Adrian Magson - Execution

Harry relaxed. If what Ballatyne had said was correct, he wasn’t surprised that extra security had been placed on Tobinskiy’s room. It made absolute sense to keep unwanted visitors away from their secret charge, if they didn’t want news of his presence leaking out to the press. Like giving him a very British name while he was there; it was a simple precaution. Then Casey drove a truck through his reasoning.

‘What I didn’t understand was why he left early that particular evening.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I’d been asked to stand in on another unit after my normal shift, and was just leaving when I saw him getting into a car down the road. When I went in the next morning, I found everything was in chaos. They said he’d left before his replacement came on, leaving a gap in security.’

Intelligence analyst Keith Maine strode north along Whitehall through the lunchtime crowd, enjoying the brush of cool air and the sounds of conversation going on around him. After the stuffiness of his office and the stack of reports he’d been checking all morning, it was good to escape and stretch his legs. His destination was a mile and a quarter from his shared office in Thames House, the home of MI5, near Lambeth Bridge, and he’d so far covered the ground at a pleasing clip, not bad going for someone approaching retirement.

Taller than most and smartly dressed in a grey suit, crisp, white shirt and burgundy tie, his quick, almost military gait automatically opened up a channel before him. He ignored the official buildings on either side: the Treasury, Foreign and Commonwealth, Ministry of Defence — all seen far too often to now make any impression — and made his way up the eastern side of Trafalgar Square, avoiding the souvenir stalls and their boiling clutch of tourists and sightseers, side-stepping a trio of elderly Japanese ladies arguing over a street map.

Veering off into St Martin’s Lane, he eventually turned left into the shadowy confines of Cecil Court, a narrow pedestrian cut-through lined with bookstores and specialist collectors’ shops. The light here was soothing, funnelled down between the high buildings on either side, and he paused to scan a trestle table layered with second-hand books. Familiar titles most of them, but none that attracted him. For Maine, looking was part of the pleasure of this place; his private retreat from the everyday tensions and scuttlebutt of the security services.

An amateur collector of first editions in his spare time, he was here today on a rare mission. A phone call from a friend had alerted him to the discovery of a very reasonably priced thriller that had just come onto the market. He’d immediately put in a bid and was now here to collect his purchase, an indulgence his single status allowed.

The shop he sought was at the far end, close to where the passage spilled out into the noise and rush of Charing Cross Road. Beyond it lay Leicester Square, the tourist trap and hunting ground for chuggers, the aggressively cheerful but pushy charity fund-raisers. He stepped inside the shop. Breathed the atmosphere with appreciation and a feeling of comfort. The walls were lined with solid bookshelves, the sheen of the polished wood reflecting their years, each one crammed with hardbacks. The floor consisted of roughened, bare oak boards, echoing with the hollow sound he loved and would have paid good money for at home, had he been able to afford it. But that, he reflected, had ever been the way. The cost of looking after his mother until her death twelve months ago had eaten up most of his civil service salary, leaving just enough for the occasional book purchase if the price was right. Everything else took a poor third place. He preferred not to think about the one time he’d allowed his indulgence to colour his judgement, and betrayal was such a harsh word. At the time, selling what he’d considered already outdated information had not seemed such a bad thing. . and as his conscience kept reminding him, it had been to an ally, so where was the harm?

He shook the unwelcome thoughts away as he crossed the shop floor. The bookseller was seated behind the counter at the far end, beneath a frosted window. He was scowling at a laptop and muttering under his breath. He wore a check shirt stretched across a broad chest, with a build unlike any bookshop owner Maine had ever met. There were no other customers, but Maine could hear the ripping sound of packaging tape being used down a flight of wooden stairs to his left.

The bookseller looked up and murmured a greeting with a hint of a smile. Reaching out a hand, he slid a hardback volume across the counter, wrapped in paper.

‘I think you’ll be pleased with this.’

Maine felt flattered by the recognition. But his excitement took precedence as his eyes settled on the book. It was a familiar feeling whenever something particularly special came his way. He picked it up, savouring the rustle of paper, the weight and texture, resisting the urge to sniff at the pages. Not unusually, he reflected that this precise moment, when taking hold of a book for the very first time, was better than sex.

The Man with the Golden Gun wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea, he knew that. But Fleming’s work still carried a solid value and showed no signs of diminishing.

Minutes later, after the inspection and payment, and the obligatory exchange of small talk with the bookseller, who turned out to be the shop’s owner, he walked out with his purchase carefully wrapped and clutched under his arm.

He paused to scan the table of seconds outside, reluctant to let the moment go. He wasn’t remotely interested in the items on display, but felt a small obligation, after what he had just acquired, to give a fleeting nod to the mundane before moving on for a spot of lunch. Maybe today he would take some wine to celebrate this acquisition — a nice Merlot, perhaps.

Another customer was already browsing the titles. Neatly dressed, his tanned fingers were walking along the spines, flicking them aside one by one.

‘I’m surprised at you, Keith,’ murmured the man. ‘You’re looking positively smug.’

Maine faltered, tempted to walk away but surprised at meeting anyone here who knew him. An office colleague, perhaps, who’d ventured this way. He turned, feeling a momentary twitch in his gut. Echoes of the voice came back to him from a long time ago, uncomfortably familiar. Nobody from the office, he was certain. Yet the face, in profile, was not one he recognised. A slim beard, tanned, weathered skin, heavy glasses and dressed in a lightweight summer suit, the man could have been anyone, passing time just like himself. Not foreign but from somewhere overseas, somewhere hot. And yet there was something disturbing in the stance and the smile. He felt his gut lurch.

Surely to God. .

Then the man had taken him firmly by the elbow and was leading him away, chuckling aloud for the benefit of any chance onlookers, a parody of the easy intimacy of an old friend meeting another after a lengthy gap. In reality, he was speaking between clenched teeth, a steely warning tone to his voice that left no room for argument.

‘Now, don’t make a scene, there’s a good chap,’ he muttered. ‘Or I might have to hurt you. You do know who I am, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Maine’s head was spinning. He didn’t know what to do. Felt a desperate urge to run, but knew that would be useless.

‘Good. Then you’ll know what I’m capable of. Shall we walk? Only I have an understandable aversion to staying in one place for too long. It’s my one weakness.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Maine’s voice was a strangled whisper as he felt himself propelled back along the passageway the way he’d come, powerful fingers digging into the soft flesh around his elbow, painfully massaging the nerves. This hadn’t been part of his lunchtime mission. How the hell had this man found him?