She follows the trail to Susan Cavendish. Wife of the late Roland. The beautiful widow. Mother pauses. Something in the back of her mind. The name Cavendish. She’s heard it before, but not because of Roland. Something else.
She checks back to find the name of the son. Bertram Cavendish. Born in 2036. Three years older than his sister, Maria. Called Bertie by his family. Academically gifted. Yes, of course. Bertie Cavendish was one of the youngest persons in UK history to graduate with triple Master’s degrees in advanced applied mathematics, theoretical physics and computer science. She delves further. Her sole attention and focus brought to bear on a young man with wild dark hair and the same features as his father. He looks amiable in the few images online. Quick to smile, and seemingly looking at something else in every picture. An archived news report from a few years ago when he obtained the three Master’s at age fourteen.
. . . so, like, I totally want to invent a time machine because my dad committed suicide and, like, then I can go back and totally ask him not to do the suicide . . .
Alpha drives on past the fire engines, ambulances and police vehicles all heading in the other direction. Both of their masks off now so they look normal. Bravo holds a battered-looking tablet with a stylus to give the appearance of delivery workers chatting and organising their route. Bravo glances when Alpha reacts to his phone vibrating.
‘Alfie? It’s Mother . . .’ She works hard to keep that tone soft and warm. ‘I had a chat with your father, and we both think you should all come straight home. Berlin is too dangerous with all that mess going on . . . and we have a nice trip planned here for you . . .’
‘Yep, okay.’
‘We have booked your flights in one hour from Berlin to London . . . Do hurry, Alfie. We are so worried . . .’
‘Okay, Mother.’
Two
‘Been called many things. Maureen. Monica. Maggie. Monique. M. Ma’am. Boss. SB, which stands for Stubborn Bitch. MB, which stands for Mad Bitch, and TB, which stands for That Bitch.’
She bites into the apple and chews while taking them in. Harry Madden. Commando from 1943. Safa Patel. Diplomatic Protection Officer. Ben is Ben Ryder. Saved the woman and kid when he was seventeen, then later stopped the terrorist attack. The last is the man she met when she first walked through the main room. Doctor John Watson. British by birth, but spent most of his medical career in the US.
‘Now I’m Miri.’
She swallows the mouthful and leans back against the large table, while the others stare at her.
‘Malcolm and Konrad are both dead.’
‘How?’ Safa demands.
‘Shot and stabbed.’ Miri takes another bite of the apple.
‘By who?’ Safa asks, her voice hardening. ‘Ben, Harry, get ready. We’re moving out . . . Where was it? Who did it? How many of them? Can you find the place again?’
Miri swallows and goes to take another bite, but stops with the apple an inch from her mouth. ‘I don’t know who. I do know where. I do know how many. I can find the place again.’
‘What?’ Safa asks, glaring harder. ‘Who are you? Where’s Roland? How did you get in here?’
‘Safa,’ Ben says.
‘I asked you a question,’ Safa says, louder now.
‘You asked me a series of questions.’
‘I said, who the fuck are you? How did you get in here? Where’s Roland? How do you know Malcolm and Konrad are dead?’
‘Safa, ease up,’ Ben says, gently pulling her back. He looks at Miri. ‘Who are you?’ he asks politely.
‘Miri.’
‘Miri?’ Ben takes in the woman. Swept-back blonde hair streaked with grey. American accent. Heavy lines on her face, a few of which hint at being scars. Cold eyes that look grey in this light. Tanned and weathered – someone who has spent years under the sun. Faded blue jeans. The sleeves of her checked shirt rolled mid-way up her forearms, the top three buttons undone. She looks anything from fifty to sixty years old, but she also looks sharp. ‘I’m Ben. It’s very nice to meet you.’
‘Shake later,’ Miri says as Ben walks towards her with a hand held out.
‘Fair enough,’ Ben says, dropping his hand. ‘Forgive our surprise, but, er . . . can you explain what’s happened, please?’
A nod at the show of manners. A glance at the positions of the others.
‘I was extracted. Roland said you needed help.’
‘Ah,’ Ben says knowingly.
‘We don’t need help,’ Safa says, moving out from behind Ben while gripping the back of a chair, ready to throw with a move noted but left unvoiced by Miri. Miri also notices the step Harry has taken out to the side. Casually and discreetly, but their positioning is tactically sound. Ben, however, stays exactly where he is. ‘I will ask you again,’ Safa says. ‘Exactly who are you?’
This part is not new to Miri. Walking into an established team is pretty much always the same. Safa clearly identifies herself as their leader. Miri has to gain that authority while showing she is not affecting the team dynamics but is taking overall control of the mission. She has to gain trust quickly, without asking or appearing to seek consent to do so. Every step is calculated. Every move is measured in advance. Miri remains calm. Showing control of the situation. Safa is growing angry. Miri is not. Control is already being asserted.
The only thing holding Safa and Harry back is Ben’s reaction. Miri senses that to win them, she needs to win Ben first.
‘Where do the pens come from?’ A trick to defuse aggression and deflect tension. Casual, and asked easily. A master at work.
‘What?’ Safa asks, blinking at the weird question.
‘Pens?’ Harry asks.
‘Pens,’ Miri says.
‘What are you on about?’ Safa asks, the aggression rising clearly in her voice and manner.
‘Roland gets them,’ Ben says, holding his hands up in confusion. ‘Or Malcolm or Konrad . . . I’m not sure . . .’ He trails off at seeing Miri looking from her apple to the chairs and tables, then past them to the training equipment stacked at the far end.
‘What the . . .’ Safa says. ‘You’ve got about three seconds to tell me who you are before this goes bad. Ben, move back now. Doc, you too . . .’
‘Oh,’ Ben says slowly, blinking as he connects the dots. He looks at Miri again, then round the room to the things she was looking at, to the food and drinks on the big table, to the swimming aid he made the two men bring back so he could prepare for the ocean rescue, to everything in the bunker and the bunker itself. ‘Oh, I see . . .’
‘Yes,’ Miri says.
Ben drops his head an inch as he smiles that faint smile and rubs a thumb over his jaw. ‘Holy shit . . . He got someone from military intelligence then?’
‘Yes,’ Miri says.
‘Pens? What about the pens?’ Safa asks, seeing Ben do that move he does when he’s working things out. It catches her attention. The sight of him doing it. He hasn’t done that for months. ‘Ben? Who is she? Who are you? Where’s Roland? We don’t have time for this. Malcolm and Konrad are dead. Where are they?’
‘Roland said you were smart,’ Miri says to Ben.