Ghosts

Chapter Thirty-Three

Milton stood on the edge of the small airfield, looking at the rows of planes lined up at the side of the grass strip. It had been a long day and a half of travel and there was still more to come. Anna had obtained two tickets for them on Emirates from Hong Kong to Paris Charles de Gaulle and, from there, they drove north to Brittany. The atmosphere between the two of them had been tense for the first few hours. She was still angry and embarrassed about the way that Milton had waylaid her and the inflammatory meeting with Beatrix hadn’t helped. It was pride. Milton knew that she needed to reassert her authority again and so he played along; he needed her on his side for at least the next couple of days.

They had discussed the best way to get into the country when they returned to the hotel. Milton had explained that there was no way that he would be able to get in through the airports, the tunnel or the ports. He knew that his likeness would have been circulated and that it would take moments for an alert to be sounded, and moments after that for armed police to have them face down on the ground. Anna wasn’t phased. She had another method prepared. There was a private airfield on the outskirts of Lannion that local enthusiasts used to explore the north coast of France. There was a small café that served croissants and coffee and they had met their pilot there. He was a quiet, taciturn man, and, when he spoke, it was with an English accent. The man explained that he had flown south from Bournemouth on the pretext of a pleasure flight and that he was cleared to return by the end of the day. He was an SVR man, Milton assumed. It was not a surprise. The agency had already demonstrated the breadth of its reach and it clearly was not beyond them to be able to activate a pilot in the south of England to fly them across the channel.

“Where are you planning to land?” Milton asked as they walked across the facility to the Cessna Skyhawk that had been wheeled out of the line and readied for take-off.

“Back to Bournemouth,” the man said.

“We will drive from there to London,” Anna said. “Will that work?”

“If you can get me into the country, I can handle the rest,” he said.

The pilot opened the cabin door and pulled himself inside. Anna followed him. Milton paused for a moment, taking a final look at the airstrip. There had been a number of moments over the last week that could have been described as points of no return. This was another, and the most significant yet. He knew that once he was inside the country it would be difficult for him to get out again. He had been running away from the Group for months and now he would voluntarily be making it much simpler for them to find him. He entertained the thought, briefly, that he should turn away from the plane, make his way back to the autoroute, put out his thumb and hitch to Paris. It wasn’t too late. He dismissed the notion as quickly as it had formed. That would mean Pope’s death and he knew he would not be able to bear that on his conscience. And he had promised Beatrix his help, too. He couldn’t let her down. His options were circumscribed and it was with that knowledge, and misgivings that what he was doing was still a mistake, that he reached up for the sill of the door and hauled himself inside the cabin.

The flight was easy. The conditions were perfect and, save a little turbulence as they descended over the south coast to the airstrip at Bournemouth airport, it passed off without incident. The pilot was a member of Bournemouth Flying Club. Like many of the other members of the club, he had a history of return trips to France and there was nothing about this trip that excited the interest of Customs and Excise. His flight details had recorded that the Cessna was carrying three passengers on departure from the UK and there were three passengers upon its return. He taxied the plane to its parking spot and all three disembarked. There was no official attention. The pilot went to file his papers with Customs; Milton and Anna took the car that was waiting for them in the car park and set off for London.

“What are you going to do?” she asked him as he drove north.

“I’m going to get your evidence.”

“And then?”

“And then you can get us back into France and we can go and give it to the colonel.”

“And it is in her old house?”

“That’s what she said.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No you won’t.”

“You’re not leaving me out again…”

“I’m going to have to break in and get it.”

“You think I haven’t done that before?”

He did, but he said, “I’m sure you have, but I work best alone. You’ll get in my way. This isn’t going to work if we get caught, is it?” He looked across at her; she was frowning. “Look, Anna, I’m not going to try and pull a trick.”

“Like before?”

He ignored that. “What am I going to do? It isn’t as if I’ve got any friends here, is it? Who am I going to ask for help?”

“I realise that.”

“I’m here, aren’t I? Have I done anything to make you think I’m not going to follow through on this?”

She didn’t answer that.

“And I’m not going to. The colonel has worked me into a corner. I don’t have any options other than to co-operate.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Milton drove them to the Docklands Holiday Inn. He told Anna to take a room and wait for him to return. He said he would be back later that night. She looked uncomfortable but he had persuaded her that the only way for him to collect the evidence was alone and, after a moment of grumbling dissatisfaction, she conceded the point.

He took the tube to Liverpool Street and emerged into the blustery afternoon. It was just before three and the station concourse was busy with workers taking late lunches. He rode the escalator to street level, uncomfortably aware of the armed police stationed on the balcony, machine guns cradled carefully as they observed the busy comings and goings below.

