Steven Savile - Silver

He made it sound so simple.

It wasn’t.

It was a geopolitical minefield.

The suits at Vauxhall Cross might deny Konstantin, but that didn’t mean the Germans would necessarily believe their denials. It came down to whether they believed he was British or Russian, which side he was currently working for and which government they wanted to hang out to dry. Deals could be made, perhaps. The only fly in the ointment was the fact that the public needed to see someone suffer.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sir Charles told him. “You take care of Maxwell, I will make the call. If there is anything that can be done, it will be done. But I am making no promises. Understood?”

“This is becoming rather a bad habit, Charles,” Control’s reedy voice said over the telephone. “I don’t suppose I need to remind you about the hour, or point out that civilized people are abed?”

“I’m not going to apologize,” the old man said. “You know what is happening. Those are my people out there.”

“And that’s a damned shame, but there’s nothing I can do about it. And even if there was, these midnight calls are hardly endearing, old boy.”

“How long have we worked together?”

“Longer, I am sure, than either of us would like to admit.”

“And how many times have I asked you for help, Quentin?”

“Oh, is that the card your playing? The ‘I’ve been a good and faithful servant all these years and you owe me’? I thought better of you.”

“You’re the second person to say that to me tonight. The first one is dead. Regrettably, she killed Maxwell.”

“Are you telling me Nonesuch was breeched?”

“That’s exactly what I am telling you.”

“Have you been compromised, Charles? Tell me the truth. There’s nothing to be gained by protecting your pride.” Quentin Carruther’s tone shifted, his affected tones suddenly more urgent, all hint of playfulness stripped from his words.

“The situation was contained, this time.”

“Are you sure?”

“I killed the intruder myself, Quentin. Her blood is still all over my clothes, and her corpse is in my bed. I couldn’t be much surer.”

“Well that’s something, at least.”

“I want him out of there, Quentin,” the old man said, shifting the subject back to Konstantin Khavin.

“There’s nothing I can do, Charles. I don’t run you boys anymore, not that I ever did, really. You’ve had far too long a leash for too long a time. This is the new world order, my friend, and there’s a new sheriff in town. Talk to him, talk to the Chief. If anyone can pull diplomatic strings it’s him. My hands are decidedly stringless. But don’t hold your breath. Your boy knew the risks when he signed up. Her Majesty is hardly about to claim responsibility for the papal assassin, now is she?”

“He didn’t do it and you know full well that he didn’t.”

“Neither here nor there, though, is it? The camera never lies. If he was innocent, the picture proving it would have been all over the tabloids by now. As it is they’re calling for his head as though he were John the Baptist.”

“I want him out of there, Quentin.”

“And I want Pretty Boy Floyd to come massage my aching feet. I suspect both of us are going to be disappointed, don’t you?”

“Someone in the crowd filmed it,” the old man said, trying a different tack.

“I am sure they did, but again, it doesn’t help us. Your boy wasn’t supposed to be there. He was operating without German consent. He assaulted the Israeli ambassador’s men in Berlin. There is photographic evidence of him breaking and entering into a dead man’s apartment, and enough to suggest he might be linked to the whole sorry affair. They want him, old boy, and there is sweet Fanny Anne that I can say or do that will change their minds. He was careless. He got caught.”

“So you’re saying he should have let the Pope die?”

“I don’t know whether you noticed, but His Holiness died. So yes, as far as Her Majesty is concerned, Khavin’s involvement in this debacle is nothing short of embarrassing. She could come out publicly and say, ‘Yes, we sent an agent to try to protect the Holy Father, but that agent failed.’ It doesn’t look good for a monarch to admit fallibility. Then there are the questions of why we didn’t turn everything over to the German authorities the moment he suspected something was going to happen on their soil. Things are fractious enough even sixty years on. To say that there is still bad blood between our countries is something of an understatement.

“We can’t make him disappear; that will just make the Germans look foolish. We can’t trade him one for one because it’s been years since we’ve held a German citizen as a gheight=f Her Majesty’s Displeasure. We can’t bully them into giving him back; how would that make us look? Give us back the man who just killed the Pope! Can you imagine? Just be grateful they don’t have the death penalty anymore. They’d have him hanging from a gibbet in the same town square, ironic given one of the purposes of the blessing, if you think about it.” Control had the decency not to chuckle at his own joke. “No one is going to come out of this very well, Charles. Now it is all about damage limitation. The eyes of the world are on Koblenz. Give them Khavin. They have it all on film, they get to look good, a fast efficient clean up, justice served and everyone is happy. That’s the long and the short of it.”

“Not everyone,” the old man said. “You don’t want me to turn this into a war, Quentin. He’s my boy. I lost one of mine today, and I refuse to lose another.”

“Is that a threat, Charles?”

“You know it is, old boy,” the old man said. “I suggest you make the call and don’t try and fob me off with deniability. You’ve got a duty to Konstantin.”

“I suppose you want me to mount an invasion? We could take Tel Aviv while we are at it, bring your girl home, a two-for-one special. Don’t be so naive, Charles. Khavin is nothing more than an unfortunate incident. He doesn’t even register as collateral damage. You need to understand, if you continue to push this, we’ll cut you off. It’s as simple as that. Ogmios will cease to be useful. You’ll be closed down.”

The old man breathed into the phone, letting his silence speak for him.

“In case the nuance was lost on you, that was a threat, dear boy,” Quentin Carruthers said.

“Or I could just send Frost around to your house tonight. It’s always tragic when an old man dies, but there’s something natural about dying in your sleep, don’t you think?”

“And to think I used to call you my friend.”

“There is no such beast in this game, Quentin. There are those that can help us and those that stand against us. I want my boy back, and I will do anything to make it happen. So, I say again, make the call, bring him home.”

“If I do this, and that’s by no means a given, Charles, if I do this, you’re through. I want everything you’ve got on this operation turned over to my people in the morning. I’ll close you down. You understand just what is you are asking?”

The old man didn’t answer him.

He hung up.

Time lost all meaning in the dark of the dungeon. Occasionally Orla heard something. Sometimes it would be the skitter and scratch of rats scurrying along the edge of the cell wall; other times it would be a whimper in the blackness, a voice, a sob, a cry. And then there were the nightmares as her head went down and she thought she’d slipped into the dark for real, only to hear him whispering in her ear, goading her, “Tomorrow you die.”

How could he not understand that tomorrow was all she wanted,ign="jusause that tomorrow was an end and she was done with the fear and the fighting?