Rules of Vengeance

16

It was past seven a.m. when Kate Ford returned home and closed the kitchen door behind her. “Good Lord!” she muttered as the scent of spoiled milk assaulted her senses. She flipped on the light and immediately identified the culprits: a bowl of half-eaten muesli and a quart of milk stood on the table exactly where she’d left them some twenty-six hours earlier. In her rush to get to One Park, she’d forgotten to clean up after herself.

Hurriedly she flung open the windows and waved the foul-smelling air out. Unlike Lord Robert Russell, she did not enjoy the benefits of central air conditioning. East Finchley was much farther from Park Lane than 20 map kilometers. Sighing, she dumped the cereal down the sink and followed it with the clotted milk. It was not how she’d envisioned coming home after her first day back on the job.

Upstairs, she turned on the shower. When it grew hot, she undressed and threw her suit and blouse into a pile on the floor. It was off to the dry cleaner for both. She didn’t like the idea of paying ten quid to have them cleaned and pressed, but she liked the idea of not smelling to high heaven. She took care climbing into the tub. The water was hot and the pressure was strong enough to peel paint, which was how she liked it. She washed her hair, then soaped her body, running a loofah over her arms and legs. She was careful to avoid the scar above her hip. A few weeks earlier, when she’d first come home from hospital, it had bulged like a swollen leech. The bullet had entered from the rear, just above the spleen, leaving barely a clean hole, and then blasted through the other side like a sledgehammer through rotting wood. Hollowpoints did that. The doctors had been unanimous in pointing out that it was a miracle that the splintered round had not nicked an artery or caused greater internal damage.

Kate remained under the showerhead until every last drop of warmth had been bled and the nozzle ran as cold as a Scottish stream. And then she stayed longer. She stood beneath the jets until her skin prickled with goose bumps and her flesh went numb. The numbness helped her deal with the silence. If she was frantic to towel herself dry, she didn’t notice that there was no radio blaring, no clumsy male hands clanking the breakfast plates, no East End baritone ordering her to hightail it to the car so they could drive in to work together.

A mirror hung on the wall, and she caught sight of her body, thinner now than it had ever been. She stared at her biceps, which looked taut and ropey beneath her pale skin, at her pelvis, so sharp and fragile, and at her scar. “The bullet destroyed one of your ovaries,” the surgeon had explained with maddening sympathy. “It also tore the lining of the uterus. To control the bleeding, we had to remove the uterus in toto. I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.”

He’d never mentioned the baby, though surely he’d known. Six weeks along was hardly enough for it to show. Maybe he’d been waiting for her to ask. Or maybe he thought Kate didn’t know herself and hoped to save her further anguish. She never knew if it was a boy or a girl.

She touched the scar and felt a jab inside of her, sharp as a spear. Gasping, she caught her eye and stared at the frightened woman bent double in the mirror. Cry, she told the reflection. No one can see you. You’ve been strong. You don’t have to prove how tough you are. It’s time.

The pain went away. Kate stood up straight. Dry-eyed, she turned away from the mirror and wrapped the towel around her.

Someone was knocking at the back door.

Still in her towel, Kate hurried downstairs and ducked a head into the kitchen. She was surprised to find a tall, fair-skinned man in a dark suit standing there with his hands in his pockets, as if he belonged there. “I think your milk’s gone bad,” he said.

“Who the hell are you?”

“ Graves. Five. I apologize for letting myself in. I’d been knocking awhile, and I was afraid that your neighbors were getting curious.”

“Five” for MI5, the country’s national security and counterterrorism apparatus, better known as the Security Service. She should have known it by his posture. He looked as if he had a steel rod in place of a spine.

“What branch?”

“G Branch.” G Branch handled counterterrorism in all countries except Northern Ireland. Kate peered out the front window. The curb in front of her home was empty. “Where’s the blue Rover?” she asked on a hunch, remembering the car that had been parked inside police tape at 1 Park Lane yesterday morning.

“Parked it down the road. Think you might like to get dressed? They’re waiting for us at HQ. Traffic’s a bugger this time of day.”

