Lies and Retribution (Alex King Book 2) Read online

  The kitchen was tiny, but the couple had joked that they were never in enough to cook. Peter would grin lecherously and say: you’d better show me another room you’re good in then. The occasional Sunday breakfast or brunch, or the odd late night supper had been rustled up, but in truth the couple had eaten either on the hoof, or in one of the three canteens in MI5 headquarters at Thames House. And they had been on first name terms with various delivery drivers of many different cuisines. Caroline opened the fridge and took out the fixings for gin and tonic. She poured a large one, stacked the glass with ice and sliced some lemon into the glass, squeezing some excess juice in as well. She walked back to the bathroom and took a deep sip. She took off her clothes and discarded them on the floor. The bathwater was hot, and the gin and tonic was cold. She sunk down into the water. Her mind played over the events of the day. The only person she wanted to talk to was no longer here, and she played the events over, worked through the possibilities of what these people were up to, keeping her mind full and busy to prevent it from relaxing and taking on thoughts of loneliness, emptiness and an aching sadness she would have never imagined possible.

  22

  There was no way to approach the cottage other than head on. It’s openness, its utter bleakness was its security. The cottage in itself was small. It was squat in design, hunkered down against the elements. Obstinate and stubborn against the harshness of nature for two centuries. There was no garden. Forester doubted whether anything other than grass and heather could grow here anyway. Other than the cottage, a single leafless tree, a gnarled and thorny thing bent over at ninety degrees, was the only other object to obscure the flat and desolate terrain for miles. The waters of the loch were dark, almost black and only interspersed from the grey horizon by a million white horses lapping at the sky. Fifty feet of grey and white shingle surrounded the three sides, the expanse of water stretching out into infinity where it joined the sea.

  Forester could see that the lane had been poorly maintained. It left the narrow strip of tarmac and weaved around clusters of granite boulders on its route to the cottage. He supposed that when it was built it had been easier to dig and strip the ground around the boulders than waste days of manpower moving them. The lane looked to have many potholes, all of them filled with water. Forester hoped that they were not too deep for the Ford’s wheels and clearance. It was a hire car from the airport. He eased off the tarmac and found out at once that the car was going to struggle. He weaved his way as best he could, dropping into the potholes and grounding the underside of the vehicle as he crawled along. He noted that used hire cars were not the most sensible second hand purchase. After five minutes he was near enough to the cottage to see through the downstairs windows. It was a box with a large window either side of the front stable door and with two more directly above. The side aspect of the house had a small window to each gable end. Forester presumed one belonged to the kitchen and the other had been put in for aesthetics. It was hard to imagine many rooms inside the cottage other than a bathroom, bedroom, living area and kitchen. As he drew near he could see that an old and battered Land Rover Defender was parked close to the other side of the house and a small open fishing boat was pulled up on a trailer and parked in an alcove that had been dug out of the small hillock offset from, but only forty metres away from the shingle beach of the loch. It was less obtrusive than an outbuilding and provided the boat with shelter from the fierce wind coming from the west out at sea.

  Forester parked the Ford in front of the cottage. He switched off the engine and studied the cottage for a moment. He was out on a limb. Nobody knew he was here, and nobody would publically condone what he was about to do. He opened the door and instantly felt both the chill and force of the wind. As he got out he could feel the cold cutting through his suit. He looked at the front door, but there was no sign that anybody was in. He hoped he had not had a wasted journey.

  “I was wondering how long it would take,” the voice was behind him. Forester couldn’t see how he could have possibly missed him. The ground was so open.

  Forester turned around slowly, his right hand clearly in view, his left on the door frame of the car. It was a casual gesture, but he wanted the man to see he was no threat to him. “For what?”

  The man was ten feet away. He was above average height, broad and fit-looking, and dressed in khaki cargo trousers and a well-worn waxed jacket. His hair was short and dark and he had a week-long growth of beard that was salt and peppered with grey. His features were hard, chiselled and his eyes were the coldest blue-grey Forester had ever seen. They reminded him of a wolf. “For the past to catch up,” he said. He carried a side-by-side double-barrelled shotgun. It was broken safely over his arm in the manner such weapons were carried, but Forester could see that two cartridges were nestled in the action. The man carried a pair of dead rabbits by their hind legs.

  “Mister King, my name is…”

  “Forester. Deputy Head of Box,” the man interjected.

  Forester smiled. MI5 used to have the post office box number address of: MI5, Box 500. Most people in the armed forces or security forces still referred to them as ‘Box’. “You know me?” Forester asked.

  “Remember you.”

  “I wasn’t sure you would,” Forester said.

  “We met briefly at Jane’s funeral,” the man said. He dropped the rabbits on the ground and took the cartridges out of the shotgun. He snapped the barrels closed and tucked the cartridges into his pocket. He picked the rabbits up. “But I think you knew all about me a long time before that. Drink?”

  “Please,” replied Forester.

  The man led the way. He kicked off his boots just inside the door and stood the shotgun up beside them against the wall. Forester started to slip his shoe off and the man laughed. “Don’t bother with those, my boots are wet and my feet are cold, that’s all.”

