‘What I really want …’ Her words were slow, measured, ‘is for you not to shoot him in … cold … blood.’

  Twenty-four

  With Rocky’s assistance we recovered the SUV and our luggage, both surprisingly intact, from the lakeshore opposite Maximov’s island. The three of us overnighted at the Kantonieman-Tuvat lodges, where I compensated Harri for his lost inflatable. In the morning Maura and I parted company with Rocky and returned the Nissan to the rental company at Rovaniemi Airport. A late afternoon flight to Helsinki, another overnighter at the Hilton, finally some last-minute shopping for a Finnish Martha doll for Lindy.

  We were booked on the first Finnair flight of the day to Zaventem Airport, Brussels, to pick up the Evoque. The Belgian capital wasn’t my favourite stopping place but as the SUV was only a few months old, walking away from it was never on the cards.

  Task number one was someplace to put down overnight roots yet again. A cab driver recommended a place a few kms down the road. During the ride from the airport, across flat, grey, treeless terrain, Maura fell asleep with her head on my shoulder.

  Task number two was for me alone – retrieval of the Evoque from the airport parking garage. Before I so much as sat in it though, the location and removal of a certain tracking device were pre-requisites. Specialist skills were required. You could count my specialist contacts in Brussels on the fingers of one finger. Fortunately, Safeguard, a security consultancy in Harrow I had used now and again, ran a Brussels office. A couple of phone calls was all it took.

  While Maura caught up with Lindy on Skype, I went out to meet up with a Flemish-speaking expert equipped with a tracker diviner. It took him three minutes and cost me €800. For sure, I was in the wrong profession.

  Before driving away, I checked the hidden compartment. The tiny Boberg was still there, perhaps feeling neglected. Transporting it over borders was to gamble with my freedom. It was a 10-1 against being searched, and 100-1 against the compartment being found. I had faced far worse odds. Did I need it? The habits of the past decade ran deep, and Maximov was still at large. Not only that but Il Sindicato might have me on a separate hit list of their own.

  I slammed the little door shut with the Boberg in situ. Better paranoid than dead.

  Task number three required my presence in London. More hours on the road, sharing the driving with my beloved, terminating with the overnight ferry from Zeebrugge, then more hours on UK roads. By late morning on 1 December, under leaden skies, we were booking into the Grosvenor Hotel in Park Lane, overlooking Hyde Park. I was dead beat but this next task wouldn’t wait.

  Maura preferred prowling the haute-couture racks in Harrods to accompanying me to make copies of the video and stills on Maximov’s cell phone. For that I went to a company recommended by the hotel, called Smartcom, situated across the Thames in Battersea. That wasn’t cheap either. I paid for priority service, and returned later in the afternoon to pick up the two flash drives.

  ‘Run them for me, will you?’ I said to the counter assistant, an overweight guy in this thirties with a pointy Van Dyck beard.

  ‘Not a problem.’

  He plugged the drives in, one after the other, and I watched Wharfe handing over the envelope to Maximov.

  ‘Interesting little scene,’ Beardie remarked, as he handed back Maximov’s cell phone and slipped the flash drives into transparent plastic sachets.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I shelled out £150 in fifties, waived the receipt. ‘It’s a screen test for a new spy series on Channel 4. Didn’t you recognise the guy with the blond hair?’

  He shook his head, looking impressed. ‘No, I didn’t. Who is it?’

  ‘Think about it. It’ll come to you.’

  It wouldn’t, of course, but then twenty-four hours from now, the flash drive would have done its job, and I wouldn’t care less.

  Task number four required my presence back at the hotel. It was seven in the evening when I got back, and set about adding to my carnal knowledge of Maura Beck.

  * * * * *

  Maura gave notice of her need to return home next morning, as we strolled through Hyde Park in between showers. On our left, the Serpentine lake with its flotilla of ducks. Maura’s arm was linked in mine. Her closeness as always made me feel like a lucky man.

  Her homesickness wasn’t unexpected. She was missing Lindy. What I was keen to know was whether the return would be for good, or for as short a time as possible.