Milton left the shelter of the wide awning that stretched out across the station entrance and into the spitting rain beyond. He took an eastbound bus and settled down for the short drive into the East End. The bus rumbled down the Kingsland Road, past the fried chicken shops, the money exchangers, the halal butchers and the charity shops, past the shabby bedsits above the shops that offered views of grim and brutal lives through their first floor windows. A clutch of young girls climbed to the top deck and went to the back seat, taking out their smartphones, one of them playing the latest R&B through her phone’s sibilant speaker. Milton ignored the distraction. He was staring out of the window, only half aware of where he was, and thinking back to the last time he had visited the area, days after he had told Control that he wanted out.

He thought of Elijah and Sharon Warriner, of the confrontation with Number Twelve that had left him with a bullet in his shoulder and poor Derek Rutherford with one in his head. He thought of the riots that had disfigured these streets and, as he saw the groups of shiftless kids loitering on street corners, and as he felt the almost tangible buzz of aggression in the atmosphere, he didn’t doubt that the tinder was still dry, and with the right spark it could all start burning again.

He took out his phone and opened the map. He had nearly reached the stop he remembered from before and so he rang the bell, climbed down the stairs and disembarked. There was an arcade of shops and he stopped in the small hardware shop to buy a chisel, the bored looking owner trying without success to engage him in conversation. There was a chemist next door; he went inside and bought a box of latex gloves. He went outside and took two pairs out of the box. He stuffed them into his pockets and dropped the box in the nearest bin.

The main road was busy with traffic, a building site representing a half-hearted stab at regeneration, but a few hundred yards to the south was an area of Victorian housing that had been appropriated by the middle-class. The area was close to the city and the houses were solid and pleasant; Milton knew that it was an expensive place to live. He followed the map until he reached Lavender Grove, a charming street overhung with trees. The houses were neat and tidy and the narrow walled gardens that separated the terrace from the pavement were all carefully tended. Beatrix Rose had lived at number thirty. Milton walked down the opposite side of the street, observing the house with a careful eye. The doorway was painted bright red and the brass door furniture was well polished. There was a bicycle in the garden, propped up against the side of the house, and a blind in the top right window was pulled down.

He walked the length of the street, observing the little details: the car that pulled into the kerb outside number eighteen; the open door at number twenty-three, a builder inside sanding the exposed floorboards; the elderly woman with a shopping trolley opening the gate of number twenty-six. Milton reached the end of the road, crossed over the the other side and turned back, checking for additional activity. It was all reasonably quiet; the people who lived here would be at work. It was as much as could be hoped for in a busy London residential street in the middle of the day.

Milton reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. He pulled them on.

He reached number thirty again. With a final check that he wasn’t observed, he reached down for the handle of the freshly painted metal gate, opened it and approached the front door. He knocked, two times, and paused, straining his ears. He waited thirty seconds and then dropped to his knees, pushing open the letterbox and looking inside: there was no sign that anyone was home. He checked up and down the street again. Nothing. Beatrix had said that the door had always been secured with a single mortise lock; he hoped that hadn’t changed. He reached into his pocket for the chisel, shoved it between the door and the jamb, right over the spot where the lock bolt inserted into the box keep, and pulled it back, hard. The door splintered and the bolt popped free. Milton shouldered the door to force it the rest of the way open, stepped quickly inside and pushed it closed behind him. It wouldn’t close properly now that he had damaged it and so he pulled across a large vase that held umbrellas and jammed it against the door.

He listened.

Nothing.

He moved quickly, ignoring the doorways to the sitting room, the kitchen and the downstairs toilet and climbed the stairs to the floor above. Magnolia painted walls, framed prints on the wall. He registered the details peripherally, gaining the landing, passing the open door to the family bathroom and opening the door to the main bedroom. The blind over the window was suffused with dim sunlight, just enough to see, and it revealed a messy room: the bed was unmade, pairs of shoes were stacked up against a wall, clothes spilled out of a wicker basket. Milton moved to the corner of the room next to the window, knelt down and slid his fingers between the carpet and the floorboards. He pulled hard, popping the carpet tacks, and hauled the corner of the carpet back so that he could see the boards beneath. He took the chisel and drove the point into the spot where two boards were nailed to the joist, and yanked back, hard. The wood was old and brittle, scarred with woodworm, and it splintered easily. He inserted the chisel again and prised up a second board, then dropped the tool and used his hands to remove the boards.