  “How have you been coping?”

  “Since when?”

  “Since Jane passed, when else do you think?”

  “It’s been a while,” the man paused.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Surviving.”

  “Nice set up here,” Forester looked around the living room. “For the quiet life.”

  The room was clean and tidy, simply whitewashed with sanded wooden floorboards and contained nothing more than a chair, a sofa and bookshelves packed with books of all genres. In the corner was an easel and a stack of canvasses, pots of paints and a jar of brushes. An open fire was the main feature with a pile of logs and kindling.

  “I like it quiet.”

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  “And what else do you hear?”

  Forester smiled. “I thought there was talk of a drink?”

  The man nodded. “Coffee or tea?”

  “Nothing stronger? It’s been a hell of a couple of days.”

  “More reason to stay focused.”

  “Coffee, please.”

  “Black with one sugar, right?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I know things.”

  “So do I,” Forester said. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Careful. You don’t have to leave.”

  “Jane was an excellent judge of character you know.” Forester said. “She loved you, heart and soul. She was one of my best agents. She dropped the service like a hot potato because of her love for you.”

  “Or ovarian cancer,” the man paused. “She had it a while.”

  “She knew she had it when she left?”

  “Didn’t want a desk. She was damned if she was going to have sympathy and looks of concern. Awkward conversations.”

  “But you would have received her death in service pay. You would have been set up for life.”

  “I don’t care about money,” the man said. “I didn’t want to sit back and do nothing. I didn’t want to find an excuse not to work.”

  “Alex, that’s exactly the reason I’m here.”

 
***

  55°N 13°E Baltic Sea, fifty miles South East of Sjaelland, Denmark

  Max Clenton had not had any sleep. It had been plain sailing since Estonia but the hardest part of the journey lay fifty miles away in the narrow channel of Oresund, which ran between Denmark and Sweden. The bottleneck of water, dotted with hundreds of tiny islands, was spanned by many bridges and serviced by numerous ferries throughout the day and night. It could work both ways. There could be safety in numbers. The Lady Majestic could hide within the flotilla of craft travelling in all directions, or she could be spotted by the increased presence in authority vessels. Both Denmark and Sweden operated coastguard, police and fisheries vessels throughout the straight. The Lady Majestic was now called Bestræbelse, meaning endeavour in Danish, she also flew the Danish ensign above the wheelhouse. The new livery had been sign written in white paint and scuffed repeatedly to weather the look when it was almost dry. Clenton had to admit the crew had done well and the paintwork looked years old, worn by time and the elements.

  The glorious weather of early morning had given way to torrential rain and the lone wiper blade on the screen of the wheelhouse made little impression on the glass. The instruments and two laptops fixed to the cockpit showed radar and sonar readouts as well as depth and the topography of the ocean floor. The fish-finder showed a tremendous shoal of what he guessed to be Pollack or Cod judging from the shoal’s shape and mass. If he had been geared up for it he would have relished such a large shoal of fish, but The Lady Majestic had other tasks today and he would have to continue steaming on his current heading and speed. He looked at the satellite weather patterns for the North Sea. It did not look good. Three metre seas and building, sixty-mile per hour winds. He would rouse the crew to double check the cargo was strapped down tightly and that the hold was water proof and locked tight.

  A wiry hard-looking man in his fifties stepped up into the bridge and held out a mug with a rubber safety lid. “Coffee Boss,” he said gruffly.

  “Cheers,” he took the cup and sipped. “That’s ‘ansome, mate. Where’s Josh?”

  “Watching Deadliest Catch in the galley.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

  ***

  “Who else knows about the missing agents?”

  “Nobody yet. Not even relatives. Only the director, my opposite number in administration and three officers in administration. Oh, and my right-hand agent, Caroline Darby.”

  “And they were all intelligence agents?”

  “GIG. Some were undercover agents actually embedded in Islamic extremist groups. These were actual MI5 agents, not assets coerced or turned to spy. Others were General Intelligence Group handlers and liaison officers. Actual assets were not detailed in the file. However, if these agents were to be made to talk…” He shook his head. “Well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  “And the agents who were killed, they were drowned? Not killed and transported there?”

  “No.”

  “That would have been difficult. Drugged would be my bet.”

  “They were. Toxicology showed up a cocktail of sedatives including GHB mixed with cocaine.”

  “Still, logistically it would have called for professionals. And more than a few.”

  “That was Hodges’ view.”

  “I still don’t think it is wise to involve plod,” King commented. He had listened to Forester’s reasoning to involve the police inspector, but he hadn’t approved.

  “We have a dual investigation in progress, both Special Branch and the Security Service are investigating the shootings. We both lost personnel, it only makes sense. But the investigation into the drownings at the pier are under our control using Detective Inspector Hodges of the Met and his team.”

  “But the two are linked. No doubt about it,” Alex King paused. “You’re going to trip over each other, or worse still, not share information that may seem irrelevant to one team, but would join the pieces the other team have started to link together.”