  ‘When can I expect to see you back here? Or shall I relocate Stateside?’

  She hesitated. I suspected something was brewing that I might not find to my liking.

  ‘Speak your mind, sweetheart. You’re among friends.’

  This prompted a giggle.

  ‘To be honest, as I must be, I haven’t made up my mind. An awful lot of bad stuff has happened since I came, but you did warn me, and I still came. The dilemma for me is nothing new. Can I live with you, doing what you do, that’s the question. I saw enough of your doing what you do over the last few days to give me a clear picture of what I’m letting myself in for if we stick together.’

  ‘The war with Maximov wasn’t part of the game plan. It got out of hand.’

  ‘You were trying to save Jacqui. It didn’t work out, which wasn’t your fault. Because of it ,a lot of guys died, which was your fault. Technically speaking.’

  That struck me as a little unfair, as the killings that were down to me were mostly self-defence.

  ‘It’s ironic really. The sleazeball I should have killed, I let go. All on account of trying to create a good impression.’

  She squeezed my upper arm. ‘Don’t think I didn’t appreciate that. You collected a few extra Brownie points.’

  ‘Only a few? Maybe I should have given him a piggyback to that village where we ended up, and booked him in the hotel, tucked him up in bed.’

  ‘Now-now, don’t be churlish. You’re one of the good guys, and Maximov is definitely on the wrong side of the fence, still doing his nastiness with girls from the East. It’s not him I worry about, it’s you. I don’t want you with more blood on your hands. Killing someone in a gunfight is bad enough, but at least it’s excusable. Gunning an unarmed guy down just because you don’t like how he makes his daily bread is, for me, a killing too far.’ She let out a vapour-laden breath. ‘I keep thinking about your poor friend, Jacqui.’

  ‘You’re not alone in that. That’s what happens to girls who hang out with me.’

  She shot me a fast, funny look. ‘Are you sending me a coded message?’

  ‘To walk away, you mean?’ I gave her a hug. ‘No, love, just making sure you think long and hard about where this leaves you and me and the future.’

  We passed a couple of boys playing in a puddle with leaves serving as boats, and turned off at a three-way intersection, the grey citadel of the Hilton Hotel now dead ahead.

  ‘Oh … hell, darling, I wish I could answer that in words of one syllable. In limbo, I suppose, for now.’

  I let this percolate. It was less than I hoped for, more than I feared.

  ‘Limbo is better than nothing. Just don’t cut me adrift again, Maura. Once I can handle, twice is definitely once too many.’

  She understood, and said so, throwing in a soft, yielding, lips-to-lips to placate me. It only partly worked. I was too old to put my life on hold with no sure ending in prospect.

  ‘Be patient a little longer. Let me figure it out. We’re a long way from dead as a couple, I promise you. I love you very very much, and that’s not going to go away.’

  There it rested for now. We lunched at the Hilton Restaurant, with a certain amount of false gaiety on both our parts. Drowned our dolour in Dom Perignon to excess and cabbed back to the Grosvenor for more helpings of the physical stuff.

  Maura was here, sharing my bed and my life, and giving me her heart. For now, I would have to be content with those scraps and hope that the full feast would eventually be served.

  * * * * *

  That was Wednesday. On Thursday, before lunch, we went running along Constitution Hill, the route chosen to allow Maura to tell Lindy she had seen Buckingham Palace. She ran well, more like a man. Very fluid, no awkwardness. I complimented her.

  ‘Back home I run every day,’ she said. ‘It helps keep to a regular regime when I’m involved in shoot-outs, and struggling through snow a foot deep. Not to mention trying to save my boyfriend from himself.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘It’s all right, honey, I enjoy the challenge.’

  We took a break outside the Palace, indulged in a few selfies with the building and a sentry in the background. Then trotted back the way we came. On returning to the hotel we showered and made love with a kind of desperation borne of the famine to come.

  ‘You’ll need to be on your guard,’ I reminded her, as we lay satiated and glowing. ‘Maximov’s still out there, and he’s a vengeful bastard.’

  ‘You really think he’ll still try to get at you through me?’