There was a small, waterproof freezer bag in the cavity below, resting on the plasterboard ceiling. Milton reached down and pulled it out. There were six USB flash drives inside. He put the drives into his pocket, replaced the boards, covered them with the carpet, collected his chisel and made his way back downstairs again. He lifted the vase out of the way, opened the door and stepped back into the front garden. The road was still quiet. The door drifted open behind him and Milton slammed it, the splintered wood grinding together and holding the door shut. He opened the gate, stepped through, and walked quickly back up the road and away.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Control’s driver was waiting for him next to the Cenotaph in Whitehall. It was a blustery, overcast day, the late afternoon turning into evening, and he paused in the shelter of the entrance to the Ministry building to turn up the collar of his overcoat and open his umbrella. The weather had been like this for a week, and now the gutters were swollen with run-off water and pedestrians hurried to their destinations as the rain lashed around them. Control stepped out from the shelter and a gust of wind caught the umbrella and turned it inside out. Cursing to himself, he hurried down the street, opened the door of the Jaguar and got inside.

The driver asked him where he would like to go.

“The flat,” Control said. “Don’t hang about.”

The driver put the car into gear, pulled into the traffic and headed towards the towers and minarets of the Houses of Parliament. Control looked up at the big Union Jack snapping from its flagpole high above, the pennant ripped back and forth by the gusting wind, and then at the purple-black of the glowering skies behind it. The forecasters were predicting another week of storms. Control’s country house was in a Wiltshire village that was bisected by a river that carved its course through the valley; he had been too busy to go home since last weekend, but his wife had reported that the water was in full spate, and there was some concern that it was close to bursting its banks. It would flood the orchard at the bottom of their garden. She had been very concerned when she had explained the situation. Control made all the right noises, but he had too much to think about in London to worry about that.

The meeting had been called on short notice. The Foreign Secretary had chaired it and he had been joined by the heads of MI5 and MI6. The mood had been pensive. They still had no idea what had happened to Number One. It had been five days now; protocol required them to assume the worst. The Foreign Secretary had been furious, but Control had anticipated his reaction and was not caught out by it. It was a risk that came with the territory in which the Group operated, he had explained. Agents were lost; that could not be avoided. Control was measured and calm and explained what might have happened and what would happen next with patience and tact. The Foreign Secretary was a civilian with no operational experience. That was the problem with politicians; they could not possibly begin to understand the exigencies of his work. The man needed careful handling. The whole Milton debacle had been a challenge to navigate and he had only just emerged on the other side of that, and this new setback would just be a question of educating him into the realities of life in the field.

The bottom line was brutally simple: these things happened.

Pope had been promoted to Number One after Milton had disappeared. The two of them had been friends. Control remembered that they had served together in Northern Ireland at the beginning of their careers. Despite that, he trusted Pope. He had led the team that he had sent to Mexico to bring Milton back and there was no suggestion that its failure had anything to do with his leadership.

The meeting had dragged on. The Foreign Secretary had asked what was likely to happen to Pope if he had been captured and they had debated the possibilities for a while but Control found the discussion tedious and otiose; he had already jettisoned him. He was dead. Even if he had been captured and even if he could have been exchanged for one of the Russian spies that they had swept up over the years he would still be useless to him. Pope was burnt: a busted flush. He was finished and, as such, he would waste no more time or effort on him. It was a difficult job that he did, he reminded himself, and there was no time for sentiment.

The Foreign Secretary had sat at the head of the table, an expression of supercilious disdain on his face and, when the discussion about Pope drew to its conclusion, he had removed his spectacles and tapped them on the table. “Of course,” he had said, “we understand that we are going to lose agents from time to time. Natural erosion, as you say. Can’t be helped. But this is the second time in a year. If it was just the once, well, we could accept that and move on. But it isn’t. What about Milton?”

Milton.

The thought of him had angered Control and now that anger returned like the echo of thunder. Pope’s loss was excusable. It was regrettable but, as he had made plain, it was a risk that went with the territory. But Milton was different. That was a loss that would stay on his resumé, a stain that would always be there to diminish his many other successes. He blamed himself for what had happened. There had been signs, plenty of signs, but Milton was such a brilliant agent that he had wilfully ignored all of them. That had been a critical mistake. He should have put the failsafes into motion as soon as he had entertained the first suspicion that he was breaking down. He should have issued a file on him, a file with red borders, and given it to one of the other agents to execute. Callan could have done it; the boy was keen. That would have put an end to months of blame and recrimination. That would have preserved his reputation.

He had only made one other mistake like that in the ten years that he had been in command of the Group and he had managed Beatrix Rose much more successfully than he had managed John Milton.

So far.

Pedestrians swilled around the car as the lights that faced the Houses of Parliament went to red.

Milton.

He felt his temper kindling.

