Terminal Black

by Adrian Magson

  ‘I’m trying, all right? As I said to Helga over there, you’ve buggered up my brain and I’m cold. None of that helps me think back ten years.’

  Kraush almost smiled, his mouth moving slightly but the rest of his face immobile. ‘First of all,’ he said, getting up and walking over to Irina and whispering something in her ear, after which she left, ‘you should know that upsetting Irina is not a good idea. She does not have a nice temper. Secondly, I need to explain what we are here for. There are two projects which I am concerned with. The one you know about concerns you personally, the other is … not your immediate concern. But I’m going to tell you about it anyway because the success or not of the first project impacts on the other.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Is it cold in here? I feel cold. Still, down to business. Let me remind you about the first one, in case the cold has affected your short-term memory also. You were discovered a few years ago to have delved into the archives of MI6, we know that much. Agreed?’

  Rik shrugged. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, during your search through the files, you saw various things. Give me an example.’

  ‘Specifically?’

  ‘Specifically.’

  He’d thought about this and what to tell them, and had come to the conclusion that they knew enough already to make any reserve futile. ‘Mostly database headings, files, folders and sometimes video and audio files.’

  ‘About what?’ Kraush’s tone was genial, as if he were talking a child through their homework assignment. But Rik wasn’t fooled; he was being genial because he had to be. But it was simply his surface manner, and would change in a flicker.

  ‘About special forces operations in support of SIS. I was interested in special ops, but only for me – nobody else.’

  ‘Of course. I believe you – as, I think, did your superiors and the debriefing team who interviewed you at great length. That was why you were fired and sent to the place known as Red Station. Is that not correct?’

  Rik wondered what else this man knew. The details about Red Station were hardly general knowledge, even along the corridors of SIS and MI5. The entire episode had been an embarrassment for both agencies and quickly nipped in the bud. As far as he’d been told it was best forgotten, the files closed and never to be spoken of again.

  ‘Isn’t that so?’ Kraush reminded him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. So most of what you saw in the archives concerned special operations. What else?’

  ‘Nothing else.’

  ‘Come now. There must have been other items.’ Kraush looked directly at him. ‘I’ve done a bit of surfing in files and archives myself, so I know how tempting it is to stray from the path into areas that look a little more interesting … a little juicy. In fact, the very presence of all that material is a lure, isn’t it? Lure – is that the correct word?’

  ‘It’ll do,’ Rik confirmed. He’d figured Kraush more as a blunt-force trauma kind of operative than archive-hacking. ‘But I still don’t know what you mean.’ He stopped as Kraush took something from his pocket and saw the black shape of the taser in his hand. ‘Look, I’m telling you the truth! I was only looking at specific special ops files – nothing else.’

  ‘I understand that. But are you saying you didn’t ever look at other file headings or maybe stumble into archives or summaries by mistake? Not once? I don’t believe you. All that mind-blowing information about agents and spies and you didn’t feel the slightest temptation to have a little peek?’

  ‘No. Yes.’ Rik felt a line of perspiration around his neck, highlighted by the cold air. ‘I told you. There wasn’t much time – we were closely supervised. I did look but I was in and out very quickly. I shouldn’t have done it but I did.’

  Kraush nodded slowly, turning the taser in his hands. ‘Well, the bad news is, I don’t believe you. You saw something, I know you did. In reality I know you tripped over a record which to an outsider – you – appeared to be about special ops, as you call them. But in reality it was there because it had a cross-reference to something else entirely … maybe a field report picked up on another operation.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Kraush shrugged. ‘Who knows? These things happen in our work, do they not? An agent goes out, meets an asset to discuss some material he requires which the asset has access to, and suddenly he learns something entirely different … yet incredibly important. It’s like finding gold in a coal mine; unexpected and ground-breaking.’

  Rik hesitated, a vague memory stirring, but not solid enough to see clearly. God almighty, what if there was something after all?

  ‘Well?’ Kraush was closer, staring down at him.

  ‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Without warning Kraush reached out and touched Rik’s hand with the taser. There was a spit followed by a fierce crackling sound and that was the last Rik knew until moments later, when he woke up on the floor. His hand hurt like hell and he felt as if his tongue had been fried.

