The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (9 page)

Milton paused. There was another sound.

A second car approaching.

Hiding would have been pointless; the bloody tableau would give him away. The car emerged from the mouth of the forest. It was a Renault Mégane painted blue with white and red chevrons screen-printed across the bonnet. The policeman in the front of the car must have seen him immediately. The Mégane came to a sudden stop fifty feet away.

Milton ejected the magazine and slapped in a replacement.

The officer opened the door and stepped out of the car, his hand on the butt of his holstered pistol. “
Arrét!
” he called out.

Milton did not pause to think. His reaction was hard-wired, a response that had been drilled into him across ten years so that now it was automatic, an expression of muscle memory without conscience, sudden and terribly deadly. He swung the rifle around and squeezed the trigger for a longer burst. The car was peppered with bullets, half a dozen slamming into the radiator and bonnet, another handful into the windscreen. The officer was struck in the face and chest, stumbling backwards and then dropping onto his back, where he lay for a moment, twitching horribly. Milton walked towards him, the gun cradled low, and put a final bullet into his head. Finally, the man lay still.

Peacefulness returned, ornamented now by the sound of the shards of glass that fell to shatter on the road from the breached windscreen.

Milton crossed the road to the Renault. He opened the boot and wrapped the rifle in its blanket, then stowed it away carefully beneath the spare wheel in the false floor. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and collected the ejected shell casings from the rifle. There were forty of them, and they were still hot to the touch. He dropped them into a small evidence bag. He crouched by Najeeb’s body and frisked her quickly and efficiently. He found her smartphone and a USB stick and bagged them both.

He went around to the other side of the car and lowered himself to examine al Moussa. The door was open, and as he raised his gaze from the body to peer inside, he saw a small, pale face staring back out at him. Milton did not rush. There was no need. The face belonged to a young boy, perhaps five or six years old. His skin and his hair were dark, and his features recalled those of his parents. He was cowering in the foot space, a streak of blood across his forehead as if it was paint that had been thrown over him. It was not his blood: it was blowback from his father.

Milton reached for the Sig Sauer he carried in his shoulder holster, his fingers brushing against the butt. The boy held his eyes. His face was white and quivering with fright, but he did not look away. He was brave. Milton felt a swell of vomit in his throat as his memory cast him back twenty years and a thousand miles away. He remembered another young boy, a similar age, the face peaceful despite the obscenity of his death.

He lowered his hand from the Sig and stepped back. He gently pulled the man’s body onto the muddy surface of the lay-by and went back to the car.

“Stay there,” he told the boy. “Help is coming.”

He closed the door. He checked that he had removed the evidence of his presence and, satisfied, got into the Renault, put it into gear and drove away.

He turned to the north, upwards, and drove towards the lake.

The man was on the bed, his hands clenched into claws over his heart and his teeth grinding over and over again. His eyelids flickered, and sometimes he moaned, strangled words that would have made no sense if anyone had been there to hear them. His body was rigid with tension, sweat drenching his body and the sheets. The dream came more often now, sometimes every night, always the same. He was lying prone, flat in the cushioned warmth of sand dunes. The sun was directly above him, a midday sun that pounded the desert with a brutal heat that made the air shimmer, the mountains in the distance swaying as if viewed through the water of a fish tank. The landscape was arid, long swathes of dead sand that stretched for as far as the eye could see. The only vegetation was close to the banks of the slow-moving river that eventually found its way into the Tigris. A single ribbon of asphalt was the only road for miles around, deep drifts of sand blown across it.

CONTROL SQUINTED through the windscreen of the XJS as he pulled into the empty fast lane and accelerated past a lumbering articulated lorry. The sky had been a bloody crimson last night, and when the sun returned in the morning, it had risen into a clear, untrammelled blue sky. There was heat and light in those early rays, and he angled the blind to shade his eyes. The radio was tuned to the
Today
programme and the forecaster predicted a week of searing heat. The seven o’clock news followed the weather—the lead item was the shooting of two tourists and a policeman in the French Alps. The victims had been identified, but as yet, a motive for the killing had not been found. It was “senseless,” a French policeman concluded.

