London
Greere scanned the chatter appearing in broken lines and scrolling down his screen. “Shots reported,” he read out. “Automatic fire reported... Shit: two men reported running from area dressed in Western military uniforms... Multiple vehicles involved in high speed pursuit... Firefight involving local criminal gangs reported.”
“I’ve got something!” shouted Ellard. “Hang on, sir!”
“Ping it over to my screen too,” said Greere.
A small text box popped up in front of him: ‘12 – 01 – 52 – 99 – 34.2587:62.1883’. A message from the EMT.
“Targets hit successfully, with collateral damage,” translated Ellard. “One person injured, again... Exiting off plan and by best means possible. They’re requesting urgent extraction from the specified location using the emergency ‘9x’ notation.”
Greere’s phone started buzzing on the desktop. He snatched it up. Sentinel’s number. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“What the f*ck’s going on, Greere?” demanded Sentinel. “I’ve had the army on to me, asking if we’ve got any operations running in the Herat area!”
Greere smiled to himself and spoke loud enough so Ellard would hear him. “Unfortunately there are reports of men in Western army uniform being seen fleeing the southwestern suburbs,” he said calmly. “It would appear that Tin and Mercury have stirred up a hornet’s nest, sir. Large numbers of local militia or possibly gangsters are pursuing them out of the city.”
“F*ck,” said Sentinel.
“Yes, sir. Unfortunate as it seems, it is my strong recommendation that we sever all links. We are ready for such contingency. We need to ensure that there is no trail back to here. Best to move quickly, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, do it,” said Sentinel. “Were the agents successful?” he asked. Greere could hear an unexpected hint of sadness in his boss’s voice. The guy was too soft for his role. Greere had always thought as much.
“Not sure yet, sir,” he lied carefully, conscious of Ellard looking at him over the partition.
“Okay,” said Sentinel. “I’ll get rid of our army chums,” and the line clicked off.
Ellard continued to stare at him.
“What’re you looking at?” Greere demanded. “You always hated this project anyway. Didn’t you?”
Ellard shrugged. “I suppose,” he said. “Always seemed to be very high risk. Did Sentinel ask about the targets?”
“No,” said Greere. “Too worried about covering his backside as usual. Shut down these chatter filters and screens, and start deep-wiping every digital record of our traffic, including the ones to and from the satellite. Sentinel needs me to make a couple of calls. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Greere stood up, stepped out of the office, and made his way along to one of the tiny quiet rooms scattered along the corridor outside. He called up Joker’s number on his secure cell.
“What?” his agent answered, abruptly and unprofessionally. “I’m busy.”
In the background, Greere could hear some woman, moaning rhythmically. “I need you to get another message to our friend,” he growled.
“I said, I’m busy,” Joker replied.
Greere snarled, “Remember who pays for your whores, Joker. And remember where you are in the world. You don’t get to say yes or no. Don’t make me send someone to find you...”
“So, what’s the message?” Joker’s voice reeked of contempt, but the moaning in the background stopped.
“Write this down.”
Shuffling noises. “Okay, go.”
“Message reads: valuable assets at Long 34.2587, Lat 62.1883. Message ends.”
Joker confirmed the message back, and Greere immediately hung up on him. His first job when he got back in the office would be to strip the records of both this and his earlier call to his agent. Ellard could deal with the rest of the boring Tin and Mercury rubbish.
~~~~~
Herat
The dark skinned Afghan rolled reluctantly to one side and then span himself round, naked, to sit on the edge of the girl’s bed.
“Why you stop?” she wailed to him.
He glared at her wordlessly, and reached across to grab his coat. He had a small pad and pen in one of its pockets which he retrieved quickly. “Suck this,” he muttered leaning slightly to one side so that his glistening wet penis flopped toward her.
The fifteen year-old scrambled obediently around and he felt himself stiffening at the touch of her small hands and moist warm lips.
“Wasim!” he yelled. “Wasim! Get in here!”
