first man, who was reaching for his fallen weapon. One punch to the throat floored him. There were more outside. He slammed and bolted the front door. Hauling the parachute rig from its hiding place, he burst out into the back garden. To left and right more men appeared, all armed, coming round both sides of the house. Arkell tugged the harness over his shoulders and swiftly buckled the straps as he ran to the cliff edge. Then, reaching back to free the pilot chute, he realized what was wrong.
He looked round and saw the trail of cord and parachute silk reaching all the way into the house. The canopy was already half-deployed.
Shrugging off the useless rig, he stared furiously at Wraye. One of the men thrust an HK45 in his face and yelled, ‘On the ground! Now!’
Arkell considered him: the nervous energy, the lust for action. His weapon was too close. Arkell could have taken it off him with a quick swipe. But the other men had gathered round, nondescript ex-soldiers’ clothes, assault rifles sensibly deployed. Silently, Arkell laid himself flat across the grass.
Wraye took the semi-automatic from her lieutenant’s rigid hand. ‘As you can see, I didn’t entirely trust you either.’ She crouched beside Arkell and put the muzzle to his forehead. Her voice dropped to a whisper that only he could hear. ‘If I wanted you dead, this is how easy it would be.’
He stared up the line of her arm, unblinking.
‘I never received that Porthos message. Do you understand? I did not blow up your house or kill your wife, nor did I commission anyone to do it for me. If we’re to work together again, I need you to be clear about that.’
His eyes never left hers.
‘And we’re going to have to find a way to rebuild the trust we once had.’
Slowly, he nodded.
‘How many names on that list?’
‘Five.’
‘All right, then.’ She stood up. ‘Report when you’ve spoken to Boim.’
PART II: THE HUNT
11
LONDON, ENGLAND – 8 June
‘It will almost certainly be designated Retracted,’ Wraye had said on the flight back from Milan. ‘You do know how to pull up Retracted terror alerts, don’t you?’
Not for the first time, Edward Joyce felt aggrieved at how little credit he was given by those whose good opinion he craved. He had been one of the highest rated students in his IONEC, earning praise from the DS for his diligence, attention to detail and analytical skills. That was why Wraye had picked him, after all. Her little talk about gathering together a group of capable and loyal people had touched his vanity, and he had been right to feel proud – he was the only recruit she had requested for the East European Controllerate that year. In return he’d given her everything, committed himself body and soul to the Madeleine Wraye flag.
He had enjoyed three heady years of rapid career development in her slipstream before looking up from his Balkan political corruption reports one day to discover she was gone. There had been no suggestion that Joyce was implicated in her proscribed activities. But the new controller did not want Wraye’s acolytes, and nor did any other controllerate or section head. He was offered a couple of invisible station postings that he strongly suspected to be General Service roles, unthinkable for a fast stream Intelligence Branch officer. By refusing them, he lost whatever remaining credit he might have had with Jane Saddle, HPD and the other clandestine apparatchiks who held the threads of his fate in their bloodless hands.
The transfer to Treasury had struck him as a surreal joke. He was an expert in Russian military force readiness, in the politics of eleven nations, in Moscow’s intelligence-gathering operations across Europe. He had been taught to resist interrogation, to lie, to cultivate agents, even to kill. And all they wanted him to do was shuffle money?
His first impulse was to resign, to throw in his lot with Wraye and her newly formed consultancy. She did indeed offer him an
He looked round and saw the trail of cord and parachute silk reaching all the way into the house. The canopy was already half-deployed.
Shrugging off the useless rig, he stared furiously at Wraye. One of the men thrust an HK45 in his face and yelled, ‘On the ground! Now!’
Arkell considered him: the nervous energy, the lust for action. His weapon was too close. Arkell could have taken it off him with a quick swipe. But the other men had gathered round, nondescript ex-soldiers’ clothes, assault rifles sensibly deployed. Silently, Arkell laid himself flat across the grass.
Wraye took the semi-automatic from her lieutenant’s rigid hand. ‘As you can see, I didn’t entirely trust you either.’ She crouched beside Arkell and put the muzzle to his forehead. Her voice dropped to a whisper that only he could hear. ‘If I wanted you dead, this is how easy it would be.’
He stared up the line of her arm, unblinking.
‘I never received that Porthos message. Do you understand? I did not blow up your house or kill your wife, nor did I commission anyone to do it for me. If we’re to work together again, I need you to be clear about that.’
His eyes never left hers.
‘And we’re going to have to find a way to rebuild the trust we once had.’
Slowly, he nodded.
‘How many names on that list?’
‘Five.’
‘All right, then.’ She stood up. ‘Report when you’ve spoken to Boim.’
PART II: THE HUNT
11
LONDON, ENGLAND – 8 June
‘It will almost certainly be designated Retracted,’ Wraye had said on the flight back from Milan. ‘You do know how to pull up Retracted terror alerts, don’t you?’
Not for the first time, Edward Joyce felt aggrieved at how little credit he was given by those whose good opinion he craved. He had been one of the highest rated students in his IONEC, earning praise from the DS for his diligence, attention to detail and analytical skills. That was why Wraye had picked him, after all. Her little talk about gathering together a group of capable and loyal people had touched his vanity, and he had been right to feel proud – he was the only recruit she had requested for the East European Controllerate that year. In return he’d given her everything, committed himself body and soul to the Madeleine Wraye flag.
He had enjoyed three heady years of rapid career development in her slipstream before looking up from his Balkan political corruption reports one day to discover she was gone. There had been no suggestion that Joyce was implicated in her proscribed activities. But the new controller did not want Wraye’s acolytes, and nor did any other controllerate or section head. He was offered a couple of invisible station postings that he strongly suspected to be General Service roles, unthinkable for a fast stream Intelligence Branch officer. By refusing them, he lost whatever remaining credit he might have had with Jane Saddle, HPD and the other clandestine apparatchiks who held the threads of his fate in their bloodless hands.
The transfer to Treasury had struck him as a surreal joke. He was an expert in Russian military force readiness, in the politics of eleven nations, in Moscow’s intelligence-gathering operations across Europe. He had been taught to resist interrogation, to lie, to cultivate agents, even to kill. And all they wanted him to do was shuffle money?
His first impulse was to resign, to throw in his lot with Wraye and her newly formed consultancy. She did indeed offer him an
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