That, Control thought, was not true. It was far from senseless. The operation had been the result of long and meticulous planning, six months spent cultivating the targets and gaining their trust and then weeks setting up the meeting. The objective had been successfully achieved, but it had not been clean. There were two errors that would need careful handling, errors that raised doubts over the performance of the man who had carried out the operation.

The fact that it was Number One was troubling.

It had been Control’s operation. He knew the targets intimately. Yehya al Moussa had been an atomic research scientist. Sameera Najeeb was an expert in microwave technology. They were married, and until recently, both had been in the employ of the Iraq Atomic Energy Agency. Following the fall of Saddam, they had been recruited by the Iranians, and with their help, the Ahmandinejad regime had made progress towards its goal of becoming a nuclear power. A decision had been made, somewhere in MI5, that the couple was too dangerous to live. That decision had been rubber-stamped in another anonymous grey office in Whitehall, and their files had been marked with red and passed to Group Fifteen to be actioned. It was important, and because of that, Control had selected Number One for the assignment.

As he turned the Jaguar off the motorway at the exit for Central London, Control reviewed his preparation. The two had come to France under the pretext of a long-deserved holiday. The real reason, however, and the reason for their diversion into the Alpine countryside, was to meet an employee of Cezus, a subsidiary of Areva, the global leader in the market for zirconium. That metal was used, among other things, for nuclear fuel cladding. Iran needed zirconium for its reactors, and al Moussa and Najeeb had been led to believe that their contact could supply as much as they needed. But there had been no employee. There was no zirconium. There was to be no meeting, at least not the rendezvous that they had been expecting.

Control tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel as he passed into London. No, he thought, the preparation had been faultless. The problems were all of Milton’s making. The dead
gendarme
would give the French police a strong personal motive to locate the killer; one of their own had been murdered. It would make them more tenacious and less likely to shelve the investigation when the trail went cold, as Control knew that it would. That was bad, but even worse was the boy. A child, orphaned by the killer, cowering in the car as he watched his parents’ murders. That was dynamite, the hook upon which the press would be able to hang all of their reporting. It ensured the story would run and run.

Control slowed and turned the Jaguar into the underground car park beneath a small building huddled on the north bank of the Thames. It was a sixties build, constructed from brick and concrete without style or grace. Five floors, anonymous. The car idled as the garage door rolled up with a tired metallic creak. The sign painted onto the door read GLOBAL LOGISTICS.

He drove inside, pulled up next to the secure elevator, and got out of the car. The lift arrived, and he embarked, pressing the button for the third floor. The lift eased to a halt, the doors sighed open, and he stepped out into the bustling open-plan space beyond. Analysts stared at monitors and tapped at keyboards, printers chattered, and telephones chimed incessantly. Control passed through the chaotic space to a corridor lined with thick carpet, following it around to the right so that the clamour behind him faded to a gentle hum of activity. A number of green baize doors faced the corridor, and he picked the one at the end, pushing it open and walking through.

David Tanner, his private secretary, looked up from his computer. “Morning, sir,” he said. Tanner was ex-army, infantry, like Control and all of the other operatives who worked for him. Tanner’s career had been forestalled by an IED on the road outside Kabul. It had cost him his right leg below the knee and the posting to the SAS that he had craved. He was a good man, easy-going and pleasant to share a drink with, and he guarded access to his commanding officer with fierce dedication.

“Morning, Captain,” he said. “What does the morning look like?”

“You’re speaking to the director at midday. Wants an update on the French situation.”

“I’m sure she does. And Number One?”

“Waiting for you inside, sir.”

“Very good.”