On the notepad he scrawled Greere’s message. He hated the infidels. Hated them with all his heart and soul. But they paid. Paid very well. In a land that had too little wealth, easy money was difficult to find.
“WASIM!” he roared.
The door to the small room burst open and a small boy appeared. His hair was disheveled and his eyes were bleary from disturbed sleep. The child paused for a second, shocked and unsure about seeing the nakedness in front of him.
Code-name Joker brandished the small sheet of paper and two twenty Afghani notes toward the boy. “Get this to Bin Imraan within the hour,” he instructed. “You keep one,” he waved the money. “The other is for the next boy. Do not betray me or you know what will happen to you.”
The child nodded grimly as he rubbed his tiny fists at the sleep in his eyes – he didn’t want to be beaten again, or worse – and rushed forward, grabbed the papers and scampered out, slamming the door closed behind him.
Joker grabbed two handfuls of hair, yanked upward, and then threw the young girl back onto the bed. She stared up at him, eyes full of fear. “Open your legs,” he snarled at her.
~~~~~
I turn the car’s lights off and crawl through a small hamlet of dilapidated houses which are scattered randomly along both sides of the dirt-track road. There are a couple of dozen structures and, even at this speed, in a few short seconds we are nearly out of the other side.
“Get us off the main road,” says Jack. His voice sounds strained. I suspect he’s feeling more pain now our adrenalin levels are dropping. “Try behind those abandoned buildings.”
He means a clutter of tumbledown brickwork on the left of us, so I guide us off the roadway.
“There’s a good spot,” says Jack, easing himself forward between the front seats to point.
A narrow gap, barely wide enough for the battered Toyota, leads between collapsed walls and I steer us carefully into it. The car is hidden from view from the main road and, if glimpsed, would appear as if it’s just another piece of familiar discarded wreckage. Around here the crumpled panels, broken windows and bullet holes only help it to blend in.
I kill the engine.
To the front we have a clear view into the flat expanse of wasteland laying to the South.
“Watch for helicopters,” he says.
~~~~~
His bodyguard brought the 4x4 crunching to a halt. “Where are they?” the big man muttered.
The first glimmer of dawn whispered its promise of a new day across the eastern horizon and lit up plumes of dust, rising like dusty pennants, at various points on the surrounding roads. The plumes marked his men’s vehicles as they searched for the fleeing thieves.
Gulyar’s phone buzzed angrily in his pocket and he fished it out. The call was from one of the men left guarding his main house in Herat. “What is it?” Bin Imraan barked angrily, his brow furrows deepening as he listened to the message. “Give me that number again,” he said. “Slowly.”
He punched the string of coordinates into the expensive vehicle’s dashboard satnav system.
“Got them,” he said, smiling wickedly.
~~~~~
A cavalcade of vehicles bundle down the main street kicking up clouds of dust. As they burst out of the village, heading south, I can see pickups, four-by-fours, and even a couple of small trucks. All of them are loaded with heavily armed men. We watch as they slowly spread out into a line about half a klick away from us. There they stop.
“Shit,” says Jack grimly. “We’re f*cked. They know about the Extraction Point.”
“How?” I ask in disbelief. “How could they know?”
He sighs deeply and shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he mutters.
“Maybe they’re just regrouping?” I offer. “Maybe they’ll head off again in a while?”
Jack says nothing. I look round at him and his expression is one of ashen sadness. Defeated. I am more shocked by this than the arrival of the gangsters with their trucks and guns. Jack has been my rock, my guide, my ally, my safe-haven. To see him like this – suffering, in pain, beaten – tears at my heart and soul.
“Wait here,” I say.
I will not let us be defeated.
Not now.
I slip quietly out of the car and round to the Toyota’s bullet-riddled boot.
~~~~~
Jack eased up the flaps of his bloodstained shirt. He hurt all over but his chest was worst. Grimacing he gingerly peeled the shirt over his head. Nick had passed a bag, full of fresh local clothes, into the car and told him to get changed before heading off.
