Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

Alice had worked late, as usual. She had left the MI6 building just after ten and taken a train from Vauxhall to Mitcham where she lived alone in a tiny one-bedroom maisonette. She’d called her mum who told her, as she did every single day, that Alice was working too hard. Then she’d eaten some cold pasta bake from the fridge, drank a cup of herbal tea, removed her make-up and fallen into bed.

Alice’s phone was on silent, but it still vibrated noisily on her bedside table as a call came through. She groped for it in the darkness, almost dropped it, then answered it sleepily. ‘Hello?’

‘Alice, my dear!’

‘Who is this?’ Her bedside clock read 11.55.

‘It’s me, my dear. Mark. Mark Cawley.’

His voice was slightly slurred. He’d been drinking. Alice quickly calculated that it must be just after 2 a.m. in Moscow. ‘It’s late, Mark,’ she said.

‘Never too late to hear your delightful voice. When are you going to visit me in Moscow? I know a cracking—’

‘Why are you calling, Mark?’ She was fully awake now and keeping her voice level and patient. This was by no means the first time an officer in the field had contacted her in a state of inebriation. Drunkenness, for many of them, seemed almost unavoidable. The best way to persuade a target or informant to release information was to ply them with alcohol. It worked both ways, of course. You could hardly pour your guest vodka all night, while drinking nothing but sparkling water yourself. A spy needed many attributes: bravery, inquisitiveness, tradecraft. But as much as anything else, they needed a sturdy liver and the ability to hold their drink. ‘It’s not really to hear my delightful voice, is it? Do you have information for me? Mark? Mark, are you there?’

There was no reply, but she could just make out the sound of splashing water. She realised he was urinating and screwed up her nose in distaste. Holding the phone between her ear and shoulder, she took the notepad and pencil that she always kept by her bed and waited for him to finish. ‘Where was I?’ he said finally.

‘In the bathroom?’

‘Ah, yes, excuse me, my dear. Nature calls!’

‘Do you have information for me, Mark?’

‘I certainly do.’

‘Is it safe for you to talk?’

‘I checked into a hotel room for that precise purpose. I’ve been with my informant, Roman.’

A pause.

‘And?’ Alice said, trying to keep her voice calm.

‘Dreadful place he lives in. One of those Soviet monstrosities on the edge of Moscow. Concrete as far as the eye can see. No wonder the poor fellow wanted to get blasted. He’s been out of work for a year. Wife and three kids to support. Hardly room to swing the proverbial cat. Walls like cardboard.’

‘Did he know anything about Poliakov?’

‘They’re old mates, my dear. Went to school together. Of course, that was back in the eighties, before glasnost and peri . . . peri . . . ’ He tried a few times to say the word perestroika , then gave up. ‘He became a teacher while Poliakov went into government work. But they stayed in touch and their children are friends.’ Cawley belched fruitily. ‘S’cuse me,’ he said.

‘So has he heard anything?’

‘Eh?’

‘Your informant. Has he heard anything about Poliakov?’

‘Bloody clever kids,’ said Cawley. ‘We should tap them up for GCHQ. Course, the Russkies will get there first.’

‘ Mark! ’

‘Computer mad. Boffins, really. They’re young. They drive my informant to distraction, you know. Always playing computer games on these damned Xbox contraptions. Did you know that they play with their friends online wherever they are in the world, and even record their gaming sessions?’

Alice smiled to herself. Cawley was a decent agent, but he was one of the old school and he was showing his age with his astonishment at the simplest piece of technology. She refrained from telling him that she herself had done the same thing with her friends ten years ago, hoping instead to keep him on track.

‘Poliakov, Mark?’ she said.

‘Sorry, my dear, sorry. So, it turns out that one of my informant’s children, Sergei, has been playing online computer console games with one of Poliakov’s children.’

Alice fell silent, and now it was Cawley’s turn to nudge her. ‘My dear?’

‘How recently?’

