Enemy Agents (7 page)

Definitely Nice
.
Quarrel took it in. “I really just remembered a location.”

Anderson smiled. “Brilliant and humble. This is your big break, kid.”

“Not until I know he’s my man,” said Milton. “Do you want the job or not?”

Quarrel hesitated.

Milton smiled. “If you’re wondering, the answer is yes, they are all capable of killing you. If you take this job, you’ll very likely die if the traitor thinks you figured him out.”

Now Chris cracked a smile. “Actually, that’s exactly what I was wondering.” He paused, thought of Carol and Erica and the others, and looked Milton in the eyes. “I’m your man. Let’s have a look at those files.”

#

Milton’s top seven agents were the legends of the intelligence business. Quarrel had heard of three of them before, but all seven had startlingly impressive resumes. The three Chris had heard of were Samantha Boswell, William Thorpe, and Jack Hall. Boswell was the All-American girl: gorgeous, athletic, and brilliant. She had completed over two-hundred top-secret missions by the age of twenty-seven, before going into a lighter workload and a semi-retirement. Chris had heard her name during his time at a CSIS training camp a year earlier, where a particularly nimble backflip off a roof and into a window below was called a ‘Boswell entry.’

Thorpe was an old-timer, now almost sixty. He was English, serving in MI-6 for decades. He had their American file, and spent more time in America than at home. His relationship with CIB had become so intimate that he was allowed into their archives on several occasions. He was the master of seduction, and several women Quarrel had met in his years at the Service had told stories about Thorpe. Never any detail—that would break confidentiality—but Quarrel had seen enough professional women blush at Thorpe’s name to get the idea.

Quarrel now learned that Thorpe’s codename was Triple-Eight. He had been captured on the English Channel and held in Nice, until Quarrel’s information saved him. He had not been treated well by the captors, which led Quarrel to think he wasn’t likely to be the mole.

Jack Hall was the same man who had operated the training camp where Quarrel failed to graduate only a week prior. Mid-forties. American, he was brought into the CIA/CIB after a distinguished career in the Navy SEALS. He was a master tactician and was able to apprehend even the best-guarded target. Quarrel doubted Hall would be the traitor, but then maybe that was because he was the only suspect Quarrel had actually met. Maybe he was still seeking Hall’s approval. But when Quarrel thought about it a little more, an instructor at a course like Hall’s would be able to influence a lot of young spies—and possibly turn that influence into something dangerous.

The other four were strangers to Quarrel; either by being so good at their jobs that they were not well known, or by being less flashy than the first three. Their names were Peter Scarret, Khalid Saleb, Jessica Swift, and one simply called “Mr. Smith.” They all had their talents and their impressive lists of missions completed. The files also contained psych profiles outlining the myriad reasons why they were good agents, and in one case why they were not. Of course, those reasons led very directly to motives for betraying America.

Saleb, an Afghan by birth before immigrating to the USA at age eight, was now in federal custody. Six months earlier he had snapped and killed his partner. It was believed that Saleb was attempting to turn double. He had failed to escape because his partner managed to get a shot off before she died. She put the bullet in his brain. Saleb had gone into a coma for a month. He was now claiming amnesia—that he had no memory prior to waking up five months ago. Milton had ruled him out as the leak because he had been locked up long enough that he wouldn’t possibly know about Crowe’s mission. Still, Saleb could have leaked for years before his partner finally shut him down. Since he was already contained, Quarrel made Saleb a low priority. After all, this was the one suspect who definitely had nothing to do with the Ottawa bombing.

Jessica Swift was a cat burglar. Her file described “highest-level infiltration and safecracking.” However, she was not a killer. Her profile listed her as “unlikely to be capable of killing,” and “too empathetic for type-one jobs” while warning that exposing her to excessive violence would likely compromise her mental state. Quarrel put her to the bottom of the file as well.

Mr. Smith was a blank slate. He had no place of birth, no social security number, not even a next of kin. His psych record was on the same standard form as the others, but instead of a well-reasoned profile, it just said “as expected” in a man’s handwriting and then had a date stamp. Chris looked up from the file and over to Milton, eyebrow raised in an exaggerated arch. “Was this guy, Smith, grown in a lab or something?” Milton smiled and nodded. Chris moved to the next file.