He needed distraction. He opened his briefcase, taking out the latest files that had been assigned to the Group and spread them out on his lap. The Jaguar broke out of the jam that had gathered at the lights, turned left onto Westminster Bridge, and accelerated away.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Control owned a flat in Chelsea. He had purchased it ten years ago when he had started to spend more time in the city than at home. He was getting home later and later and it made sense to have a pied a terré where he could repair when long nights were necessary. The driver pulled up to the side of the road, got out and opened the door for him. Control bid him good night and crossed the pavement to the front door. He fumbled in his pocket for the key, pressed it into the lock and opened the door. The driver, who was armed, waited until he was inside and then drove away.

What a day! Control deactivated the alarm, took off his overcoat, hung his umbrella on the hatstand and removed his shoes. He massaged the soles of his aching feet and then stood before the mirror. He was dressed immaculately, as ever, in a well tailored suit that showed an inch of creamy white cuff. His regimental tie was fastened with a brass pin. He was of late middle age, of average height, a little overweight, his hair thinning at the crown. He was not the sort of man who would excite attention. He was as anonymous as a provincial accountant. Perfect for the job that he was asked to do. He rubbed his eyes. He had been up since five and he was tired.

He needed a drink. He took off his suit jacket, hung it on the bannister of the stairs leading up to the two bedrooms on the first floor and went through into the sitting room. There was a drink trolley pushed back against the wall and he took a bottle of scotch through into the kitchen and poured himself a generous measure. He looked out of the window into the garden beyond. Night had drawn in properly now, and, as he looked out onto the narrow stripe of lawn and the rear of the terrace opposite, with the slate roofs, the chimneys and the satellite dishes, the sky flashed with a pulse of lightning. He put the glass to his lips and sipped the scotch, the liquid warming his gullet as rain started to fall, lashing the glass, and, in the distance, a peal of thunder rolled across the city.

The cupboard was well stocked with ready-meals. He took out a chicken curry, removed the cardboard sleeve, slid it into the microwave and set the timer for five minutes. The machine hummed as the platter rotated and, soon, the smell of the food filled the kitchen. He would eat and then review the files he had brought home, perhaps with the benefit of another drink. He took his glass and the bottle back into the sitting room. It was almost ten o’ clock, and it was his habit to listen to The World Tonight on Radio Four.

The room was dark and he stooped at the standard lamp.

He was fumbling for the switch when the light on the other side of the room switched on.

The figure of a man was silhouetted in the armchair.

“Hello, Control.”

John Milton was sitting there, unmoving, watching him. His face was cast in shadow by the lamp just behind his shoulder.

His stomach suddenly felt turned inside out.

“You must have known I’d come back for you one day?”

Control couldn’t look directly at him without squinting into the light. Milton would have planned it that way. “I don’t…”

Milton held up a hand to stop him and then leant forwards so that Control could see him more clearly. He was dressed all in black: black jacket, black jeans and a pair of black boots. He was wearing latex gloves on his hands and he held a revolver in his right hand. “Before we get started, let me set a couple of things out. First, I’ve been waiting for you a little while. More than long enough to find both of your panic alarms. They’re disabled now, so don’t think you can call for help. You can’t. It’s just me and you. Second, there was a pistol in the drawer over there, too. This one.” He held up the Jericho 941F semi-automatic. “It wasn’t loaded but I found where you keep the ammunition and it is now.”

Control’s knees felt like water. “Can I sit down?”

Milton waved the gun at the settee.

“What do you want?”

“A discussion.”

“About what? About you?”

He turned his head a little and Control could see that his thin lips had formed a cold smile. “No. Not about me. A few other things.”

“Such as?”

“Let’s start with Michael Pope.”

Control measured that. “Alright,” he said.

The microwave pinged in the kitchen. Control jumped but Milton didn’t take his eyes off him. He caught himself thinking that this must be what it felt like for those men and women that he sent his agents to neutralise. His authority, his position, his years of experience; they were all useless in the face of the hard-faced killer sitting opposite him. And Milton was a killer. Cold-blooded and lethally efficient. No-one knew that better than Control. John Milton was the best assassin he had ever worked with. The absolute best; no-one else came anywhere close. He had been Number One, after all. He was the most relentless, the most ruthless, the most deadly operative he had ever sent into the field.

Milton sat back in the chair and the shadows fell back across his face again. “Do you know what’s happened to him?”

“He was on assignment. South of France. We haven’t heard from him for five days.”

“Who was the target?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Was it Pascha Shcherbatov?”

That took him by surprise. “I–I—” he stammered.

“He sends his regards.”

Control put the empty glass down on the side table; his hand was shaking and it rattled against the wood. He was already nervous and the direction the conversation was taking made him feel even worse. “You’ve met him?”