Kate took a longer look at the man who’d let himself into her home. He was fortyish, tall and spare, with thick blond hair cut more casually than she would have expected. He wore a navy pinstripe, clearly Savile Row, with the requisite inch of cuff showing, and a striped necktie that hinted at service in some elite outfit or another. His black wingtips were of the sleekest order and polished to a paratrooper’s exacting standards. But it was his eyes that captured her attention. They were diamond blue and near holy in their intensity. They were the same eyes she’d seen yesterday evening gazing at her from the offices of Oxford Analytica.

“You have a first name, Mr. Graves?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Colonel.”

MI5 has its headquarters in Thames House, an imposing block-long building situated (as to be expected by the name) on the banks of the River Thames in the Millbank section of London, overlooking Lambeth Bridge. Graves ’s office was on the first floor, down the hall from the director. Kate, the born striver, was suitably impressed. It was a corner office, decorated with fashionable modern furniture. Picture windows offered a stunning view over the south side of the river.

“Sit down,” said Colonel Graves. “You know why you’re here. It’s about Robert Russell. Or, to be more accurate, what he was working on.”

“I was made to understand he didn’t work for the Security Service,” said Kate, taking her place on a low-slung fawn-colored sofa. A chrome-and-glass coffee table faced her. There was an ashtray brimming with cigarette butts alongside copies of various law enforcement journals.

“He didn’t,” replied Graves. “Not knowingly, at least. You spoke with Ian Cairncross. He told you about Russell’s interest in TINs-trusted information networks. You know… experts he’d assembled to gather information about this or that subject. Let’s just say that Lord Russell was a member of my TIN.”

“Looks like he was a member of quite a few.”

Graves nodded. “At the time of his death, Russell had pieced together information indicating that some sort of attack or plot was being planned on London soil. We’re viewing his murder as validation that he was correct. Accordingly, we’ve ramped things up a bit.”

“Why did you wait until now?”

“You mean why didn’t we bring in Russell earlier? It’s a question of resources, DCI Ford. At any time we’re keeping tabs on a few dozen plots in various stages of planning. It’s a matter of separating the chaff from the grain.” Graves reached into his jacket for a packet of Silk Cuts. “Smoke?”

Kate declined.

He lit one and exhaled gratefully. “I’m supposed to say something about the Official Secrets Act now. You know, ask you to swear not to divulge any information you may learn as part of this investigation. Word is that you’re a good egg. We don’t need to have you sign anything, do we?”

“Is this the part where you’re going to admit that Five was maintaining some kind of surveillance on Russell without a warrant?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m a policewoman,” said Kate. “Not a civil libertarian. I’m sure our interests mirror each other.”

“Good.” Graves picked up a remote control from the coffee table and aimed it at a flat monitor on the wall. It was a SMART Board, an interactive high-definition monitor hooked up to the office’s central computer network. The face of the tired, mousy housewife Kate had seen the previous morning in Russell’s flat appeared. All eyes focused on the screen as she spoke to Russell about Mischa, Victoria Bear, and the “hush-hush” meeting set to take place at 11:15 this morning-a little more than an hour from now.

“Know what it means?” asked Kate afterward.

“Not a clue. There are a hundred Mischas in the Russian embassy alone, and that’s not counting the scourge of them that have taken over the West End. A delegation from the Kremlin is visiting, but they’re in Whitehall today, holed up with the Navy. I think they’re safe for the moment.”

“That sounds rather hush-hush, doesn’t it?” asked Kate, quoting from the video message.

“Actually, it’s a matter of public record. No Mischas among them. Just a few Ivans, Vladimirs, and Yuris. Oh, and a Svetlana.”

“And Victoria Bear?”

“We’ve run the name through all our files and drawn a blank. Our boys in decoding are having a go at it as we speak.”

“Have you been able to draw a bead on the woman? Russell’s source? Frankly, I’m worried about her. If Russell was killed for what he knew, why not her?”

“We’re trying to locate her. It’s not so easy. The way our system functions is that we grab everything going into Russell’s in-box, as it were. That doesn’t mean we know where it came from. Tracing it back to its source is trickier. We brought you in to see if you’ve turned up anything in the course of your investigation that might shed some light on this.”