  He pulled himself to and sat up, his head spinning. All the while Kraush watched him carefully as if studying the focus of a scientific experiment.

  ‘That was just a little zap, I think you call it,’ he said. ‘Oh, and before you ask, that will not have affected the tracking device, which has been insulated against outside electrical interference as a precaution. The next one will not be so mild and will likely cause you more serious physical and mental damage. In fact, if I turn it up a notch it will probably cause you long-lasting cognitive impairment.’ He bent to catch Rik’s eye. ‘You understand what that means, yes?’

  Rik nodded. It took an extreme effort of will to move his head even slightly but he managed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. So perhaps you will put more effort into remembering what I know is in there somewhere.’ He tapped Rik’s head just above his ear. ‘I saw it in your eyes, so please do not treat me like a fool.’ He straightened up. ‘Before we move on, you told Irina you wanted exercise. Well, I agree. We don’t want you to go stale, do we? That would be counter-productive.’ He waited a heartbeat before adding, ‘Of course if you don’t want to—’

  ‘Yes.’ Rik forced himself to speak, before the moment was lost. Any information, especially visual, about their surroundings would be useful. And getting out of this room, even for a few minutes, would be brilliant. Whether he could even break into a trot was something else, but better than nothing. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Good. We will go just before dark. You may wish to do some gentle stretching first, to warm up your muscles. Oh, and I almost forgot: we understand that your former employers have issued a search-and-detain order on you.’

  Rik looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘They seem to think that you are a security risk and possess strategic information vital to an enemy. Those are not my words, but theirs. How painfully British.’ He smirked. ‘I’m telling you this in case you were harbouring any thoughts of returning home. So why not throw in your lot – is that the right expression – with us?’ He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Rik wondering if this wasn’t part of some cruel kind of mind game intended to wear him down.

  He slept without meaning to, time sliding by with no way of measuring its progress. When the door slid open with a rattle, jerking him out of a headache-like dream, he found he’d got a headache.

  Kraush appeared and waited by the door, silent and unemotional. More psychological treatment, Rik decided. Good-guy, bad-guy scene to show what was on offer. Do what we want, good; play the idiot, bad.

  Twenty minutes later they were walking into a small, shabby park at the end of an avenue between the large outlines of factory buildings. The air of abandonment was total, the windows broken and the concrete and fabric rotting, the skeletal remains of a past era. It looked like a war zone, the dying light of day adding an even sadder air of decay. Grass grew unrestrained from the cracks in the concrete between the lots and there was no sign of life; no veh
icles, no people, no sounds of machinery.

  Rik looked around, storing up information and finding it depressing. He might as well have been on the moon. Kraush did nothing to prevent him doing so, and he realized that was intentional: it was a clear indication that there was nothing and nobody here that could help him. He was on his own in a wasteland and this apparent indulgence he’d been allowed was strictly limited.

  The park itself was a sad left-over from a time when this area was probably a buzzing workers’ paradise of joyful faces on propaganda posters, exhorting everyone to work hard for the motherland. A circular cinder pathway and a scattering of rusting iron benches were the main feature, the area surrounded by trees and bushes blocking out any view of the world beyond. He saw some tubular steel exercise bars off to one side, and realized that this must have been the workers’ paradise idea of an outdoor gym.

  He shivered uncontrollably. It was cold and damp, but after his cell, a taste of freedom. They hadn’t blindfolded him before leaving the building, which surprised him at first; but in this shitty area and with the device on his leg, what did they have to worry about? Where was he going to run before the bang he would probably never hear?

  Kraush was on one side and Irina on the other. Bizarrely, he thought, they were both dressed in running gear. The man who’d brought his food one time, the one with a tattoo on his neck, was following a few yards behind with a backpack over one shoulder. Rik wondered if it was the transmitter. It would serve them right if something went wrong with the signal and they all got caught in the blast. Fat lot of good their fancy Spandex would do them then. He plugged in the buds of his iPod which Kraush had returned to him before leaving the warehouse, and took a few deep breaths before breaking into a slow trot. It hurt like hell after days of hardly moving, but he wanted to see how Kraush and Irina would react.