“A few days ago. Pope is alive. Shcherbatov has him. He used him to get to me.”

“How do they know about you?”

“That I don’t know,” he said, dryly. “But they knew quite a lot. If you asked me to guess, I’d say that you’re employing one of his agents.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“He knew Pope was coming after him. And he knew where to find me. Draw the dots, Control.”

“So what did he want?”

“We’ll get to that. I want you to tell me about Beatrix Rose first.”

That surprised him. The conversation wasn’t following a path he could predict and he needed time to think. He absently knocked back the last of his drink. He held the glass up and said, “I don’t know about you but I…”

“Stay there. You need to take this seriously.”

“I am taking it seriously.”

“No distractions, Control. I wasn’t born yesterday.” He tapped his index finger on the barrel of the gun. “So. Beatrix Rose.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I never found out what happened to her.”

“You know the procedure: minimum information. You didn’t need to know.”

He brought up the gun. “And now I do.”

Control waved his hand in the air before his face. “There was an assignment, just after you were transferred, I believe, and she was compromised. She didn’t report afterwards. We assumed what we would always assume in the circumstances: K.I.A.”

Milton leant forwards again to stare at him, the shadows reaching down his face like daggers. “This is going to be so much easier if you tell me the truth.”

He felt panic closing around him. He had no idea what he should say, what Milton did and did not know.

“Let me help you out. I know she’s not dead.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Because I went to see her after I saw Shcherbatov.”

“Where?”

He smiled and shook his head. “You don’t need to know where. But you might as well assume she told me everything. I know what you were doing then, when she disappeared. I know that you’d been prostituting yourself for years. I know all about the deal you thought you were doing with Anastasia Semenko. I know that you thought that she was an arms dealer looking for a way in with the Syrians. I know that she was introduced to you by the Iraqis that you’d already been working with, although you didn’t know that they were also working with the Russians. I know that you didn’t know that the Iraqis were in the habit of selling useful information to the Russians. I know that Semenko paid you because you said you could make an introduction with Assad’s regime. I know that they had you exactly where they wanted you. I know that the meeting Semenko and Shcherbatov were going to on the day that she died was with you. And I know that you sent us after them because you couldn’t afford to let them live. Shcherbatov told me everything and Beatrix Rose confirmed it. How long did it take you to find out he survived?”

He glared at him with sullen frustration. “We thought he’d drowned in the river but then he popped up again in Moscow a week later.”

Milton chuckled, humourlessly. “Did you know that he was married to Semenko?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You can’t blame him for hating you. He wants to disgrace you. And then he wants to kill you.”

Control felt a bead of sweat as it rolled out of his scalp and traced a slow line down his forehead. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m getting to that,” he said. “Do you want to reconsider what you told me about Beatrix?”

Control looked at the gun in Milton’s hand and swallowed hard. “It’s true about Semenko. They trapped me. They were ready to flip me. Can you imagine how dangerous that would have been for the state?”

“Best you don’t try and justify what you did,” he warned. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Rose found the evidence in the car that they were using to blackmail me. Photographs, financial records. She brought in the pictures and showed me. I tried to brush it off but I knew it wouldn’t wash. She’d guessed what had happened and that didn’t leave me with any choice.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I sent agents to dispose of her.”

It was a flippant choice of synonym and he regretted it at once. He saw Milton stiffen and the gun jerked around so that it was facing right at his chest.

“And?” he said.

“And that was a fuck up, too. Chisolm shot her husband and Rose stabbed her in the throat. Spenser took her daughter and she fled. I have no idea where she went. We never heard from her again.”

“Because she knows that if she comes after you, you have her girl. An insurance policy.”

“She was taken into protective custody.”

“Come on,” Milton snapped angrily. “Don’t waste my time.”

“There might have been something about using the girl to concentrate the mother’s mind.”

Milton passed the gun from his right hand to his left.

“What’s going on, Milton?”

Milton told him. He spoke for five minutes, explaining how Anna Kushchyenko had picked him up in Texas and flown him to Moscow, how he had been taken to see Shcherbatov and how he had shown him Pope. Milton said that Pope was sick and Control feigned concern. Milton said that he had agreed to work with them so that he could buy a little time to think of something better. The Russians had located Beatrix Rose in Hong Kong and he had gone to speak to her.

“Why does he want her?”

“Because he wanted to talk to her about what happened that afternoon,” Milton said. “He knows you didn’t get everything she took from the car. She copied the drives. She hid them before she came to see you. I’ve got them now. I collected them this afternoon before I came here.” He swapped the semi-automatic into his left hand, reached his right into a pocket and retrieved a clear bag with six flash drives in it.

“It would be better to give those to me,” he said.