Kate suspected Graves knew more than he was letting on. She’d long heard that Five kept a roster of spies inside the Met. “Robert Russell was killed by a woman who gained entry to his flat from the basement and shimmied up an old laundry chute to a closet in his master bedroom. Once inside, she defeated the alarm system, knocked him unconscious with a bottle of frozen vodka, then threw him over the balcony to make it appear a suicide. It was our good luck that he landed facedown. Otherwise, we’d never have suspected a thing. It goes without saying that the woman is a professional. She knew her way around Russell’s flat, so we can assume she had access to building plans, including his home security system. It’s my guess that she was working as part of a team, and that her partner or partners were keeping tabs on Russell.”

Graves leaned forward, elbow on his knee. “How do you know it was a woman?”

Kate took a disk out of her jacket. “We have a visual.”

“May I?” asked Graves, rising from his chair. He handed the disk to a deputy, who placed it in the DVD player. A moment later the image of the auburn-haired murderer taken by One Park ’s CCTV camera filled the screen.

“Not much to go on,” said Kate. “She did an outstanding job keeping her face away from the camera.”

“A pro, as you said.”

Just then there was a loud knock on the door. Reg Cleak entered breathlessly. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, crossing the room and taking a seat next to Kate. “I’d just nodded off when a big bloke showed up at the back door. Nearly scared the missus half to death.”

Introductions were made, but Cleak was barely paying attention. “Just got off with the boys in Automobile Visual Surveillance. They weren’t able to get a line on the car all the way from Windsor, but they came darned close.”

“Where did Russell go after leaving his parents’ house?” asked Kate.

“To his club in Sloane Square for about an hour.”

“That only takes us to one a.m.,” said Kate. “Where did he go afterward?”

“Hold your horses, boss. I’m getting to the interesting part. From his club Russell drove to Storey’s Gate. We’ve got stills of his car parked on the sidewalk for over an hour. Don’t ask me what he was doing.”

“Storey’s Gate? That’s not far from here.” Graves instructed his deputy to bring up a map of London on the SMART Board. A moment later a city map appeared, with a circle indicating the location. Storey’s Gate was a short, narrow two-way street running east to west about a half-mile from Buckingham Palace and St. James’s Park.

“Do you see what I see?” asked Kate, standing and walking to the screen.

“What is it?” asked Cleak, but Graves was already nodding.

Kate guided her finger along the map down Storey’s Gate Road and turned a corner onto a broader thoroughfare. It was labeled “ Victoria Street.” “There’s our Victoria,” she said.

If she expected Graves to show some surprise, she was disappointed. He remained nailed to his seat, smoking his cigarette ruminatively. “So it’s a place,” he said. “Not a name. Now what?”

But Kate wasn’t finished. Sliding her finger up Victoria Street, she came to a rectangular gray outline commonly used to denote a government building. “This is a ministry building. I believe it used to be the Department of Trade. Can you tell me who’s housed there now?”

Graves snapped his fingers and his deputy clicked on the interactive map. A photograph of the building appeared, and under it the name of its current occupant. “Department of Business, Enterprise, and Regulatory Reform, formerly Trade and Industry.”

“Business, Enterprise, and Regulatory Reform,” said Kate. “B-E-R-R.”

“Bear,” said Graves in the same calm voice.

Cleak screwed up his face. “I’d call it ‘brrr.’”

“And if you were foreign, like the person who gave Russell’s girl the clue?” asked Kate. “‘Bear’ sounds right to me. Bear on Victoria Street,” added Kate. “Victoria Bear.”

“I’ll be a monkey’s,” added Cleak, eyes wide, fidgeting in his chair, the only person in the room not above showing some emotion.

“Bring up a list of the building’s tenants,” commanded Graves.

A moment later, a list of all government agencies having offices in 1 Victoria Street appeared. They included the Office of Employment, the Economic Development Agency, the Bureau of Competitiveness, and the Office of Science.

“Get on to Diplomatic Security,” Graves continued. “See if any foreign dignitaries are slated to visit any of the agencies on the list. Then contact BERR’s chief of security. Tell him to lock down the place until we arrive. We’ll be over in ten minutes.”

