A. Zander: Moscow City

The stalls began to thin out and they turned a corner onto a canal towpath. Alpha stiffened at the sight of a homeless man sat under the bridge just ahead of them. He had Indian or possibly Sri Lankan features and held his hand out as they walked past, encouraging them to place some money in a small cup.

“Where are you from?” said Alpha, bending down, but not getting too close.

“Please, please.” The man smiled widely and pointed to the cup.

“This is just it William. The shittiest aspects of empire on our own doorstep.”

The man squealed as Alpha stepped back and drove a foot into his head. As he tried to scramble to his feet, Varndon produced a knife from his inside pocket and thrust it into the man’s temple. They watched as his limbs flailed around and waited for his last movement. As soon as he had stopped moving, Alpha threw the pamphlets down on top of him.

“There’ll be no more bowing down to the terrorists or the criminals or the extremist homosexuals that pollute our streets William. I’m going to restore order to this broken country. Restore its integrity.”

Varndon shot a short look back to check there was no one around. “You need to think about the media. They’ll fight you, and they’ll infect the public with their bleeding heart nonsense.”

Alpha grunted. “We’ll give the public a reason to be courageous.”

“How so?”

“Terrorists are not the only ones that find bombs useful. We’ll hit a major city. Probably something chemical. The sight of thousands of British citizens reduced to vegetables should be enough to persuade the less enthusiastic.”

“What can I do?”

“I want to you coordinate the aftermath. There’ll be an immediate clampdown: domestic renditions; new restraints on the media; quarantine zones for dangerous elements. We come down hard when the fury is greatest.”

“I won’t let you down John.”

“The Foreign Secretary will make a speech tomorrow to announce my appointment. I’d like you to be there.”

“Of course.”

They emerged back onto the main road. Rush hour had passed and the crowds had diminished. “And everything is sorted in Poland I presume?” said Alpha.

“We won’t be hearing from Harper again.”

“What about the other three?”

“They’ve been put out to pasture by the Met.”

“Are they going quietly?”

“It looks like it. They’ve got a lot to lose financially if they don’t. I’ve got people on them just in case. We don’t want to take any chances.”

“Good work.”

Alpha’s phone rang and he reached into his pocket. “Yes.” As he listened to the voice on the other end, the satisfaction faded from his face. “When?” His eyes flicked up towards Varndon and the corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily. “Meet me back in the office in 30 minutes. And I mean 30 minutes.”

“Problem?”

“It’s Poland.”

“But he’s secure. I made sure of it.”

“There was a raid. The personnel were wiped out.”

“What about the detainees? John?”

“All accounted for, except one.”

“Harper?”

“Yes.

“What the hell is going on?” said Varndon, raising his voice. “Who the hell could get into our black site?”

“Whoever it was, after tomorrow, they’ll soon understand they’ve picked a fight with the wrong man. I promise you that.”

Cohen and Russell stepped off the train at St Albans and made their way outside to the taxi rank. A few schoolchildren in smart uniforms were smoking on the pavement, keeping an eye out for teachers and parents.

“Wilbur Rise, next to the pub,” said Cohen.

The cab pulled out of the car park and up the road. They passed a few shops, wove their way through the pedestrians and out onto a country road.

“This one here?” shouted the driver.

“Looks like it.”

They paid him and the cab disappeared back off into the town.

“Not a bad place he’s got here,” said Russell. The gated cottage had a thatched roof and gravel drive. Morton walked out the front door to meet them and shook both their hands.

“It’s my brother’s place and he’s out of the country,” said Morton. “He’s a bit of a security buff, so it’s tough to get in or out unnoticed. Thought it would suit our needs.”

They all walked into the house and sat down at the solid oak kitchen table. Morton chucked a newspaper down in front of them. Alpha’s face stared out. He was posing by the Thames in an open-necked shirt. His smile accentuated the lines on his forehead.

“I know you said he was on his way to the top, but I didn’t expect it to be this week,” said Cohen.

“He delivered on Vitsin,” said Morton. “He’s written his own ticket. They’re parading him to the press tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“Down on the Strand.”

“We got nowhere with our contacts,” said Russell. “Couldn’t find anyone that had an inside line on the guy.”

“I spoke to my people too,” said Morton. “They’re either bullshitting me or they’re shit scared. Special Branch and MI5. No one wants to say anything about this guy now he’s going to be heading up both services. He seems untouchable.”

Morton picked a slim electronic panel out of his pocket. A red light was flashing and it vibrated in his palm. “Someone’s set off the perimeter alarm at the back of the house.”

They rushed through the kitchen door and up the stairs to a back bedroom. Morton flicked on a computer screen and clicked a couple of icons, bringing up a delayed recording from the camera on the back gate. They watched as a dark-haired figure vaulted the wall and landed in the garden before sloping off towards the house.

“How long is that delay?” said Cohen.

“Wait…”

Cohen looked out the window and down the garden. A few blackbirds flew around the bird bath in the middle of the lawn, fighting over some seeds, but nothing moved.

“It was at least three minutes ago,” said Morton.

“What was that?”

“What?”

Cohen gestured towards the hallway. The door had closed while they had been looking at the computer screen. Russell looked at Morton and shaped his hand into a gun, but Morton shrugged and pointed downstairs. There was another creak outside in the hall and this time they all heard it. Russell pushed himself up against the wall next to the door and picked up a metal wall bracket laying on the carpet. Cohen walked up to the door with Morton close. He signaled down from five to one with his fingers and pulled the door swiftly towards him. They both charged forward and stopped abruptly, face-to-face with the man from the security tape, standing at the top of the stairs.

“You need better security gents.”

“Jesus God,” said Morton. “Harper.”

Harper picked up his cup and gulped a mouthful down. “That’s the first proper cup of tea of I’ve had in weeks.”

“Get it down ya,” said Morton.

The cup rattled on the table as Harper’s shaking hands placed it down on the wood. He struggled to ignore the falling sensation that had plagued him since he left the facility. He concentrated on the wall and fended off the worst of it.

“Was there a need for all the theatrics?” said Morton. “You could’ve knocked on the door you know.”

“You had some unwanted guests hanging around at the back.”

“Where?”

“Don’t worry. They’re tied together just off the path. They’re not snooping on anyone for the time being.”

Cohen looked out of the window towards the path. “Where the hell did they take you after Heathrow?”

“Some off-the-map shithole prison where people disappear. I’ll save you the details.”