“I’m sure you’d like that.”

“You’re going to give them to the Russians?”

“Of course not. I needed an insurance policy of my own. This is it. And just so it’s clear, I’ve downloaded these myself. They’ll be attached to emails that I’ll set to send in the future. Unless I delete them, they’ll go far and wide: government, the press, everywhere I can think of. It’s my dead man’s switch.”

“So what do you want?”

“First, I want Beatrix’s daughter. She has grandparents in Somerset. You’re going to deliver her to them. I want fresh passports for both her and her mother.”

“I can do that.”

“And two million dollars paid into a bank account of my designation.”

He bit his lip. “Two million?”

“That’s right.”

“That’s not so easy…”

“I need the Russian girl put under surveillance. She’s Shcherbatov’s proxy. She came into the country with me and she should be at the Holiday Inn in the Docklands. She’s expecting me to bring the drives back tonight and I’m guessing if I’m not back by midnight she’ll sound the alarm and that will be that for Pope. You need to get on that right away.”

“Fine. Anything else?”

“The third thing: you’re going to help me go and get Pope.”

“How am I going to do that?”

“A six man team, full load out, logistic support.”

“Are you mad? Pope is in Russia, man. We can’t send six of you to conduct an operation on Russian soil.”

“Yes you can.”

“No…”

“The Russians will help.”

“You’re going to have to explain that.”

“I know they asked you to go after Shcherbatov for them. Pope told me. You want to tell me why?”

Control felt helpless. Milton knew everything; he had no cards to play. “Fine. The colonel has gone rogue. He’s old school, from before the fall of the Wall. He hates the west, and he hates the thought that the motherland is pandering to it. They want him out of the way. They can’t be seen to conduct an operation against one of their own, especially on home turf, and he’s been around a long time. He has too much on the Kremlin for them to risk getting rid of him themselves and it all going wrong, especially as it appears that he is a hard man to kill. They knew we had assets who could do it, he put himself into a position where it was possible and so we assigned him a file.”

“Having the man we sent to kill him in his custody doesn’t do the Kremlin any good, does it? How long do you think it’ll take someone like Shcherbatov to break Pope and find out that his own people asked us to send him?”

“Pope’s strong. But…”

“But we both know he’ll break eventually. No. You can persuade them to do this, Control. You tell them we’ll go in, we’ll get Pope and we’ll take out Shcherbatov. Properly, this time. You’ve tried twice already. I’ll make sure it’s done right.”

Control furrowed his brow. It might work, he thought. “Maybe,” he said.

“A team of agents of my choosing, under my command.”

Control was about to rule out Milton’s involvement but then he caught himself. There was another way he could play this; perhaps he could come out on top in the whole deal after all. “Maybe,” he said. “I’ll need to think about it.”

“That’s what I want,” he said. “There’s no negotiation and the alternative is bad for you. It’s your call.”

Milton stood. He obscured the light from the lamp and Control could see his face properly for the first time: the implacable, powder blue eyes; the horizontal scar from his cheek to the start of his nose; the whiteness outlining his lips. There was no softness in that face. No pity.

“What happens to the information about me?”

“If you do as you’re told? Nothing.”

“You’ll return it?”

“No. I just won’t publicise it.”

“This will need discussing.”

“With who? You can’t take this to the government. It’s your call. Pick the girl up tonight. If she reports I’m not playing ball then this is all moot and our deal is off. The first priority is to manage her. And then you need to sort out Rose’s daughter. You can do that tonight, too. I want her to be on her way to her grandparents by noon.”

“You think it’s as easy as that? Just make a few calls?”

“I don’t care how easy or how difficult it is. You just need to get it done.” He crossed the room until he was standing next to him; he knelt down so that their faces were on the same level. “You know me well enough, Control. You know me better than almost anyone. And you know that if I say I’m going to do something, I do it.”

“I know.”

“So here it is, just in case you need reminding: if anything happens to Beatrix Rose, I’ll be back. If I get a whiff that you’re about to do something I don’t like, I’ll be back. That’s a promise. I’ll be back with your gun, in this room, waiting for you. You’ll never see me coming. You know who I am, Control, don’t you?”

