experienced a small measure of satisfaction. So much for a finger on the pulse. But at the same time he wondered how much Colmyer really did know. The detail surrounding Harry Tate’s expulsion from MI5 was hardly common knowledge outside the agency, and the entire Red Station fiasco had been consigned to a deep vault in the archives where the agency’s more embarrassing episodes could be left to fade and die, safe from the eyes of the press and those who would like to bring down that particular establishment in a pile of rubble. A bit like Tate’s intended fate had been mooted at one time, he t
hought. And look how that had ended.
He’d heard relatively little about Tate since then, save for the occasional intriguing echoes whispered around the corridors of Five. He’d done some work for Five and Six, it had been rumoured, doing pretty much the same job he’d been doing before but no doubt paid more appropriately. It was only when Hough had been handed this latest task by Sir Geoffrey Bull that the name had cropped up and he’d been briefed more fully.
‘It was a drugs bust, actually,’ he corrected smoothly. ‘One of Five’s side-line responsibilities helping the Met. And he’s very much active, albeit not in an official position. In fact,’ he continued ignoring Colmyer’s raised hand meant to silence him, ‘Tate’s quite the survivor.’
‘Christ, you sound as if you admire the man!’
‘Merely stating facts.’
‘But he got two people shot – one of them a girl!’
And there it was, Hough thought sombrely. Confirmation that Tate’s file history wasn’t as secure as he’d been led to believe. He wondered who else knew about it. More importantly, who had briefed this idiot?
‘The young woman,’ he said, to cover his thoughts, ‘was in a relationship with a member of the international drugs gang they were intercepting.’
‘That doesn’t make Tate blameless. As control on the ground, the outcome rested with him.’
Hough considered his response to that and thought to hell with it; he hadn’t got long to go. ‘If we took that attitude across the board, we’d find a lot of senior police, security controllers and army officers without jobs. Politicians, too.’
Colmyer leaned forward over his desk like a toad about to jump. ‘Well, I’m not bothered about them. Let’s hope Tate doesn’t stuff things up this time, otherwise he – and you – will be in the shit. Are you saying he’s the only option we have in locating this Rik Ferris person?’
‘Only and best. Ferris has been monitored on and off since he was fired; it’s common for most personnel with his background. But he dropped out of sight recently without warning. If anyone can find him, Tate can.’
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