The hushed sound of rapidly approaching footsteps drew his attention. Nick was coming back.
“There’s another car back there,” Nick hissed, clambering into the back with him and starting to help him with the fresh shirt. “Let’s get your shit together and collect what we can from here.”
Nick buzzed around, stuffing their battledress and bloodstained clothes into the empty clothing bag.
“How’s another car going to help?” Jack asked. “We’d be better here. At least we have weapons.”
“Do you have any more of that C4 and another timer?” asked Nick.
He nodded.
“Rig the car,” said Nick scooting backwards out of the door.
~~~~~
I drop the bag full of old clothes into the boot, and use the car’s jerry can to liberally douse the contents with petrol. When the car goes up I want to make doubly sure that there’s plenty of fire afterwards. Then I grab my pack, which stands waiting next to me, and pull out the Chadri we bought back in Delaram.
As I drape the huge linen cloth over my head, I can’t help but think about when, as a child, I used to use an old sheet to pretend to be a ghost. This Chadri would have been brilliant for it. It even covers my backpack.
I return round to the back door of the car and note Jack’s eyes widening as he sees me. “They’re looking for two men,” I rumble and see a flickering spark of renewed optimism drift across his face.
“How long on the fuse?” he asks.
“Depends how long it’ll take us to get the other car started,” I reply.
He shrugs, “Thirty-seconds?” he offers.
I grin behind my linen shroud. “You’d better allow half an hour then,” I say, prompting a frosty glare from him, but he complies, and sets the digital timer to thirty minutes. “Let’s go,” I offer him my hand and help him out.
~~~~~
“Do you see anything?” Gulyar bin Imraan growled impatiently into his bulky two-way radio handset. They had been sitting here, in the middle of nowhere for almost an hour.
Various squawking negative responses bleated from the device’s speaker.
In his wing mirror, a thin line of dust ran down toward a tired old black sedan trundling slowly away to the north of the clutter of the nearby village.
“Perhaps they changed their plans?” his bodyguard muttered from alongside him.
“Perhaps,” agreed Gulyar. “Abdul,” he keyed the radio again. “Check that black sedan.”
~~~~~
I navigate the barely roadworthy old, black, saloon car slowly back toward Herat. Every part of me wants to press down hard on the accelerator, but I fight the urge and, besides, I’m not convinced that the car can go much more quickly. Its owners hadn’t been particularly security conscious about it. It had been unlocked and, as it happened, left with a key in its ignition.
Jack’s momentary look of relief at not having to unleash his illustrious lock-picking skills was quickly replaced by one of pure terror when I opened the boot and pointed him toward it.
“I’m not f*cking going in there,” he’d muttered from behind his Dupatta scarf.
“Get in,” I’d insisted with a gentle shove.
I glance, pointlessly, over my shoulder at the mess of rubbish splayed over the backseats. He’s curled up behind there, in the boot, grumbling to himself.
“Nick, let me out of here,” his voice whispers through the comms device into my ear. “If they think there’s a woman driving it will attract attention.”
I shake my head as I stare out through the fine mesh face piece of the Chadri. “Not as much attention as seeing the sight of you, covered in blood? What’s the damn problem?”
“I don’t like small spaces,” he confesses disconsolately.
~~~~~
In the oppressive darkness, Jack fought hard to control his breathing. The sedan had a substantial trunk space but he’d had to curl up and could barely move around. Every bump in the road jarred his ribs painfully.
He’d have nightmares about this, he just knew it.
“Are you still there?” he whispered into the gloom.
“Sssshh...,” hissed Nick’s voice in his ear. “We’ve got trouble.”
“What is it?”
“Roadblock...”
Jack felt the car slowing to a halt.
Shit.