He felt his throat thicken. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

“I’m a bad man, Control. I’m a bad man who kills bad men. And you are one of the worst.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Anna Vasil’yevna Kushchyenko had spent a long and tedious night waiting for John Milton to return. She had drawn a bath and soaked in it for an hour, thinking about the Englishman and questioning, once again, whether she had erred in allowing him to make his way into London alone. Colonel Shcherbatov had allowed her the latitude to judge how to proceed; he had trained her, nurtured her career over many years, and he trusted her. She was as devoted to him as a daughter to her father and the thought of letting him down was abhorrent to her. It was difficult to argue with her performance so far. Persuading Milton to come to Russia had been difficult but she had managed to do that. Delivering him to the colonel had been a challenge, too, and she had managed that. She had helped him to find Beatrix Rose, managed him as he persuaded her to assist their cause and delivered him back to the United Kingdom. None of it had been easy, but, here she was, seemingly with his co-operation assured and waiting for him to return with the evidence that the colonel had said would be of priceless importance in his fight against the imperialists. Nurturing the operation to a successful conclusion would be a coup and she knew that he would be grateful. That was all the motivation that Anna needed.

She visited an internet café after her bath. It was a small operation at the back of a Polish grocery store and the proprietor hadn’t even looked at her twice as she bought a token for an hour’s use and settled before the screen in a wooden cubicle that would guarantee her privacy. She created a new gmail account and posted a message on the bulletin board of a Justin Bieber fan site. It was a bland message, seemingly in tune with the rest of the comments, but the board was monitored and her message would be delivered to the colonel. The coded message reported that the operation was proceeding as planned and that she anticipated leaving the country with the package they had come to collect tomorrow.

She posted the message, logged out of the PC and went back outside. It was a brisk night, with a cool breeze blowing in off the darkened river, and she decided to go for a walk for some exercise and fresh air. She ambled along the quay at one of the nearby yacht basins. The wind was cold and there were only a few people out. She saw a man leaning against the metal rails that protected the drop into the water below, gazing out at the yachts moored out on a floating jetty, their rigging rattling in the breeze. She walked beyond the man, realising, but much too late, that something about him was not right. She turned just as he had started after her, closing the distance in a couple of broad strides, taking her arm just above the elbow and impelling her towards a car at the kerb.

“Don’t make a scene, Miss,” he said in a quiet, firm voice.

“Who are you?”

“British intelligence. Afraid we need to hold onto you for a while.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Milton was driven to RAF Northolt. Group Fifteen used the facility when agents were not able to fly commercially and he was very familiar with it. The driver swept off the main road, paused to register their credentials at the gate house, and then sped through the wire mesh gate as it was drawn aside for them. He drove past the row of buildings that housed the base’s administrative and engineering staff and out to a single story building right out on the edge of the runway itself. A Hercules C-130J aircraft was being fuelled nearby.

It was just after dawn.

Milton got out of the car and went into the building.

Control was waiting for him. There were five others there, too. He recognised one of them very well and the other three were familiar.

“Captain Milton,” Control said stiffly. “Are you ready to go?”

“I am,” he said.

“You know everyone?”

“Well enough,” Milton said.

He looked them over and put names, and assignations, to faces.

Number Two was Corporal Spenser: short, bald and heavily muscled. Now that Pope was out of commission, he would be de facto Number One.

Number Six was Corporal Blake: darker skinned; foreign, perhaps, although Milton did not know enough about him to say from where.

Number Eight was Lance Corporal Hammond: female; early thirties; five eight; black hair, cut short; compact and powerfully built. Milton had surrendered to her in El Patrón’s mansion. She had a reputation for callousness.

Number Nine was Sergeant Underwood: the tallest of the four, well over six foot; broad shoulders; old acne scars scattered across his nose and cheeks.

Control turned to the final man. “And Lance Corporal Callan.”

“Yes,” Milton said. “Number Twelve.”

“Number Ten now,” Control said, “at least until Captain Pope is recovered.”

Callan was tall and slender and strikingly handsome. His hair was in tight curls and so blond that it was almost white. His skin was white, too, like alabaster. There was a cruelty to his thin lips and unfeeling eyes that Milton remembered very well indeed. He had executed Derek Rutherford in cold blood and then shot Milton in the shoulder; Milton had overcome him and put a bullet in his knee. According to Pope, he had been keen to end him there and then when they captured him in Mexico.

“They were all in Juàrez,” Milton said.

“That’s right.”

“They’ll need to do better this time.”

“We found you,” Spenser said. “We took you.”

“You did. And you took out a dozen cartel soldiers doing it and, yes, that was impressive. But then you let an overweight Mexican police officer on his last day undo all of that good work. So you can count me not especially impressed. Shcherbatov’s men won’t be as easy as the cartel. They’ll be well trained, well equipped and they might be expecting us. If you’re as lax as that when we go in tomorrow, I guarantee you one thing: we’ll all get shot.”

Spenser glared at him but said nothing. Milton felt Callan’s eyes burning into his back, too, and knew that he would have to proceed very carefully if he wanted to get out of Russia in one piece.

“Shall we discuss the plan?” Control suggested.