He went through into the office. It was a large room that offered an expansive view of the river. It was pleasant and light, close-carpeted in dove-grey Wilton. The military prints on the walls were expensively framed. A mantelpiece bore a number of silver trophies and two photographs in luxurious leather frames: one was of Control as a younger man, in full battle dress, and the other was of his wife and three children. There was a central table with a bowl of flowers, and two comfortable club chairs on either side of the fire. There were no filing cabinets, and nothing that looked official.

Milton was standing at the wide window at the other end of the room, smoking a cigarette and looking down on the broad sweep of the Thames. Control paused by the door and regarded him; he was dressed in a plain dark suit that looked rather cheap, a white shirt and a black tie.

“Good morning, Number One,” he said.

“Morning, sir.”

“Take a seat.”

He watched as Milton sat down. His eyes were implacable. He looked a little shabby, a little worn around the edges. Control recalled him when he joined the service. He had sported Savile Row suits, shirts from Turnbull & Asser, and was perfectly groomed at all times. He did not seem to care for any of that any longer. Control didn’t care what his agents looked like, so long as they were good at their job, and Milton was his best; that was why this latest misadventure was so troubling.

There came a knock at the door. Tanner entered bearing a tray with a pot of tea and two bone-china cups. He set the tray down on the sideboard, and after confirming that there was nothing else that Control needed, he left them alone.

Control got up and poured the tea, watching Milton as he did so. One did not apply for a job like his, one was chosen, and as was his habit with all the operatives who worked for him, Control had selected him himself and then supervised the year of rigorous training that smoothed away his rough edges and prepared him for his new role. There had been moments when Milton had doubted his own suitability for the position, and Control had not so much as assuaged the doubts as chided him for even entertaining the possibility that his judgment might have been awry. He prided himself on being an excellent judge of character, and he had known that Milton would be the perfect field agent. He had been proved right. Milton had started his career as Number Twelve, as was customary. And now, ten years later, all his predecessors were gone, and he was Number One.

Milton was tense. He gripped the armrest of the chair so tightly that his knuckles whitened. He had not shaved that morning, the strong line of his jaw darkly stubbled. “The boy?” he said.

“Traumatised but otherwise fine, from what we can gather. As you would expect. The French have him in care. We don’t think they’ve spoken to him yet. Did he see you?”

“Yes.”

“That could be awkward.”

Milton ignored him. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That he’d be there.”

“We knew he was in France. We didn’t think they would bring him to the meeting.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me that they might?”

“Remember who you’re talking to,” Control said angrily. “Would it have made a difference?”

Milton’s cold stare burned into him.

“There’s no point in pretending otherwise—the boy is a problem. The damned policeman, too. It would’ve been tidy without them, but now, well, they’re both loose ends. They make things more complicated. You’d better tell me what happened.”

“There’s not much to say. I followed the plan to the letter. The weapon was where it was supposed to be. I arrived before the targets. They were there on time. I eliminated both. As I was tidying up, the gendarme arrived. So I shot him.”

“The rules of engagement were clear.”

“Indeed, sir. No witnesses. I don’t believe I had a choice.”

“You didn’t. I’m not questioning that.”

“But you’re questioning something?” Milton said.

Again, his tone was harsh. Control ignored it. “You said it yourself. No witnesses.”

“The boy? Why I didn’t shoot him?”

“It might be distasteful, but you know how clear we are about how we conduct ourselves on operations.” Control was tense. The conversation was not developing as he had anticipated, and he was not in the business of being surprised. There was a whiteness around the edges of Milton’s lips. The blue eyes still stared blankly, almost unseeingly.

“I’ve seen a lot of dead bodies since I’ve been working for you, sir.”

Control replied with as much patience as he could manage. “Of course you have, Milton. You’re an assassin. Dead bodies are your stock-in-trade.”

He might not even have heard him. “I can’t keep pretending to myself anymore. We make decisions about who lives and who dies, but it’s not always black and white when you’re in the middle of it. As you say, the rules of engagement were clear. I should have shot him. Ten years ago, when I signed up for this”—the word carried a light dusting of contempt—“I probably would have shot him. Like a good soldier.”