Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

If Alice Goodenough had been allowed to talk about her job to her friends in the pub – which she wasn’t – she would have to admit that it was not nearly as intriguing as it sounded. Most of her time was spent in her tiny office at her computer or on the phone. Sure, she dealt in secrets, but those secrets had to be typed up and analysed and shared with the appropriate personnel. Intelligence work was ninety-five per cent admin.

At least, that was what she’d have said before now.

Everything had happened so quickly. Stark had arranged it all with a few phone calls from the echoing Park Royal warehouse. The paramedics who had arrived in an unmarked ambulance within ten minutes to take away the unconscious Poliakov, guarded by the two MI6 operatives who specialised in that type of work. The car that had taken both her and Stark to Heathrow, their nearest airport, and directly on to the tarmac without the need for passports or security checks. The Learjet that had been waiting for them. What would her friends have thought if they’d seen her travelling like a pop star? What would her mum say? Not that they were on board to enjoy the facilities of the private jet. It was simply, Stark explained, the quickest way of getting from A to B. A being London, B being the British military base in Cyprus. ‘We have an operative extracting O’Brien from Jordan as we speak,’ Stark told her. ‘We need to be the first to debrief him.’

It was Alice’s first time on an army base. As they stepped off the Learjet into the warm Mediterranean air at four in the morning, local time, she was surprised at how busy it was. A military vehicle was waiting for them as they disembarked, one of many that were driving across the tarmac, their headlamps glowing yellow in the darkness. There was the thunder of a jet taking off, and Alice saw the lights of two helicopters circling overhead. The soldier driving the truck looked to Alice barely old enough to shave. He, for his part, couldn’t hide his surprise at the arrival of young black woman with colourfully braided hair, painted nails and a nose stud, accompanied by a stout, dapper, balding older man. He drove them to a secure area cordoned off by armed soldiers. There was a single-storey building here, constructed from sectional concrete panels. Another armed guy at the entrance. Alice could tell from Stark’s confident stride that he’d been here plenty of times before. He led her into the building, and she found herself in a busy military ops room. Maps on the walls. Soldiers in camo gear with headphones and boom mikes at laptops. All male. Unlike the driver, these men barely seemed to notice Alice’s arrival. They were too focused on their work. Stark walked up to an older guy on the far side of the room and had a brief conversation with him. The older guy looked over at Alice, who stood by the entrance feeling awkward but trying not to show it. He nodded and pointed to a door leading to another room.

It was a sparse waiting room. A couple of uncomfortable sofas. A broken coffee machine. Alice and Stark sat down. Stark put a peppermint in his mouth and hummed a tune.

‘What now?’ Alice said.

‘Now?’ Stark sounded surprised at the question. ‘Now we wait. And we hope our chap in Amman is up to the job. There was an RV scheduled in the Jordanian desert at 04.00 hours. We should expect them back here at about five thirty.’

They sat and waited. Exhaustion overcame Alice’s adrenaline and she found her chin dropping often to her chest, her eyes closing. Each time she jerked herself awake again, she saw that Stark was sitting calmly opposite her, his hands on his stomach, eyes open. She wished she could match his alertness, but she simply couldn’t. When six thirty came, he had to shake her awake. ‘They’ve arrived,’ he said. ‘I’ve asked for them to be brought directly to us.’

Alice roused herself. She was angry that she’d fallen asleep, but Stark didn’t seem to care. He was pacing the room now, hands behind his back, throbbing with anxious energy.

‘Is the General alive?’ she asked.

The question was answered for her as the door opened. Three people entered. They brought with them a stench of sweat and fuel.

If Alice thought she was an incongruous sight, she was nothing compared to this mismatched trio. She could tell which one was General O’Brien. Well built, well tanned. A thick head of silver hair. Handsome, no doubt about it, but he had a slightly wild look in his eyes you might not have expected. He wore an ill-fitting pair of khaki trousers and a black T-shirt. Both were torn and the trousers spattered with something dark. Alice had a nasty suspicion it was blood. His skin and hair were dirty and there were bags around his eyes.

There was a woman. She was blonde and very beautiful, in her early to mid-thirties. She was as dishevelled as the General. She was wearing what had once been an elegant shirt and jacket. Alice couldn’t imagine what she had been through to make her outfit look as it did now. As beautiful as she was, there was something about her that Alice didn’t like. Could she detect a coldness? Alice prided herself on being a good judge of people. She decided that this was a woman to be avoided if possible, and respected if not.

The third person intrigued Alice the most. He was tall and broad shouldered. Scruffy black hair and a day’s stubble. He wore a suit that was a little tight. It was torn in places and the shirt was spattered with blood and dirt. He had a steely frown. Dark eyes. A square jaw. She couldn’t stop looking at him.

‘Welcome to Cyprus, General O’Brien,’ Stark said. ‘Would you like a peppermint?’

‘No, I don’t want a damn peppermint. Who the hell are you?’

‘I’m a representative of Her Majesty’s Government,’ Stark said, smoothly avoiding having to say his name. ‘I hope you haven’t been overly inconvenienced?’

‘Overly inconvenienced?’ O’Brien laughed harshly. He pointed to the dark-haired man. ‘This guy hadn’t been so quick off the mark, Her Majesty’s Government would have assassinated me a few hours ago.’

Stark smiled blandly, admitting nor denying anything.

The dark-haired man stepped forward. ‘I’m Black and you know the rest,’ he said. ‘We need to talk. That is, I’m going to talk, you’re going to listen. Sit down.’

Alice could tell Stark didn’t like being spoken to like that. His cheek twitched but he said nothing. Just sat back on the sofa. Alice did the same. The other three remained standing.

Black spoke. Alice listened, first in astonishment at the extreme nature of their insertion into Amman, in alarm when she understood the role the blonde woman – it transpired that her name was Bethany – had to play in all this, in horror at the gravity of the conspiracy the General had revealed to them, and finally with a sense of growing panic when she learned that a major terrorist atrocity was going to take place today. She wasn’t stupid, of course. She could tell he was glossing over parts of his account. Why, for example, did he lead the Wagner Group into an ambush when he could have simply discarded their tracking device? She realised that she might have to accept that the reality of operations on the ground did not always align with the MI6 playbook. And anyway, if he hadn’t done that, they wouldn’t have learned that the attack had been brought forward.

Stark didn’t seem to share her concerns. He had his fingers pressed together and his eyes closed. She knew he was listening intently. When Black finished, Stark remained like that for a full thirty seconds, silently processing. Then he opened his eyes.

‘I take it, General O’Brien, that you are unwilling to share the location of the deepfake footage with me?’

The General pointed at Stark with a ‘this guy knows what he’s talking about’ gesture. ‘Damn right,’ he said. ‘Can you blame me?’