Milton held Spenser’s stare long enough to let him know that he was far from intimidated; Number Two broke first and looked away. “Go on,” Milton said.

“The Russians are going to give us some low visibility help.”

“Why would they do something like that?” Underwood asked.

“Shcherbatov is off the reservation. There could be an incident if we don’t get Pope back and they know that is not in their interests right now. They won’t support you if you get into trouble but they don’t mind making it easier for you to get to where you need to go.”

“Go on, then,” Milton said. “I’m all ears.”

There was a iPad on the table. Control selected a map of Russia and they all gathered around it. “You’re going out in the Hercules. It has just enough range to get you to Kubinka air base, south east of Moscow. You’ll be travelling under the pretext of a military exchange: senior members of the RAF flying in for a joint exercise with their Russian equivalents. Happens reasonably frequently. Won’t draw unnecessary attention.”

“And from Kubinka?”

“The Hercules will be refuelled. You’ll head north and do a HALO jump twenty clicks south of Plyos. And then the Hercules turns around and heads back to Kubinka”

“ATC?”

“We’re told that they will be looking the other way.”

Hammond looked sceptical. “We’re dropping twenty clicks from the target?”

“That’s right.”

“In the Russian winter?”

“You’ll be taking transport on the Hercules. The Russians are arranging it.”

“What do we know about the target?”

“It’s a dacha,” Milton explained. He didn’t have to work hard to remember it; he had a photographic memory for tactical information and he relayed it quickly and easily. “Three storeys, walled, two internal courtyards. Good security.”

“How many?”

“I’d guess a dozen.”

“Any good?”

“Spetsnaz. Very good.”

“Armed with what?”

“AN-94s and AS Vals. Like I said, they’re proper soldiers.”

Milton gave them all the additional information that he thought might be helpful: the internal layout of the dacha, the basement cell where it was likely Pope would be held.

“And you’re sure Pope is still there?” Control said.

“I’m sure enough.”

“How sure?”

“Eighty per cent.”

Hammond shook her head. “So twenty per cent says this is us putting our necks on the line for nothing?”

He stared her down. “And eighty per cent says that you’re not.”

She turned to Control and protested, “We need better odds for something like this.”

Control regarded him carefully. “Are you going to tell me why you think he’s still there?”

“No,” he said. “I have intelligence. But you’re going to have to trust me.”

“Alright,” Control said. “I’m happy to proceed on that basis.” Milton knew that he had no room for manoeuvre. He had evidence on him that would have him locked up in an MI6 Black Site for the rest of his natural life. He had no choice but to give the operation the green light.

Spenser pointed down at the map. “Say we manage to get in, find the dacha, take out the guards and get Pope. How do we get out again?”

Control dragged his finger down the screen, adjusting the map. “You make your way south to Privolzhsk … here. Sixteen kilometres. Provided you get there in one piece, the Russians will give you a ride back to Kubinka and you’ll fly out again on the Hercules from there.”

Milton looked at the five soldiers, gauging their reaction to the plan. They did not look impressed but there was little to be done about that. He would be able to fill them in on the smaller details en route, but there was nothing to be done about their obvious antipathy and suspicion towards him. That was something that he have to live with.

The four Allison AE turboprops were fired up and the six-bladed propellors started to spin. Milton strapped himself into his seat and prepared for the flight. He needed something to distract himself and so he took out his Sig Sauer P226 and started to disassemble it. He released the magazine, pulled the slide, checked it was unloaded, separated the slide from the frame and took out the recoil spring. He removed the barrel from the slide and then, using a cotton bud and a small pot of oil, he cleaned and lubricated it. It was a ritual that he had followed throughout his career, especially when he was facing a situation that concerned him. That word, concern, didn’t quite do justice to what he was now proposing to do. He was going to fly into Russia, skydive from ten thousand feet and then trek across the frozen tundra to a confrontation with Russian special forces where they would be outnumbered and outgunned, with no guarantee that the man they were going to rescue would even be there. He emptied the magazine, counted the bullets and slotted them all back again. The cabin of the Hercules was large and sparse, the cargo bay empty with temporary chairs screwed into their housing. The agents were going through their own routines: reading, listening to music, looking out of the tiny porthole windows as the buildings at the edge of the runway accelerated into an indistinct blur. He didn’t trust Control. There was nothing to say that he wouldn’t call Milton’s bluff and there would be nothing he could do if he did. The other agents had made their disdain for him obvious and there was no doubt in his mind that they would shoot him if given half the chance.

Callan turned to look at him and, noticing that he was watching him, held his gaze.

Milton looked away.

He was not among friends.

As the Hercules reached the end of the runway and lumbered into the air, Milton started to put the gun back together.