~~~~~
I watch as two, turbaned men saunter toward the car with rifles held angled across their bodies. Their rusty pickup straddles the road in front of me. I ease one hand under the Chadri and find the hilt of my Browning, which lies ready on my lap.
I keep my face forward.
They look like they’re on their own.
The two men walk up to the closed front windows, one on either side, and leer inside. I can sense them studying me, trying to see behind my veil, scowling angrily at the rare sight of what appears to be a woman driving, and clearly they’re not being won over by my apparently bulky physique. Then they slowly move to the back windows and repeat their inspection. I watch them carefully in the car’s wing mirrors. It’s not a viable option to attempt shooting both of them, at the same time, from here.
They move round to the boot.
F*ck.
“Two men,” I whisper quietly. “Take them both if you can.”
~~~~~
Jack scowled to himself. If you can...?
He heard the latch of the boot lid click in front of him.
~~~~~
The two men are standing behind the car. I watch as the boot lid swings up in the rear view mirror, obscuring them from view. There are two swift coughing noises, and then the boot lid swings back down again.
The men have vanished.
“If I can...,” says Jack sardonically in my ear. “And this from the person that nearly blew my ear off in Budapest...”
I drive gently away around the pickup truck. Two bodies lie sprawled across the roadway behind us.
“Thanks for shutting the boot,” I mutter. “Very good of you.”
“I’m getting comfy in here,” he remarks. “There’s not enough room for three.”
“Fair point,” I say. “Especially as you could be there for a while...”
~~~~~
It had been several minutes.
Too many minutes.
“ABDUL?” Gulyar yelled into the radio. “COME IN. ABDUL?”
Nothing but static.
“Let’s go!” he roared, and his bodyguard gunned the 4x4’s engine, spinning it around and pointing it back toward the distant village.
All around him, his army of vehicles lurched into motion and began to carve similar circles.
A brief flash of light and muffled boom rolled across the wasteland.
“What the...!” yelled his driver.
A cloud of acrid smoke, sand and dust blossomed at the front edge of the village. In its heart Gulyar could see flames flickering brightly, despite the morning sunlight, and as they raced toward the scene, Bin Imraan knew that somehow the thieves had outsmarted him. Some battles were worth pursuing and some were not. This one, with its well equipped quarry, mysterious messages, and already significant losses of manpower and munitions, belonged in the latter category.
He was tired of it.
He preferred it when his enemies couldn’t fight back. His business had too much to lose and too little to gain by continuing this wild goose chase.
“Take us back to Herat,” he snarled and lifted the radio. “One car go and check out the explosion, another find Abdul. The rest of you return to the city before our beloved security forces arrive. This hunt is over.”
~~~~~
We are well south of Herat when I pull the car off the road onto a strip of conveniently secluded verge.
“What’s happening?” Jack’s voice mumbles in my ear. He doesn’t sound too good.
“Hang on,” I say as I scramble round the outside of the car to help him gingerly out of the boot. “Haven’t seen anyone following us,” I explain. “No-one. I think we’ve lost them.”
He nods weakly and I guide him round and help him to lie down across the backseats.
“Where to?” I ask, pulling the Chadri off over my head, and flinging it forwards onto the passenger seat.
He shakes his head. “Not sure,” he replies.
I know we’ve both been thinking about the same thing. “Do you think our EMT signal was intercepted and deciphered?”
He shakes his head. “Unlikely,” he says. “The base encryption is too complex for local gangsters to crack on their own. Someone tipped them off as to where we were headed.”
I feel sick in the pit of my stomach. The only people who knew where we were going were supposed to be our allies. It doesn’t make sense that they should betray us, but I can’t argue against Jack’s resigned logic. Either Ace or Deuce must have fed our location to the locals.
“So what now?” I ask.
He slumps down on the seat and, more than ever, I’m conscious that he’s in need of proper medical assistance. “Not sure,” he mutters, “but we can’t use the EMT.”
He means we can’t contact our handlers.
