the cheap LED radio alarm beside the bed. ‘It’s actually very late, Wilberforce. Haven’t been to bed yet.’
‘Well I have some news for you.’
Fleming lowered himself to the bed. It groaned under his weight. ‘Good news, I hope.’
‘We think so. A lead on the Kessler Document.’
‘A lead?’ Fleming was suddenly filled with nervous energy. He got to his feet and started pacing along the narrow stretch of garish carpet between the end of the bed and a wooden
unit housing a TV and a minibar.
‘It’s all a bit cryptic, but we’ve been contacted by someone claiming they know where it is.’
‘Well, well.’
‘Not sure we can trust it, of course.’
‘Understood. But I assume you are doing the checks?’
‘As best we can, Adam.’
Fleming sighed wearily.
‘The Yanks treating you well?’
‘You received my communiqué? The marine archaeologists are safe and well and the artefact is secure.’
‘The whole thing almost went arse up at the airport though, I heard.’
‘Almost. So, who’s behind this lead?’
‘No names, just initial contact, someone reaching out to us; calls himself “Zero”.’ Wilberforce exhaled dismissively through his nostrils. ‘Could be a dead end, of
course. I’ve got Serge and MacCabe on it as we speak.’
Fleming was unable to stifle a yawn, tiredness suddenly descending.
‘Get some sleep, old chap,’ Wilberforce was saying. ‘With a bit of luck I’ll have something concrete for you when you wake up.’
22
By the time Kate, Lou and the British agent Adam Fleming had left his office, Jerry Derham was on to his fourth strong coffee since midnight and he felt wired. Through his
window the lights of the base threw a massicot glow across the horizon dotted with the grey hulks of warships; the stars and a luminous low-slung moon shone in the sky.
Jerry twirled a pen around his fingers absent-mindedly. There was little he could do at this hour. He got up from his desk and walked out into the corridor. It was quiet, just the whirl of air
conditioning and the occasional beep of a computer as an email arrived in someone’s office. A security guard passed the end of the passage, glanced at Derham and saluted.
In the kitchen, Jerry poured himself a glass of chilled water and retraced his steps back to his office. He placed the drink on a side-table, dimmed the lights and stretched out on the sofa
along the wall opposite the window. The last thing he remembered before sleep swept over him was the twinkling of Venus close to the top of the window frame.
He roused himself with a start, caught a glimpse of the wall clock telling him it was 7.34. Rubbing his eyes, he leaned over, took a gulp of the now tepid water on the side-table, stood up and
walked around his desk.
‘It might be too early,’ he muttered, ‘but worth a try.’
He tapped the numbers into his desk phone and leaned back as the line connected and rang. He was just about to hang up when a voice came down the line.
‘Marsha Edwards, Langley.’
‘You’re at work very early on a Sunday.’
‘Jerry! So are you!’ The woman gave a short peal of laughter. ‘To what do I owe this honour . . . Captain?’
Jerry loved Marsha’s laugh. It reminded him of college days. They had been an item for a while, but now they were happy just being great friends. Not that they saw much of each other since
she had been promoted to the rank of senior supervisor at CIA headquarters, Langley. These days it seemed she was at work 24/7.
‘Just need some info, Mar.’
‘What sort of info?’
‘Background check on an MI6 operative.’
‘Shouldn’t you be calling London for that, Jerry?’
Derham laughed. ‘I think that might be stretching the Special Relationship a little too far.’
‘I guess. OK. It’ll take a few minutes. Lucky you caught me early. Got twenty-six newbies to initiate at eight-thirty.’
‘Oh, lucky you!’
It took close to fifteen minutes before Jerry’s email sounded and
‘Well I have some news for you.’
Fleming lowered himself to the bed. It groaned under his weight. ‘Good news, I hope.’
‘We think so. A lead on the Kessler Document.’
‘A lead?’ Fleming was suddenly filled with nervous energy. He got to his feet and started pacing along the narrow stretch of garish carpet between the end of the bed and a wooden
unit housing a TV and a minibar.
‘It’s all a bit cryptic, but we’ve been contacted by someone claiming they know where it is.’
‘Well, well.’
‘Not sure we can trust it, of course.’
‘Understood. But I assume you are doing the checks?’
‘As best we can, Adam.’
Fleming sighed wearily.
‘The Yanks treating you well?’
‘You received my communiqué? The marine archaeologists are safe and well and the artefact is secure.’
‘The whole thing almost went arse up at the airport though, I heard.’
‘Almost. So, who’s behind this lead?’
‘No names, just initial contact, someone reaching out to us; calls himself “Zero”.’ Wilberforce exhaled dismissively through his nostrils. ‘Could be a dead end, of
course. I’ve got Serge and MacCabe on it as we speak.’
Fleming was unable to stifle a yawn, tiredness suddenly descending.
‘Get some sleep, old chap,’ Wilberforce was saying. ‘With a bit of luck I’ll have something concrete for you when you wake up.’
22
By the time Kate, Lou and the British agent Adam Fleming had left his office, Jerry Derham was on to his fourth strong coffee since midnight and he felt wired. Through his
window the lights of the base threw a massicot glow across the horizon dotted with the grey hulks of warships; the stars and a luminous low-slung moon shone in the sky.
Jerry twirled a pen around his fingers absent-mindedly. There was little he could do at this hour. He got up from his desk and walked out into the corridor. It was quiet, just the whirl of air
conditioning and the occasional beep of a computer as an email arrived in someone’s office. A security guard passed the end of the passage, glanced at Derham and saluted.
In the kitchen, Jerry poured himself a glass of chilled water and retraced his steps back to his office. He placed the drink on a side-table, dimmed the lights and stretched out on the sofa
along the wall opposite the window. The last thing he remembered before sleep swept over him was the twinkling of Venus close to the top of the window frame.
He roused himself with a start, caught a glimpse of the wall clock telling him it was 7.34. Rubbing his eyes, he leaned over, took a gulp of the now tepid water on the side-table, stood up and
walked around his desk.
‘It might be too early,’ he muttered, ‘but worth a try.’
He tapped the numbers into his desk phone and leaned back as the line connected and rang. He was just about to hang up when a voice came down the line.
‘Marsha Edwards, Langley.’
‘You’re at work very early on a Sunday.’
‘Jerry! So are you!’ The woman gave a short peal of laughter. ‘To what do I owe this honour . . . Captain?’
Jerry loved Marsha’s laugh. It reminded him of college days. They had been an item for a while, but now they were happy just being great friends. Not that they saw much of each other since
she had been promoted to the rank of senior supervisor at CIA headquarters, Langley. These days it seemed she was at work 24/7.
‘Just need some info, Mar.’
‘What sort of info?’
‘Background check on an MI6 operative.’
‘Shouldn’t you be calling London for that, Jerry?’
Derham laughed. ‘I think that might be stretching the Special Relationship a little too far.’
‘I guess. OK. It’ll take a few minutes. Lucky you caught me early. Got twenty-six newbies to initiate at eight-thirty.’
‘Oh, lucky you!’
It took close to fifteen minutes before Jerry’s email sounded and
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