Dark Winter

20

Suzy stayed by the door. Her expression told me we were both thinking the same thing.

‘Facemask, my arse.’ I gave a thumbs-down. ‘N95 or UK standard F something or other? I want full NBC [Nuclear, Biological and Chemical warfare protection] kit.’

‘I’ll phone the Golf Club.’ She disappeared into the bedroom.

‘And tell her we want the older stuff, not the newer camouflage version,’ I called after her.

She got on with it as I just sat there, trying to feel pleased with myself for doing a nice thing for Mr Niceness instead of worrying myself sick about Kelly. George had been right: if these people weren’t stopped, then all the therapy in the world wasn’t going to help her. There was no way round it. She had to go back to Laurel.

Suzy came into the room with two of the Nokias. ‘The Golf Club is coming later tonight. If we’re at the source meet she’ll just drop the NBC kit off.’

‘The older suits?’

She nodded, trying to untangle the car chargers from the hands-free sets, then passing one to me. We both set about programming out the start-up tune.

Suzy did her best to look as though she was concentrating on her cell, but I could see a little smile creeping across her face. ‘So, Austin Powers, International Man of Mystery, you’re not Mother Teresa, but you’re not a K either, are you?’

I was too busy hunting for the sound-options menu to look up. ‘Come on, you know the score. You’re going to have to work a lot harder than that . . .’

‘Fair one.’ She shrugged and went back to the administrative side of Nokia ownership for all of five seconds. ‘You’re obviously ex-military and a Brit.’

I just got on with what I was doing and listened.

‘I was in the Navy –’eighty-four to ‘ninety-three. I ran away to sea – well, sort of. The last six years of it were in the Det.’

I did look up then.

She grinned. ‘I knew that would ring a bell.’

‘What is this? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?’

She was right, though. Northern Ireland in the seventies was a nightmare for the Firm and the Security Service, and the quality of information they were gathering was piss poor, so the Army started its own covert intelligence-gathering unit. Recruited from all three services, operators worked in a series of area detachments or Dets.

She was in full flow now. ‘I did two tours in East Det, then became an MOE instructor down in Ashford.’

‘Is that how you became a K?’

‘Yep, I was approached when I left.’

‘Why leave the Navy? Meet the man of your dreams or something?’

‘Come on, now, no personal shit, remember?’

‘So, all that stuff about your dad going AWOL – was that all bollocks?’

‘No, but he’s dead and it fitted with the cover story. So, come on, how do you know about the Det?’

Fuck it. I wasn’t going to spend the next few days in total silence. ‘I was a team leader in North Det in the late eighties.’

‘North Det?’ She laughed and waved her hands about as if she were holding a set of reins. ‘One of the cowboys? A bit of a law unto yourselves, weren’t you, you lot?’

‘Let’s get these moan-phones up and running, shall we? What’s your number? 07802 . . .’

She called out the last six digits and I hit the newly silenced keys. I’d got that much right. I finished dialling, then hit the hash key twice. ‘Hello, hello . . .’ In the background I could hear a low bleeping tone every three seconds, and so would she. It was the signal that we were on secure, the fill hadn’t dropped.

‘Good, that works.’ I hung up, then saved her number to speed-dial.

Her expression suddenly became more intense. ‘Nick, does it worry you – you know, working with me?’

I frowned.

‘Course not. Why should working with a woman be a worry? I wish you’d be a bit more scared now and then, but we did OK in Penang, didn’t we?’

‘I’m not talking about that, dickhead.’ Her face was still serious for a moment, then split into the world’s biggest grin. ‘I’m talking about me being so five-star good.’ She laughed, but I wasn’t sure just how much she was joking.

I always worried about people who thought they couldn’t get hurt. She was starting to sound a bit like Josh, but without God’s Kevlar jacket.

‘Being so wonderful, I suppose you’re permanent cadre?’