Peter Scarret, codenamed “Shark,” was also a former SEAL. Unlike Hall, Shark Scarret had gone rogue twenty years ago and was captured by the CIB when he was trying to sell rocket propelled grenades to Iraqis militia. He was charged with treason, sentenced to death, and offered his role at CIB as an alternative to the firing squad. He spent the last twenty years serving dutifully in high-risk missions. He never betrayed CIB in all those years, likely because Milton had installed a small explosive charge in Shark’s neck. If Shark went off-mission, Milton could blow his head clean off from anywhere in the world. Not exactly the best way to get a man’s loyalty, but it seemed to have worked so far. Quarrel saw in Shark’s profile someone who would be likely to hate both America and the CIB, but it was a very real question whether Shark would take the risk of getting his head blown off just to get back at Harry Milton.

Nevertheless, Chris lifted Shark’s file and waved it through the air. “We have a winner. I’ll want to talk to him first.”

“I thought you would. I bought your plane ticket this morning.”

8

Thorpe strolled into a small office near the top of a London high-rise. It still hurt a bit to walk, but he wouldn’t let it show. He had to look invincible for the people here. He had to look like the man who always kept England safe.

The building was known as the London headquarters for a multinational bank, and was most definitel
y
no
t
known as the headquarters for a secret branch of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

Entering the reception room, Thorpe was glad to see that there was already a woman sitting in the waiting area. She was Kathy Cashmere, the coordinator for the ten Triple-Digit agents. Kathy was almost forty, with a soft, round face and a body that she worked hard to keep skinny. She wore a skirt suit as always, and immediately Thorpe wished she would one day abandon those long skirts for something shorter, with a slit up the thigh. Still, Kathy was warm and energetic, and would rescue Thorpe from having to be alone with the receptionist, Ms. Halstrom.

For almost thirty years, the Ringmaster’s secretary had been a rather plump woman with hair that Thorpe thought resembled a bird’s nest. Ms. Halstrom was joyless, followed every rule to the letter, and her scornful looks reminded Thorpe of the nuns from the orphanage where he’d grown up.

Ms. Cashmere grinned when Thorpe sat down next to her.

“Nice to see you again, Triple-Eight. You’ve lost weight.”

“Likewise, Kath,” he smiled his best cheeky smile, “although your weight loss was voluntary.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Have you seen him today? Has he seen my report?”

“Don’t know. He sent a message asking me to accompany you but that’s all he’d say.”

“Likely not good then.” Thorpe waved at Ms. Halstrom.

“Afternoon Ms. Halstrom. How is he today? Not particularly angry about everything that happened, I hope?”

Ms. Halstrom pushed her glasses up her nose and pursed her thin lips. She pulled out ear buds that Thorpe hadn’t noticed at first, and for a moment he wondered if the old bat had been listening to music, before realizing how silly the very thought of it was. For a joyless creature such as Ms. Halstrom, music and the workplace must exist in separate universes.

“I’m a receptionist, not a psychologist, Triple-Eight. And I’d appreciate a little quiet while I transcribe Triple-Four’s debriefing, if you don’t mind.” She gave him a condescending smile and put the buds back into her ears, turning her attention back to typing.

“Did you know that she was typing?” he whispered to Cashmere. “I had no idea. Just pulled those headphones out of nowhere.”

Kathy grinned like a schoolgirl who’d just seen a classmate get caught passing notes, then pointed to the lights on the wall beside the Ringmaster’s door.

“Let’s get on then. Light’s green.”

“Oh it is, isn’t it?” Thorpe stood, facing the two lights, one red and one green, which indicated whether the boss was available. “Guess we’ll just go in then,” he said loudly, turning toward Ms. Halstrom, “seeing how the light’s green. Wouldn’t want to trouble you to tell us when it turned green, since you’re so busy.”

The older woman scowled but said nothing, so Thorpe and Cashmere went into the old man’s office.

The Ringmaster was in his sixties; a thick, stocky man in a finely tailored suit. Thorpe knew little of the man’s life outside this room, but had long-ago deduced that Ringmaster never had any children with Mrs. Ringmaster, and therefore had much disposable income to spend on his exquisite wardrobe. Thorpe had complimented the old man’s suit from time to time, and Ringmaster always sighed, saying that when one worked in a financial building, one had to dress the part.

His office was small, with a window looking out at the river and the huge London Eye Ferris wheel. The other walls were panelled in lightly coloured wood, and the old man’s desk was a massive thing of black-stained oak. In such a bright office that desk was a black hole, and the eye was drawn toward it. Thorpe wondered sometimes if the man’s authority was derived more from that desk than from his rank.

Once the door was shut, Ringmaster flipped a switch and the light above the door turned from green to red. There was a subtle sound of machinery near the door as it locked and sealed, making the room soundproof.

“So what have you got to say for yourself, Triple-Eight?”

“Well, sir, I was wondering how I could get Ms. Halstrom to type up my debriefs for me.”