I lean forwards across him, and gently lift back the material of his jackets and shirt. His chest is a mess.
“Hot stuff...,” he mumbles.
“Hmmm... Something like that,” I comment. I need to get him some help, and quickly. “Is there anyone else we can contact?”
He shakes his head. “On our own...,” his voice is barely a whisper.
I don’t doubt that either Ace or Deuce or both have, for some reason, decided that they’d prefer us not to return from this mission. Casting my mind back, I recall how we were spirited through the military bases on our way here. How we hardly made contact with anyone around us. How we were kept at arms length. How we were as good as ignored. Neither of us formally exist within the military machine and suddenly I wonder if we can expect any assistance from that front either?
Somehow I doubt it.
That leaves only one person, besides Jack, on this whole planet who I think I can trust.
I need to find a pay-phone...
~~~~~
London
Shaz Manjeethra hauled herself reluctantly out of her cozy position, curled up against Richard’s warm chest, and scrabbled across the sofa to retrieve her phone. He leaned forward behind her, and muted the endless procession of soap operas he’d been generously tolerating for the last couple of hours.
“We can always watch something else,” she offered.
He smiled and shook his head.
Her handset screen said that the number was unknown.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Shaz? It’s me...”
“Nick! Is that you?” she exclaimed in delight. “Where are you?”
~~~~~
Delaram
Despite the circumstances I feel a rush of warmth run through my veins at the sound of Sharinda’s voice. “I’m sorry,” I hear myself say. “Sorry to call you.”
“Where are you?” Shaz repeats her question.
“Delaram,” I reply.
“Delaram? Is that in Scotland?” she says.
“Afghanistan.” Saying this one word makes me realise how hopeless our situation is. How pointless this call is. “I’m in some trouble. Myself and a friend. I don’t have anyone else I can trust. Anyone I know who might, just might, be able to find us help.”
She’s gone very quiet.
I shouldn’t have called her.
It was unfair.
How on Earth could she help us?
“Tell me more,” says Shaz. “What do you need?”
~~~~~
London
Major Charles leaned over, as he buttoned his heavy raincoat, and kissed her on the forehead. “You handled that really well, Shaz,” he said kindly. He had sprung alongside her at the mention of Nick’s name and listened quietly to the conversation. Using a pad of notepaper he had scrawled her an instruction to ask Nick to call back in one hour. “When they call again, tell them to make their way to Kandahar Airbase.”
“What Nick was saying about being stuck there, without support, is that normal?” she asked him incredulously.
He smiled and shook his head. “No,” he said simply. “But this is not normal business. Tell them to get to Kandahar.”
“Are you going to get them out of there?”
‘I’m certainly going to make sure they’re not at risk of capture and interrogation,’ he thought to himself.
“Let me see what I can do,” he said carefully.
Part Six: Bad Faith
The Truth Will Out
Skala Kallonis
I’m still not sure how Shaz was able to help us, but nonetheless here we are. Back in Lesvos. Back home...
It’s strange how being in Jack’s little cube of a villa should feel that way to me.
Perhaps it shouldn’t?
But it does.
Jack is heavily bandaged, especially his chest and legs. He shouldn’t really be moving around, but he’s not one for keeping still and I’ve given up trying to tell him what to do. At the moment I can hear him clattering around in the wooden outbuildings – swearing occasionally – presumably when he drops one or other of his crutches. He calls it ‘pottering’ but I suspect he’s doing routine maintenance on the arsenal of weaponry he’s got stashed in the back of the barn where he keeps his bike. From the outside you wouldn’t know there was a treasure trove of killing implements secreted inside. The meticulously constructed breeze-block strongroom fills the entire rear quarter of the structure. He’s very proud of it. He should be. It’s a work of art, especially compared to his efforts at dry-stone walling.