Permanent cadre were Ks, and some of them were deniable operators. They were on a salaried retainer, not freelance like I’d been, but they still had to do the shit jobs that no one else wanted.

‘I will be after this. So don’t fuck up, all right?

‘Only if you promise to empty the ashtray.’

She picked it up and disappeared into the kitchen. I heard the tap running. She shouted through, ‘Do you want that brew now, or what?’

‘Good idea.’ I put the Nokia in my bumbag with my own cell. I needed to break the news to Kelly soon, and get hold of Josh. I tried to forget the look on Archibald’s face.

The kettle was bubbling away as the moan-phone rang. Reluctantly, I pulled it out. The Yes Man was on the other end and the moaning started at once. ‘Hello? Answer me.’

‘Hello.’ The gentle bleeps did their stuff in the background.

‘Starbucks, Cowcross Street, Farringdon. Do you know it?

‘I know the station.’

‘The source meet is at twenty hundred.’ He carried on with the meet details as Suzy appeared and stood expectantly at my elbow, like a schoolgirl waiting for her exam results.

Once he had finished, and I had finished with Suzy, we both headed for the bedroom and got the two 9mm Brownings out of the suitcase, a little extra treat Yvette had popped into Packet Oscar. The Browning had been in production for something like a million years, but I still liked it and saw no need to go trendy and plastic or whatever the latest fashion was in pistols. These two were starting to look their age. They’d been jazzed up a little: the wooden sides of the pistol grip had been replaced with rubber. There was no extension welded on to the safety catch above the grip, where it could be flicked on and off with the firer’s right thumb, which was a pity, since I had fairly small hands, but I had no complaints. It was a simple weapon: you knew that if you squeezed the trigger, it was going to go bang. What more did you need?

We carried out NSPs [normal safety precautions]. With my right thumb and the side of my forefinger I pulled back on the serrations at the rear of the top slide and checked inside the ejection opening to make sure there wasn’t a round stuck in the chamber, then released and let the top slide return under its own steam. Then, placing an empty magazine in the weapon so I’d be able to squeeze off the action – it wouldn’t fire without a mag on – I rested the top pad of my right forefinger on the trigger and felt for the first pressure.

Most triggers have two pressures. The first is normally quite loose, allowing a little play between its resting position and the point at which it will actually fire the weapon. This one’s trigger had maybe three or four milli-metres’ play before it became solid again. I squeezed gently on the second pressure and the hammer came forwards with a click.

Knowing the position of second pressure is critically important. I always took up first pressure if the target was close and I’d have maybe a second to react once I’d seen them. There might only be a few millimetres in it, but that could make all the difference and, despite everything, I was still in no hurry to end up dead.

We put on surgical gloves and started to load the half-dozen thirteen-round magazines. When we fired the SDs or Brownings, empty cases would be flying all over the place. No matter who found them, friend or foe, neither of us wanted to leave any evidence of our presence. This was a deniable job. Even the ammunition was German, judging by the markings on its base.

Holding the short magazine so that the base of the stubby 9mm rounds would be facing away from me once loaded, I grabbed a handful and pushed them down one by one into the top recess, then eased them back to make sure they were correctly seated.

Suzy did the same, stopping now and then to take a sip of brew. ‘So, tell me, what is it with you and the boss? Really.’

I started to load my second mag.

‘I mean, it’s obvious you two aren’t exactly on each other’s Christmas-card list.’

The fishing rod was well and truly out but, fuck it, what did it matter?

‘I used to be a K until just over a year ago, but then got offered a better job somewhere else. Maybe he just can’t live without me.’

‘Somewhere else?’

‘In the US.’

‘Oh.’ She smiled as she held up a magazine to the light. I had no idea why. ‘Why are you back here now?’

I picked up my third mag and began the process all over again, but all I could think of was the look on Kelly’s face when I found her among the boxes. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’

I pushed the third magazine into the pistol grip and slid it home until it clicked into place. I never slammed them in the Mel Gibson way: it just damages the mag, and that’s going to give you stoppages.