‘Yesterday.’

Relief flowed through her. Alice knew Poliakov was a typical FSB hood. A bad guy who had done bad things. She wasn’t fooled by the slimness of his MI6 file, and his disappearance was hardly regrettable. But she didn’t feel the same about his family. Chances were, they didn’t know a thing about his secret activities. They certainly didn’t deserve to be killed just because Poliakov had been exposed, which Alice had presumed had happened. But it sounded as if the family might – might just – still be alive.

‘How certain was your informant?’

‘He was drunk, my dear. Very drunk. Poor fellow could barely string a sentence together. Feel rather sorry for him, for the way he’ll feel in the morning.’ He chuckled. ‘Feel rather sorry for myself, too.’

‘How certain was he, Mark?’

‘Neither certain nor uncertain,’ said Cawley. For the first time during their conversation, Alice had the sensation that although he sounded drunk, his mental faculties were all in order. ‘He rather mentioned it in passing. Mumbled it, really. I didn’t have the impression that he was trying to feed me false information. I didn’t have the impression he was trying to feed me any information. It was just a drunken comment and then we moved on.’

Alice’s mind was moving rapidly. Mark Cawley might be an un-PC old dinosaur, but this was good work. ‘Listen to me carefully, Mark. I need you to go back to your informant’s apartment. Do it first thing in the morning if you can. The kid’s Xbox will be connected to an external hard drive. I need you to get that drive for me. If the kid’s been recording gaming sessions with Poliakov’s son, we need to hear that conversation.’

‘My dear thing,’ said Cawley. ‘I’m a step ahead of you.’

‘What?’

‘I have the drive in front of me as we speak. Roman doesn’t quite have my iron bladder. I popped into the other room and took it while he was splashing his boots.’

Alice smiled again. She was more certain than ever now that Cawley’s drunkenness was in part an act. He’d been having her on. ‘You need to upload the contents of that drive for me,’ she said.

‘As it happens,’ said Cawley, ‘I have my laptop open in front of me. Not for the usual reason single men in hotel rooms have their laptops open, you understand.’

Alice was out of bed now, pulling on her jeans. ‘Upload it to the secure server,’ she said. ‘I’ll be at the office in an hour. And Mark –’

‘Yes, my dear?’

‘Good work. Great work.’

‘Thank you, my dear. I haven’t forgotten about that lunch you promised me, next time I’m in London.’

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Alice said as she squeezed her feet into her Fila trainers. And she even half meant it.

She hung up, finished getting dressed and ordered an Uber.

EIGHT

01.30 hrs, Eastern European Time.

The Hercules was heading south. They were somewhere over Lebanon, heading down to the Israel–Jordan border. It was time to get ready.

Danny gave the quad bike a final once-over – two loadies were doing the same – then headed over to Bethany. They had to communicate with gestures due to the noise. Danny fitted her tandem harness, helmet and visor. He showed her how to clip her oxygen canister to the side of her body and fit her mask with its elephant-trunk oxygen tube to her face. He also showed her how to strap both their packs to her legs, then encouraged her to sit down while he prepared himself. The tandem chute was bigger than a regular one, and slightly heavier. Its strapping was as thick as seatbelts. He put on the pack, then clipped his suppressed C8 assault rifle to his side, his pistol already securely holstered across his chest. He put his boxy altimeter on to his wrist – it told him they were at 27,000 feet and climbing – then strapped his GPS device next to it. He fitted and checked his own helmet, oxygen canister and mask, then looked over at the main loadie. He was holding up ten fingers, which told Danny they were ten minutes out. At the back of the aircraft, a red light appeared. Two of the other loadies were cracking lumisticks and tying the glowing plastic tubes to the top of the quad bike. Danny moved over to Bethany and got her to stand up. He checked that the day sacks were firmly strapped to her legs, then stood behind her and clipped the tandem harness together. He noticed the familiar smell of her sweat. It smelled good.