  “I know. And to be frank, I was going to turn it over to Special Branch and moderate from the side lines. Let them handle the pier killings, maybe even cut Hodges loose altogether. But this new information changes everything. I can’t let this get into the mainstream. This cannot ever be reported by the media,” Forester looked at King earnestly. “That’s why I’ve come to you.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Exactly what you used to do for MI6.”

  “I don’t do that anymore.”

  “You’re not denying it.”

  King shrugged. “No point. You know enough about me, so it would seem.”

  “Jane told me what you did,” Forester said. “Or used to do.”

  “You can find someone else.”

  “No doubt.”

  King stood up. “Then our business is concluded.”

  “It’s not just missing agents, Alex. It’s not just somebody setting out to destroy MI5 and its effectiveness to defend our country. It’s so much more than that now.”

  “It always is. There’s always something more. The public get to know about ten percent of what the intelligence services prevent, deter or delay.”

  “Tell me Alex, why are you all the way out here? What made you quit MI6?”

  King looked at the man for a while. Forester seemed uncomfortable. King’s eyes were glacier cold. The MI5 officer looked away first. “Cards on the table, Forester. You know what I did, after my last mission, don’t you?”

  “I had my suspicions,” he said tentatively. “SIS seems to have had a huge regime change, possibly for the better. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  “I know Box aren’t fans of MI6. After a dozen years in the world’s Hellholes, I can see why.”

  “You were hung out to dry, weren’t you?” Forester commented.

  “And then some.”

  “They turned on you. Wanted to silence you.”

  “They tried. One of them was taking bribes, used me as a private assassin,” King paused. “I did what I did because I’m a patriot. I know in multi-cultural, politically correct Britain words like patriot are often seen as right-wing, sometimes racist, but that’s not it. I serve my country, the leadership, for the best interests of its citizens. If I kill it’s because it is needed. It is not so some privileged, self-serving, public school educated mandarin makes money out of me and the lives I take.”

  “And you removed them all. Left a hundred-year-old institution leaderless.”

  “Big boys’ games…”

  “Big boys’ rules,” Forester smiled. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

  “You won’t,” King said. “Because you’re leaving here after that coffee and we’ll never see each other again.”

  “You quit and moved out here. Have you been expecting a visit? Expecting one of your trainees to come and make a name for himself?”

  “Who would they send?” King smirked. “There’s only boys left there now. They’re not up to doing a man’s job. MI6 are changing, the new leadership will rely more and more upon drones and local assets in the flea-bitten, God forsaken countries where they conduct their business.”

  “True,” Forester said. “But there will always be someone like you. A man in the shadows with a gun.”

  “They’ll use special forces. Drone strikes are great for TV. I’m the last of the breed.”

  Forester drained his coffee, it was lukewarm. King watched him intently, but he did not get up. “A nuclear device was stolen in Belarus ten years ago and its disappearance was covered up,” Forester said. “This cover-up has been exposed.”

  “Better late than never.”

  “Indeed. A Russian GRU major named Uri Droznedov is trying to trace it. Believe me when I say he’s been pulling out all the stops. They’re not a feint hearted agency at the best of times. He has discovered that a former Soviet and later Russian Federation general called Vladimir Zukovsky was to have detonated it in the Ukraine, on the Crimea. It was intended to show the
world that Russia is strong and does not forgive treachery. It was hatched by an old, bitter and completely deranged former Soviet KGB general who was so prolific, he was part of cold war training lectures when I joined MI5 from university. They all thought he was mad back then!”

  “So what did this Zukovsky do with it?” King asked. “Or I suspect if you knew, you wouldn’t be quite so worried.”

  “Exactly. Zukovsky, as it turned out, pulled the wool over Russia’s eyes for his entire career. He was in fact from Chechnya and he’s a full blooded Muslim with Islamic extremist beliefs. He helped out the Mujahedeen and Taliban no end in Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation and he helped the Chechens to fight the Russians during that barbarous affair. He gave them information ever since. Yevgeny Antakov, this KGB lunatic, hired a bunch of mercenaries who had been fighting with ISIS in Syria. They needed a bit of breathing space and through a few contacts became guns for hire for a very short while. The moment Zukovsky found out what hardware he had at his disposal, and who these fighters were, he had them signed up for his own cause. And what better way to see out his last years than to meet his maker and the seventy-two virgins waiting in paradise than to deliver the mother of all terrorist attacks to the heart of Europe.”

  “Why here?”

  “He’s gunning for Britain. The rest of Europe were no real threat to anyone all those years. It’s only recently that they’ve got involved in the fight against Al Qaeda and Islamic State. But Britain and America have been at the heart of it for years. Way before nine-eleven. There is also the belief that our shores make us a fortress. These attacks over Europe are all well and good, but with freedom of movement over the continent, they are relatively simple to execute. They want to rock us at our very heart. Not only prove they can get to us, but get to us with a full blown ICBM. Detonated in a major city means the end of that city. Simple as that. The device is eight-hundred kilotons. Hiroshima and Nagasaki were estimated at fifteen kilotons.”