With the grip of the weapon jammed firmly in the web of my right hand, I pulled back sharply on the top slide with my left, releasing it so that the slide sprang back into position on its own. As it did so, the working parts picked up a round and fed it into the chamber. Then, turning the weapon to the left and exposing the ejection opening, I pulled back just a little on the top slide again to make sure that a round was bedded.

Because I found it difficult to use the safety catch, I always half cocked these things if there wasn’t an extension. I put the little finger of my left hand in front of the hammer, and gently squeezed the trigger. The hammer swung forward and bit into my knuckle, then I pulled it back until it stopped half-way. It wasn’t going anywhere now, even if I squeezed the trigger. If I had to draw down, I’d pull the hammer all the way back, so that it clicked into its full-cocked position, then I’d fire.

There were two thick black nylon pancake holsters in the suitcase, but I wasn’t interested. My pistol went down the front of my jeans. It was too late in the game for me to change now: actions need to be instinctive – my hand had to go straight to the weapon.

Suzy, however, was going by the rule book, cocking her weapon, checking chamber and struggling like I would to apply the safety catch and picking up a pancake holster to feed into her belt. As she unbuckled it I tightened mine, so the Browning was nice and secure.

‘You’re not worried about the family jewels, then?’

‘No. But I’d hate to get gun oil on my nice new boxers.’

Her pancake went over her right kidney. She checked her safety catch once more and holstered her weapon.

I pulled off my gloves and flicked one at Suzy before we put them back into the suitcase, zipped it up and shoved it under the bed. As hiding places went, it was about as inventive as the phone codes.

I went and got my bumbag from the front room, threading the straps through the belt loops of my jeans so they wouldn’t get in the way if I had to draw down the Browning. Then we carried out SOPs [standard operating procedures] on leaving the flat – checking windows, unplugging electrics – before we switched back into boyfriend and girlfriend mode by the open door in the hallway.

I punched the code into the alarm as if we were a happy couple leaving for our weekly trip to Tesco. It didn’t make any noise – the last thing the Firm wanted was for the police to turn up and sort through a safe-house – and was linked directly to the QRF [quick reaction force]. The door was reinforced with a steel liner to prevent access, and every room had a panic button in case you got bored and wanted to piss off the QRF as they settled down to tea and biccies. An armed four-man team would respond immediately, whether we were taking the piss, the place was being burgled or there was a drama during one of the many ‘interviews’ that were held in flats like these.

The door closed behind us and I double-locked it. We walked out of the square and turned right to get to the main. After about five minutes we managed to flag down a black cab and Suzy adopted the tone she reserved especially for cab drivers from Penang to London. ‘Farringdon, darling.’

‘Whereabouts do you want, love?’

‘By the tube station will be fine.’

We hit the Embankment and were soon passing the new ring of concrete designed to stop suicide bombers driving into the Houses of Parliament. We listened to a radio talk-show piece about the heightened state of alert. Some dickhead from the mayor’s office said that the security measures should reassure tourists, not deter them. The cabbie cracked up. ‘I’ve heard of spin, but is this boy taking the piss or what?’

I looked at traser. It was six forty-five, and the meet was at eight, which gave us enough time to do a recce and sort ourselves out once we got there.

We turned off the Embankment at Blackfriars and headed up towards Farringdon, stopping at a set of lights. I noticed a Ford Mondeo parked up on the left, with a motorbike so close to the driver’s door that the rider’s helmet was nearly through his window. The car was two-up, man and woman. She was leaning over from the passenger seat to join in the conversation as another bike drew up. I glanced at Suzy, and she’d seen it too. There was a big surveillance team on a serial [surveillance task], and either they were staking something out or they’d lost the target and were trying to decide what to do next. They were probably E4, the government’s surveillance group, which keeps tabs on everybody from terrorists to dodgy politicians.