“Triple-Four lost two fingers last week. He’s still working on his typing skills so I had him record his debrief on tape. So I suppose if you want to cut off a few fingers we could arrange something.”

“Down to eight fingers? Well you do call me Triple-Eight. Might be fitting.” Thorpe smirked, but Ringmaster was having none of it. “Tell Four I hope he gets better.”

“Or perhaps you could tell me how you managed to get an informant killed, let Sidorov’s shipment vanish and lose both Sidorov and Morris all in one night? Or perhaps explain how you managed to get captured and forced me to send a team into the Continent. Were you going for some kind of record for the how many different ways you could botch the same mission?”

“That yacht should have been loaded. The girl gave me the details. Morris handling the whole thing himself…”

“You’re off Sidorov.”

Thorpe reddened. “Sir—”

“I said you’re off it!” Ringmaster stood up behind his giant desk.

“He starved me for days, sir.”

Ringmaster ignored Thorpe’s insistence. “Ms. Cashmere, I’m putting Triple-Eight on the job you have Triple-Seven working. Give him the details.”

Kathy hesitated, she was struggling to find the right words, and finally said, “Sir, isn’t that a bit… well it’s… a conflict of interest?”

“Do you think letting him go back after Sidorov after three days of torture would somehow b
e
les
s
a conflict of interest? Your job is to do what I tell you with my agents, not to second-guess me. Tell Thorpe what you know then go reel in Triple-Seven, got it?”

“Yes, sir.” She turned to Thorpe, her behaviour was still strange, awkward. “William, it’s Martin Mercier. He’s back.”

Thorpe froze up. Just the mention of Mercier’s name made him tense. “Mercier? We finally got something on the bastard?” Thorpe wasn’t sure if he was grinning or grimacing, but just the thought of running down Mercier made his heartbeat a little faster. He’d gladly forget about Sidorov for a shot at Mercier. Sidorov had tortured him for days. Mercier had tormented him for decades.

Cashmere continued her debrief: “Not much, frankly. Triple-Seven was looking into the theft of information from one of our contractors. Globection Corp. We use them to communicate with bases in Afghanistan, and someone’s been listening in. Triple-Seven picked up some stolen information. Some paperwork printed from Globection’s secure servers. He ran fingerprints and…”

Ringmaster cut in, “Martin Mercier has his fingerprints all over stolen intelligence. Seems he’s been digging into the satellites GX built for our Army comms. It’s the first time his name has even come up in twenty years, and I need my best man on the job.”

“He does mean hi
s
bes
t
man, William.” said Cashmere. “Which means you’ll have to keep a clear head about things.”

“But you
will
send me.” Thorpe was looking at Ringmaster with such intensity that he expected to be admonished for it. He wanted Ringmaster to know that even if he was removed from this assignment, he would be hunting down Mercier anyway.

“We’ll send you. Mercier tore this agency apart for almost ten years before he disappeared. I don’t intend to let him come back and do it again. I need someone to track him down and kill him, and that’s where you come in,” said Ringmaster. “And I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Oh yes. I’ll hunt him like a damned fox. And kill him like one.”

“Good. We’ll fly you into New York. Try to figure out who’s stealing from GX, and follow them back to Mercier. Do not let this bastard slip away again, understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Thorpe knew he shouldn’t smile when given a kill order, but he couldn’t help it.

#

It was almost seven at night when Thorpe got to St. Michael’s. The receptionist recognized him and waved him in, smiling. It was a very sterile place, cold and full of echoes, but Thorpe was used to it now.

Julia was by the window, staring out at the rain. Thorpe knelt down beside her, put his hand in her hair, and kissed her lips. Her eyes widened and focused on him, and the left side of her face curled up into the warmest of half-smiles.

“It’s been too long, I know. But I’m back for now before they send me to America.”

His hand was still in her hair, gently cradling her head. His middle finger ran a soft circle around the bald spot on her scalp, the entry wound where the bullet had gone into her brain. Slipping the hand lower, he found the gold chain around her neck and fished it out from under her shirt, turning it until he found the clasp.

“They finally let me have what we wanted. They’re sending me after Martin Mercier.”

Thorpe let the gold ring slide off Julia’s necklace and into his palm. He slipped the band over his left ring finger before re-clasping the necklace back around her neck. Her mouth opened, her half-smile showing those lovely, perfect teeth. She made a sound like a word, which was so rare it made him smile and his eyes well up. He took her hand in his, their wedding bands a perfect match and kissed the soft skin on the back of her hand.

“They’re finally letting me go after the man that did this to you.”