We’ve been back for a while. Whisked into, through, and back out of KAF in a flurry of hushed tones and paramedics. Looking back, I’m still not certain whether it was out of reverence or distaste for us but, in the end, I suspect it was ‘orders from above’. I would imagine these orders were probably something along the lines of ‘get them out of there, but you don’t want to know where they’ve been, or what they’ve been doing’ and, for a little while, I didn’t want to think about it either.
I’d expected that maybe I might feel some great relief, or victory, or feeling of accomplishment. Somehow, against the odds, I had hunted down and snuffed out a tiny fragment of evil, rotten, twisted, humanity. A warped splinter, responsible for bringing pain and suffering to our own kind. For bringing unimaginable pain and suffering to me.
But I didn’t feel relief, or victory, or accomplishment.
I don’t feel any different at all.
The only change I’ve noticed is that my dreams are no longer haunted by you or Lizzie or anyone else. It would seem that there are no ghosts left to exorcise, except my own, and it remains here, stubbornly attached to this existence, awaiting severance from this human shell.
We were flown back to Cyprus. Things were less rushed there, and Jack was treated at the on-base military hospital for a few days until he was more fit to travel. No one asked any questions. I either waited at his bedside, or on my own in a small room in the barracks, until it was time to leave. We had been handed an envelope. It contained a small sheet of plain paper and a single typewritten word: ‘Vanish’. So we made our own way out of the gates, took a taxi to the airport, and caught the next scheduled civilian flight to Athens.
“That’s the last time,” Jack had said, as he’d hobbled out of British Forces Cyprus’ many gated entrance. “I’m not setting foot on another military base. I’m finished with all of this.”
I half-believe he means it.
~~~~~
London
“It’s so nice to see you again, Crispin,” said the Prime Minister, using the special tone of voice that politicians reserve for people they genuinely don’t want to talk to. “You can leave us,” he instructed his aides, who obediently removed themselves from his Westminster office, and politely closed the door.
“And you, Mr. Prime Minister,” said Greere, carefully.
“I understand that certain persons have been dealt with, and no longer constitute a threat to our country, nor to the safety and security of our people.” The PM flicked over the single-sided briefing note, which sat alone on his otherwise empty desk. “It’s such a shame that we don’t have anyone who can be honoured for undertaking such a task. Such a shame that we have no idea how such a thing could have happened.”
Greere frowned.
“How I would love to be able to publicly share this news,” the PM continued. “To be able to bring some scant comfort to those whose lives were shattered by the incident... I would love to be able to recognise the bravery of those involved... I would like to be able to shake their hands.” The PM stood up behind his desk. “But it is not possible to do that.” He extended his hand across the wide polished tabletop.
Greere hurriedly pushed himself to his feet, and reached out to grasp the other man’s firm grip. He felt elated. This was it! This was what he’d been working toward. This was the reward for all his efforts, all his hard work.
The PM remained standing, firmly clenching Greere’s flaccid fingers, and ignoring the distaste he felt for the repulsive man’s leering grin. “It would be very unfortunate, for anyone remotely involved in whatever took place, if they were to be discovered,” he said calmly and deliberately. “Relationships have become strained. Covert military operations on foreign soil, even if not directed against sovereign assets, stir up all kinds of difficulties. Afghan, Hungarian and US authorities have not been slow to recognise the remarkable coincidence between recent unexpected homicides and the United Kingdom.” He watched as Greere’s smile slowly vaporised in front of him. “There are also mutterings from France and, incredibly, Germany.” The PM smiled patronisingly. “These are our allies, Crispin. Countries that we need to remain close to. Peoples who share our love for democracy, freedom, safety, and security. This had better not turn out to be something of an embarrassment for us, I would hate to see anyone have to become a scapegoat to placate international outrage.”
The PM abruptly let go of Greere’s hand and sat down again.
“You can go now,” he said dismissively. “I know that you would have had nothing to do with anything that might be an embarrassment to us, or me, or... most importantly... to yourself.”