  He hadn’t gone three paces before they were right alongside him, moving with the kind of easy jog that spoke of more-than-average fitness levels.

  Bugger, he thought. Why couldn’t they be military rejects with fallen arches and bad knees? He turned up the music to blot them out and allowed himself to sink into the beat.

  SIXTEEN

  ‘He’s what?’ Richard Hough’s jaw dropped at what he’d just heard. Sir Geoffrey Bull was out of the picture, maybe for good. He wondered with a flash of guilt why this had to happen right now. ‘Was it a heart attack?’

  Colmyer nodded. He’d called Hough to his office a few minutes ago and told him the news. ‘Or a stroke,’ he confirmed blandly. ‘Not that there’s much difference at his age. I doubt we’ll be seeing him back here, anyway.’

  Hough was shocked by the Chief Whip’s obvious indifference. He sat down without being invited, etiquette forgotten. This was devastating news. Sir Geoffrey had been one of the more successful heads of the Joint Intelligence Organisation, with a keen interest in operational matters and the well-being of its staff, both internal and in the field. He had also been a staunch defender of the intelligence community against the criticisms aimed by politicians and the media when something went amiss, an eventuality in all organisations, he’d said often, usually transfixing the critic with a gaze that could pierce concrete. Sadly, of late his health had seemed to be on the wane, and he had deferred more and more to others, most recently to Colmyer.

  ‘Never mind,’ Colmyer said, shifting a few papers around on his desk. ‘Sad as it is, we must carry on regardless. I’ve been given special dispensation to stand in for the time being until,’ he paused and looked towards the window with an important jut of his jaw, ‘the next head is appointed.’

  Which means you, you scheming, cold-hearted bastard, thought Hough darkly, and wondered if he could apply for a transfer. Anywhere would do as long as it was away from here. Kew Gardens would be nice. Or Kabul.

  But Colmyer’s next words killed the thought stone dead. ‘You’re dealing with the Ferris-stroke-Tate thing through Cramer, is that correct?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Good. I’ve decided to bring forward some activity on that front.’

  Hough swallowed. Hell, no. ‘Really?’

  ‘I’ve ordered a team on stand-by. They will be putting every effort into helping locate Ferris as quickly as possible.’

  Hough wondered if he’d heard right. Did Colmyer even have the authority to do that? He wasn’t even in the chair yet and here he was arranging an op.

  ‘A team.’

  ‘Correct. Problem?’

  ‘If Ferris is overseas there will be jurisdictional problems.’

  ‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take. I spoke to the Germans and the French as soon as I got word of Bull’s situation, and they’ve declared no interest. Ferris is not relevant to anything as far as they’re concerned. Neither does it concern Europol.’

  ‘Even if he turns out to be on their territory?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. They’ve given me – us – clearance to use limited means to settle the issue as quickly as possible. It comes,’ he said, raising a hand to cut off Hough’s objections, ‘with some conditions, as we would expect in these changing times. But we can deal with those later. For now the priority is find him, bring him in … or neutralize him to prevent the information he possesses from reaching other hands.’

  Neutralize? Dear God, he didn’t like the sound of that. As for conditions, they were usually political and too far above his pay grade to worry about. He was more concerned about Colmyer having taken over with regard to the hunt for Ferris. It was an outrageous and blatant abuse of power. Why hadn’t Ben Cramer warned him? He’d rung the former soldier barely an hour ago for an update and he’d said nothing. Surely Six, the most obvious agency, wouldn’t have agreed to it so readily. Unless they didn’t know anything about it.

  He said as much to Colmyer.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Six,’ Colmyer said abruptly. ‘This is too sensitive a matter for an in-house operation. We need to preserve some distance and that’s what I intend to do.’ He fixed Hough with a cool stare. ‘Don’t look so disapproving, Hough – it’s been done before and you know it. I’m merely taking a lead to get this matter dealt with quickly and cleanly.’