  I linked my hands behind my head, and contemplated the picture on the facing wall. It was an avenue of trees, a French-style chateau framed between the trunks at the end. Such was the precision and detail it was more like a photograph than a painting.

  ‘Just stay alert, that’s all I’m saying.’

  The opportunity to finish him off had come and gone. A big part of me wished I’d taken it.

  * * * * *

  On Friday afternoon Maura flew American to New York. I was sad to see her go. We had come through a lot together in the space of a week, and my respect for her guts and resilience had soared. I couldn’t conceive of a future without her.

  Now that she was gone, taking all her distractions with her, I could concentrate on the outstanding issues – making up with Tony Dimeloe and feeding Ivor Wharfe to the wolves of MI6 before he did more damage.

  Tony first. A smarmy text to tell him I’m sorry, I had been misled, and I still loved him.

  By the evening I hadn’t heard back. Sulking then. I deserved it. A higher – or should that be lower – level of grovel was called for. Not just yet though.

  Waking up next morning in my vast bed, without Maura warming the other half, was a stab through the heart. I rose manfully above it. Shaved, showered, and the rest, to prove to myself I was functioning normally. The sun was in and out, and it was showery. A text message from Maura brightened my day a little. She was back home and sent her love and Lindy’s, and would call or Skype later.

  After breakfast, I sat down on my unmade bed and tapped out the number of the MI6 headquarters at Vauxhall Cross.

  “Let me speak to Sir Peter Youngman,’ I said to the receptionist in the sort of supercilious tone that expects and usually gets results. She asked who was calling, and I told her Mark Andrews. I had a passport and a load of other fake documentation to prove it.

  ‘One moment, please.’ Quite a few more than a single moment went by before she got back to me. ‘I’m sorry but Sir Peter is in a meeting. Would you like to speak to his PA?’

  This brush-off was routine, and no more than I expected. The PA would do, and I said so.

  The PA was a woman, named Dorothy Renshaw. Anglo Saxon names still ruled at MI6.

  She came straight to the point. ‘What’s it about, Mr Andrews?’

  I couldn’t see any advantage in obfuscating or talking in riddles, so I came straight to my own point.

  ‘It’s about Ivor Wharfe and his pally relationship with the Russians.’

  The intake of breath told me I had her attention, if nothing else.

  ‘Would you mind repeating that?’

  For the benefit of the recorder she had just switched on, I assumed.

  ‘Yes, I would mind. Ask your boss to call me on this number.’ I reeled off the number of the cell phone Tony had allocated to me, and rang off without a goodbye. Sometimes it helps to be mysterious.

  It did help. Sir Peter Youngman called back ten minutes later. I was walking by Marble Arch, en route to Park Lane, when the cell chirruped. It was raining but I used the Arch as an umbrella and stayed there while we spoke.

  ‘Mr, ah, Andrews?’ he opened, cautiously. ‘Sir Peter Youngman. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ I replied, adopting an Irish brogue. ‘But I can do something for you. Tomorrow, you’re going to receive a package by courier, marked EYES ONLY. It’s about Ivor Wharfe and his little operation on the side with a Russian agent called Maxim Maximov.’

  A momentary hiatus while he absorbed what should have been a large bombshell.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said at last, his voice somewhat croakier.

  ‘It doesn’t matter about me. All I want to do is be sure that you personally receive the package I’ll be sending. It should land on your desk before eleven. In the interests of national security, I recommend you alert your PA and others not to open it.’

  ‘But how –’

  I disconnected. All would be revealed when he received the flash drive, then he would lose interest in his informant.

  Now for Wharfe. Just telling tales on him to his boss wasn’t enough. I wanted to be the one to break the news that his cosy little sinecure at MI6, including his perks, his pension, and his freedom, was going up in a bonfire. It wasn’t his treason that made me feel vindictive. After all, I had been aware of that for weeks, thanks to Tony. What really fuelled my ire was his convincing me that Tony, not he, was the double agent. He had fed me a yarn and I had swallowed it. Not only hook, line, sinker, but the rod too. In consequence, I had probably blown a two-decades friendship with a guy to whom I owed my life, and other favours.