“What about traffic?” asked Kate. “Shouldn’t we block off all roads leading to the building?”

“If we locked down traffic every time we had a threat, London would go out of business in a fortnight.” Graves looked at his assistant. “Get the demo boys over there. Can’t hurt.” He stood and faced Kate. “I take it you’re joining me.”

Kate, Graves, and Cleak took the elevator to the ground floor, where Graves ’s Rover had been brought round and stood waiting, engine idling, doors open. Kate climbed into the front seat next to Graves, while Cleak slid into the back. The blast barrier was lowered and Graves accelerated onto Horseferry Road, where he quickly became enmeshed in traffic. The Rover advanced slowly, making it through one signal, then another. Kate glanced at the clock: 11:03.

“Got a flasher?” she asked, referring to a portable siren.

“Afraid not. We’re more in the preemptive line of things.”

The traffic light changed and Graves pulled across the intersection. After traveling 50 meters, he came to another halt. Victoria Street was less than two kilometers away. In reasonable conditions, the drive would take three minutes. As it was, they were looking at upwards of twenty.

Graves was on the phone with his assistant. “No foreign parties visiting BERR today,” he said to Kate, relaying the news as he received it. “The minister is in Leeds. Everything’s business as usual.”

The car inched forward.

Kate noted that Graves ’s cheeks were flushed and that he was batting his hand against the steering wheel. “Maybe we should walk,” she suggested.

“Forget it.” Graves studied the road in front of him, his blue eyes no longer so divinely certain. Suddenly he swung the car into the oncoming lane of traffic. The road was clear for 30 meters. He floored the Rover, keeping his palm on the horn, until a lorry forced him back into his own lane.

Again they came to a dead halt.

The clock read 11:06.

Five minutes later they reached the intersection of Victoria Street. Graves turned right and sighed with relief when he observed that traffic was flowing nicely. He accelerated to 80 kilometers an hour, rocking in his seat, mumbling, “Come on.” The light turned red and he braked hard.

“There it is,” said Kate, pointing to a modern office building 300 meters along the road.

“Thank God,” registered Cleak from his post in the rear seat.

The light turned green, but the traffic didn’t move. The driver of the vehicle in front of them opened the door and put a foot on the pavement. Kate got out of the car. “They’re running a temporary road block,” she said, sticking her head into the cabin. “Someone’s coming through. Raja from Whitehall or a visiting dignitary. I thought you said there was nothing scheduled for the area.”

“I said nothing was scheduled inside the building.” Graves threw open the door and climbed out. He had his cell phone to his ear, but Kate couldn’t make out to whom he was talking.

Just then she caught sight of the first car in the motorcade barreling out of Storey’s Gate and turning in front of them onto Victoria Street. It was a black Suburban, windows tinted, riding low to the ground. An armored vehicle moving at speed.

“Who’s in town?” she asked Graves. “Looks like the bloody president of the United States.”

Graves was shaking his head. “I’ve got nothing on this,” he said, his calm suddenly in short supply.

Somewhere in the distance Kate caught the sound of a man shouting. Over the roar of the passing motorcade she couldn’t make out what he was saying. It sounded like he was calling someone’s name. One thing was for sure: he was worked up.

“Do you hear that? Something’s wrong.”

“Where?” asked Graves, only half listening. He was conducting a running skirmish with the office, demanding to know what foreign dignitary was in the city and why he hadn’t been informed about it.

Kate stood on her tiptoes, craning her neck in an effort to locate the source of the shouting. About 300 meters up the sidewalk, she caught sight of a dark head running toward them. The head bobbed up and down. Visible one instant, gone the next. It belonged to a white male. Graying hair. Blue jacket. More than that she couldn’t tell.

A second Suburban shot into the intersection, followed by a trio of Mercedes sedans, all black, all with windows similarly tinted to prevent unfriendly parties from identifying their occupants. A miniature flag flew from the antenna of the lead Mercedes. She recognized the blue, white, and red tricolor of Russia.

She checked her watch. It was 11:15.

Mischa, she thought.