  Hough couldn’t believe his ears. This idiot had just admitted to setting in motion a black op. He guessed it would involve independent contractors with more than a passing familiarity with agency methodology but none of the accountability. It had happened before, but in extreme circumstances due to operational overstretch. But this wasn’t that kind of circumstance … not unless someone told him the real reasons why Ferris was being hunted.

  ‘What about Tate?’

  ‘What about him?’ Colmyer looked surprised, and Hough wondered whether he’d even given Tate a thought.

  ‘If you’re sending out a contract team it raises issues of accountability and control. It could come back to haunt us if anything goes wrong.’

  ‘Only if we allow it.’ Colmyer sat forward and gathered up the papers on his desk, a clear signal that he was done talking. ‘Leave Tate out there. The team can follow his progress. If he finds Ferris before they do, they will take over.’

  ‘Am I allowed to know who the team consists of?’

  ‘Why would that help? You have your brief.’

  ‘Because if the shit hits the fan and this team of yours gets into trouble, as the lead person tasked with looking for Ferris I’m the first person who will have to answer questions. Or are you happy to take that role?’

  Colmyer looked surprised by the tone of Hough’s voice, but Hough was past caring. This operation was going seriously off-track thanks to this man’s involvement, and he could already hear the repercussions coming down the line if Colmyer’s team went over the top and upset the French or Germans.

  Colmyer said grudgingly, ‘Very well. His name’s Garth Perry. Former Military Intelligence with a lot of experience. He’s a hunter, which is what we need right now. You’d better brief Cramer and remind him of the need for absolute discretio
n. And I mean absolute.’ He tapped the desk with a blunt finger. ‘This must not reach the outside, understand? If Cramer objects, let me know.’

  Hough nodded and left the office. He was going to have to speak to Cramer all right, so that he could let Tate know that he was about to get some competition in the field. If he were in Tate’s shoes he wouldn’t like that one bit.

  SEVENTEEN

  Harry called Cramer twice before getting a response. His request for technical help checking departures’ CCTV footage was too long in being granted. Obstruction or a lack of willingness to throw bodies at the problem?

  ‘Sorry I was off-line,’ Cramer replied. ‘Bureaucracy, I’m afraid. On the tech footage help I’m pushing as hard as I can.’

  ‘Then push harder. I need a start point to know where we go next.’

  ‘Of course. But do you think searching Heathrow departures will give you that? It’s a mammoth job. It can’t be done without a big team effort, and—’

  ‘I know – you’re stretched.’ Harry bit back on his impatience. No doubt a lot of form-filling was being called for and argued over between Five and Border Control, to name two lots of bureaucracy. ‘But you do this all the time. There’s that thing called facial recognition technology, remember? Why else do you have all those techies tucked away in mouse-runs in the basement checking videos and passenger lists?’

  ‘It’s not exactly universal yet. Anyway, it won’t help.’ Cramer sounded tired, and Harry realized why: they had already checked, running Rik’s face through the system, looking for enough points of reference that would light up the board like a Christmas tree. It had evidently come up empty.

  ‘Just how long have you had him under surveillance?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘Who said we have?’ Cramer’s voice echoed in his ear, too smooth and lacking conviction.

  ‘Because it would have been careless not to. I didn’t come down with the last rain.’

  Harry regretted his anger immediately. It wasn’t Cramer’s fault; he was just a cog in the machine. This thing involving Rik wasn’t a recent decision; it couldn’t be. The security and intelligence services were often forced to play catch-up, especially with threats appearing out of nowhere, whether newcomers from overseas, or clean skins, the home-grown variety of lunatic you’d pass in the street without a second glance because they looked like the kid next door. No agency on earth could predict every source of danger, every appearance of weakness in the system. But whatever they thought Rik was doing, it would have been impacted by the knowledge of his previous service and his punishment posting to Red Station. Any whiff of suspicion would have sounded alarm bells because in the narrow, hot-house atmosphere thinking of the security world, once a suspect always a bad bet. And a trawl through the archives for a known name would have led quickly to a former member of staff with a questionable record. But for that to have happened, something must have set off the search in the first place. But what?