~~~~~
Greere stormed furiously back into the office. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. His f*cking useless agents, and their apparent f*cking incapacity for any form of even subtle subterfuge, were ruining everything. If word of Paris, or Berlin, were to leak out... Let alone f*cking Madrid, or Poland, or his rogue Joker, or any of all the rest...!
Ellard looked round, startled as the door tried to jump off its substantial hinges. “How’d it go?” he asked. “Sir?” he braced himself as he glimpsed his boss’s expression.
Greere slammed the door closed again and stared at his white-haired gimp with unbridled contempt. “Any news?” he spat.
Ellard shook his head. “Nothing. No change. They’re either hiding, dead, or captured in Afghanistan.”
“Or not! Like they weren’t in Hungary.”
“It’s much harder to get out of Afghanistan,” Ellard muttered warily.
“IF YOU DON’T GET F*ckING HELP, YES...!” roared Greere, exploding with pent up anger and frustration.
“I’ve not helped them!” Ellard exclaimed. “No-one has! They’re trapped there. The bases are silent. No reports of any unusual visitors. Nothing! My bet is they’re dead. Executed somewhere. Otherwise we might have seen a speculative ransom demand.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Greere angrily. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
~~~~~
“So, Major Charles,” two men sat in the Cabinet Room at Number Ten. The same room they had been in before, many months ago. This time they were alone. Two men separated by acres of polished mahogany. “I understand that one Brigadier Greere works for you?”
Sentinel nodded, “Yes, sir.”
“Hmmm,” mused the Prime Minister. “You are, of course, aware that we’re getting a lot of quite awkward questions from abroad. It’s difficult to work out how we might best respond.”
“I understand, sir,” Sentinel straightened his already impressive stature. “This whole thing is entirely my responsibility. We should not discuss matters further. I will prepare statements in readiness. Just let me know, via discrete channels, as and when you would like me to turn myself over to judicial authorities. I am not ashamed of my actions. I firmly believe that we have done the right thing.”
The PM smiled. “As I would expect of anyone holding such a position as you do. But I don’t think that’s necessary, yet. It would seem to me, that you, Major, are not the liability, nor our most expendable asset.”
~~~~~
Skala Kallonis
We’re at the beach, sitting on our tyre, enjoying the summer sunshine. He’s had to endure riding on the pillion seat to get us here, but I’m getting fairly proficient at driving the moped, and I very nearly avoided all of the bushes today.
“You not going for a swim?” he purrs. I think he just wants to watch me stripping off. He can’t go swimming of course, because of the bandages. I suspect he’ll look like a half-tanned, stripy zebra by the time we’re able to unbind him.
I shake my head. “Not today,” I murmur.
“Are you okay?” he asks carefully.
I stare out, past the moored boat, and across the lagoon. “I need to go back.”
“Where?”
“Back to the UK,” I explain. “There’s something I need to do. Something I couldn’t do before....” My head drops, it hurts to think about it, let alone to put it into words.
“It’s okay,” he says supportively. “You need to be extremely careful though. In and out. I guess this is something you need to do on your own?”
I sense he’d like me to say, no. That he’d like me to say, that I want him with me. Need him with me. But I can’t say that. “Yes,” I reply.
He nods, and reaches over to lift my chin with one strong finger. He is smiling, green eyes sparkling. There is no animosity. I sense that he only ever wants the best for me. “I understand,” he says genuinely, then throws his arm around my shoulders, and looks me full in the face. “Look at the two of us. Here. Who would have believed it, eh?”
~~~~~
London
“Any word yet on Tin or Mercury?” asked Sentinel, watching his subordinate closely.
“Nothing, sir,” said Greere, deadpan. There wasn’t the slightest glimmer of concern visible in his lifeless, watery, brown, bug-like eyes. “With luck, they’re both dead.”
“Hmmm,” said Sentinel. “Remind me. You said there were no comms from either of them after you sent the ‘Go Order’?”
“That’s right, sir. Nothing.”