  * * * * *

  Unlikely Wharfe would have changed place of residence in the few days since I last visited, so I headed for Kensington, arriving outside Stafford Court just before seven in the evening. From the vestibule I phoned to make sure he was home. His wife, Anna, answered, and when she offered to fetch him, I cut off. A couple of flights of stairs and a short walk down the corridor later, I was at his front door.

  He came in person and opened the door about six inches; a steel security bar prevented it from opening wider. He didn’t recognise me of course. When I last saw him in Ivalo I was in bespectacled, moustachioed, brunette mode. Being an MI6 employee he would be naturally wary of any unannounced visitor.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, unsmiling. Behind him the well-remembered Cairn terrier was yapping its heart out.

  ‘Mr Wharfe. You don’t recognise me, but we have a mutual acquaintance – Mark Andrews.’

  His eyes widened.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You met in Finland. He was supposed to … er, sanitise you.’ I felt rather ridiculous using the MI6 euphemism for kill.

  ‘Really? Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?’

  ‘You will if you open the door and allow me to explain.’

  That was when he let me see the gun he was holding. A Glock of some description. It would be standard issue to service personnel in potentially hazardous roles. It was in his left hand, I noticed.

  ‘No need for that,’ I said. ‘I’m not armed and I’m not looking for trouble. Just ten minutes of your time.’

  He wavered, the snout of the Glock still eyeing me. Hungrily, it seemed.

  ‘Who is it, darling?’ Anna Wharfe had come up behind him, the Cairn in her arms.

  ‘Someone to do with the firm.’

  ‘Well, don’t keep him standing outside. Unless you intend to shoot him with that thing, in which case I’d prefer the mess stayed in the corridor.’

  ‘I’m harmless, I assure you, Mrs Wharfe.’

  He unhitched the bar. As the door swung back he said, ‘Wait a minute – I know you! We met at that reception at the South African Embassy.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Tony Dimeloe introduced us. You’re an … an investor of some sort.’

  ‘Correct, and indirectly it’s about Tony that I want to talk to you.’

  He was more comfortable about letting me in now that he had made the connection. He frisked me just the same. The training you get with MI6 makes no exceptions. The Cairn tried to lick me to death too. Also MI6-trained then.

  I introduced myself as Andrew Warner, as Tony had done. It was taking a chance, as he might remember Maura calling me Drew, when we took him captive. We sat in the living room, in old but comfortable chintzy armchairs. The TV was tuned to what looked like one of those property renovation programmes, but had been muted. Wharfe wasn’t at ease, kept the gun on his lap, his hand on the grip. The Cairn scrambled up beside him as additional protection. Anna took a straight-back chair by the dining table, facing us.

  ‘What’s your connection with Dimeloe?’ Wharfe said sternly, his brow creased beneath the heap of black hair.

  ‘Oh, he’s only peripheral to it. It’s mostly about you and Mr Maximov.’

  His training would have included keeping a poker face. He was wearing one right now, deepening the frown, the air of puzzlement. He was proficient at it.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, your Russian comrade. Last met at Helsinki airport when you made a delivery.’

  Anna cut in, ‘What on earth is he talking about, Ivor? What Russian comrade?’

  ‘Not a comrade exactly,’ he said, rearranging his legs. ‘Just someone at the Russian Embassy.’

  ‘Can’t say I’ve ever heard you mention him.’

  ‘You won’t have,’ I said. ‘He’s not only a criminal of the worst kind, he also acts as a go-between for Putin and co.’

  Anna looked blank. Wharfe’s poker face slipped a fraction.

  ‘You’ll have to be a bit more specific, old boy.’ The gun twitched. If he was thinking of using it I might have to take pre-emptive action. I couldn’t see if the safety was off.

  ‘You want specifics? Right. Tomorrow morning a courier will deliver a small package to Sir Peter Youngman. It will contain a flash drive which in turn contains several photographs and a short video recording of you passing an envelope to Maxim Maximov. It will also contain the envelope and the documents that were inside the envelope, namely the top-secret report on the Successor Submarine Programme. All probably covered with your prints.’

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40