The lights changed and the bikes peeled away in different directions as we passed, then the Mondeo pulled a U-turn that brought the traffic to a standstill. The cabbie saw the commotion in his rear-view mirror. ‘Some people’ll do anything to avoid the congestion charge.’ He laughed at his own joke as Suzy nodded thoughtfully and settled back in her seat.

Within ten minutes we were confronted by a checkpoint, part of the ring of steel around the City. Armed police stood beside two cars with flashing lights. The taxi driver leant his head back. ‘Don’t worry, we’re turning off here. But it’s all go, innit? Wonder what’s happening?’

Suzy shook her head. ‘Not a clue, darling. Like this all the time, is it?’

‘Sometimes it is, sometimes it ain’t. Bit of a bleedin’ lottery these days. I blame that Bin Liner nutter myself, know what I mean?’

The driver chuckled as he made a turn into Cowcross Street, and I could see Farringdon tube station up ahead. Clerkenwell was the place to be, these days. Every old storage building had been turned into loft-living for City types, just a short walk from their offices in the Square Mile, and every other shopfront was a bar.

We paid off the cab outside the tube station. Starbucks was around here somewhere.

‘The source will be wearing a blue suit over a white shirt, and carrying a copy of the Evening Standard in his right hand,’ the Yes Man had told us. ‘He’ll also have a black overcoat on his left arm.’

Suzy was sponsoring the meet. She’d be sitting inside Starbucks having a coffee; on the table in front of her would be a folded copy of the Independent . The source was to approach her and ask if she knew the way to the Golden Lane estate. Suzy would reply that she didn’t, but she had an A–Z . Once she had made contact, she would get on the cell and tell me to come in.

Farringdon station was an old Victorian building with a little stall outside selling newspapers, porn mags, Private Eye , that sort of stuff. I waited while Suzy got herself an Independent . Cowcross went slightly uphill and was quite narrow, built for horses and carts. It was still busy, mostly with bond traders not wanting to go home. Among the fashionable façades there was a scattering of corner shops, Indian takeaways, sandwich joints and hairdressers, like bad teeth in an otherwise perfect set, all waiting for the landlords to put their rents up so high they’d no longer be able to stand their ground.

I spotted the Starbucks sign further up Cowcross on the left. The source was due to approach from the direction of the station and on the same side of the street. He would cross at the junction with Turnmill Street, about fifteen metres further uphill. There was a pub on the opposite corner called the Castle, which looked as if it had been there since Jack the Ripper was doing his thing, and would be still when all the chrome-and-smoked-glass pleasure palaces had fallen down. Our coffee shop was thirty metres beyond it.

Suzy put her arm through mine. ‘Do you see it?’

I nodded. There didn’t seem to be much up Turnmill Street apart from a long, high wall that followed the railway line.

We crossed. The pub was packed with briefcases, raincoats and laughing people. If we needed them, there were seats all the way along the window, with good exposure to the road.

The Starbucks looked brand new, and pretty much the same as the one in Georgetown, with its mix of leather and hardwood seats, sofas and low tables. It was about a quarter full. A set of stairs led down to what I assumed would be more seating and the toilets. Beyond the glass doors at the far end were a few sets of shiny alloy chairs and tables in what appeared to be a courtyard. More than one entrance and exit. Perfect. Either this was one of the Firm’s regular venues or the source knew his stuff.

We headed down an alleyway beyond it that opened into a large, recobbled square. There were a couple of balls-achingly trendy bars, with lots of stainless-steel shit outside, and to our left the Starbucks seating area.

Suzy looked up like she’d decided what she wanted for dinner and I was on the menu. ‘If this turns into a bad thing before you get here, I’ll be coming out this way. After that, who knows?’

I put my arms round her. ‘We’d better make sure the doors are open, then, hadn’t we?’

As we stood there, two couples came out almost immediately. Suzy was happy. ‘That’s it, then. Once I’m out of the area, I’ll call.’