“Strange,” said Sentinel cryptically. “I’d have expected them to have tried to use the EMT to get a flash report out? Or to advise on their exit strategy? Or even to have sent an extraction request, given that they were in some significant trouble?”
Greere shrugged noncommittally. “Amateurs, sir. You were always skeptical about using them. Looks like you were right, as always...”
Sentinel fought back a sudden urge to reach over and grab Greere by the throat. “I guess everything’s been wiped? Everything’s cleaned up.”
“Yes, sir. All gone.”
“Everything?” asked Sentinel, looking suitably doubtful. Greere wasn’t the only one who could put on an act.
“What do you mean, sir?”
Sentinel could see that this wasn’t the kind of thing Greere wanted to hear. This, at least, was enjoyable. He needed to keep squeezing. Keep the gentle pressure on. He knew that Greere was lying to him. The PM had outlined the man’s apparently unhealthy hunger for promotion – though Sentinel could only wonder at what kind of leverage Greere had found to try such an audacious stunt. Well, either way, Greere had more than adequately proved he was untrustworthy. You don’t put untrustworthy men into places where trust is paramount. Where the safety of the nation is in the mix.
For now Sentinel would continue to quietly chip away. Continue to dig. Continue to gather sufficient evidence to justify him taking action – when the time was right. He knew it wouldn’t be difficult. He’d already collected a great deal of material. Spirited away into his own set of secure information servers. Like he did with all of his teams. An echo, collected over many weeks, of everything Greere had worked so carefully to erase.
For now, it was best to leave Greere where he was. To wait and see whether the current, mildly indignant, international shit-storm settled itself naturally. If it didn’t, then they’d give the world what it always wanted.
Someone convenient to blame.
~~~~~
What did Sentinel know, that he didn’t? Greere scowled furiously at his screen as he clicked through every directory on the server for the umpteenth time. Nothing. Not a trace.
The only loose end was...
“We need to make certain that neither of them survived,” he said. “Too many nasty secrets are surfacing,” a little exaggeration was required. “And neither of us would benefit from that. Would we?”
“What do you mean, sir?” Ellard asked cautiously from the other side of the partition.
Greere sat up and looked over at him. “We’ve all got secrets,” he said. “You included.”
Ellard looked alarmed, “I’m not sure I understa...”
“That’s a nice collection,” Greere cut him off, “that you’ve been putting together in your little château. When I had a look around, I was quite taken by some of the pieces myself. It’s easy to understand why you would want them for yourself.”
Ellard stared at him. Shocked. Silent.
“Anyway, you never had much time for Tin or Mercury, did you?”
“No, sir,” Ellard muttered angrily.
“No point in risking everything, just because of them. We’ve done well. Mission accomplished. And, you don’t have long left to serve now, do you?” Ellard shook his head cautiously. “Well, let’s get this tidied up. Then I can make sure you have a nice cushy little role, right through to your retirement. I might even be able to bring that forward a bit.” Ellard appeared to brighten at that thought, so Greere hurried on, “The last thing we, or the country, needs right now, are a couple of rogue assets on the loose: unreliable, unpredictable, and well past their sell-by date.”
Angry as he was at being discovered, Ellard knew he didn’t have many options. Somehow Greere had found his retirement fund. “I suppose you’re right, sir,” he said, noncommittally. ‘F*ck!’ he thought to himself. It must’ve happened sometime after Paris. That would have been why Greere had issued him a new phone. He sneered to himself as he remembered Greere announcing that he’d got him the new cellphone as a reward for all his good work in Berlin... Bastard.
But Greere was right. Tin and Mercury were f*cking liabilities. And he liked the idea of getting out of the business early. Given that his boss was effectively colluding with him, he knew that, once they were certain Tin and Mercury were no longer a risk, then Greere would be left with little option but to facilitate an exit for him. “If they’re alive and out of Afghanistan,” he ventured, “...then there’s only one place they will be.”
Greere nodded.
~~~~~