The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

turned to gel on the coldest days. The idling engine was going through the petrol at an alarming rate, but he needed the heater on full. A quarter tank of fuel had gone in the time spent on tick-over alone.

 He checked his watch. He would have to call it. He had a hundred-mile drive ahead of him and the going would be slow. By his calculations, he had enough fuel to make it, but not if he encountered a problem or diversion. He had taken it to the limit and was already cursing having not called it a full hour ago. He would have had a comfortable buffer for his journey.

There were fifty-mile-an-hour winds heading south, a precursor to the arctic storm threatening to swoop down from the North Pole within the next week. The forecasters had pronounced it imminent and unavoidable. They were certain that it would not deviate. He had used a narrow enough window, and he did not want to chance blizzard conditions on the drive back. He was not a young man any longer, hadn’t been for some time. No, he was calling it and that was that. He wiped the windows around him for the hundredth time, cleared his vision for the dull monochrome hue outside. It was only daylight between eleven and three, and the Volvo’s headlights were both yellow and weak. Still, better than being blinded in the snow by halogen LEDs on modern vehicles. He took the Walther PPK pistol out from between his legs, placed it back in the glovebox and put the car into second gear for a gentle rolling start on the icy crust.

There was no phone signal out here and he would have to call from the car when he escaped the blackspot thirty miles further south. He had struggled making calls for the past two-weeks, before realising his phone would freeze and switch off after three or four minutes exposed to the temperature. There was a landline back at his lodge. Normally he would call the secure line, and his call would be routed through GCHQ and to River House, or what people would more widely know as the MI6 headquarters at Vauxhall Cross, London. Personally, he’d always called it Legoland.

He had worked there for many years. He had done things he’d rather forget, seen things he didn’t want to remember. He had seen the best agents come and go. And now, he was out in the field again. The wrong side of sixty, but worn and weary. Older than his years.

But still sharp.

Because the man he was to meet tonight had called that same number when he realised he was in trouble. And that man had not made his rendezvous.

And he would not be making the same mistake.

3

 

Ministry of Defence (MOD)

Whitehall, London

 

Amherst watched the woman from hospitality services pour the tea, dutifully position the plate of biscuits closer to them, and step back from the table.

“That will be all,” Villiers said curtly. “Thank you.” He did not look at her as he dismissed her, and he poured in his own milk and stirred the cup thoughtfully.

Amherst picked up the milk jug. “So, we’re agreed?” he said.

“Yes.”

“No need for our American friends to know?”

“Absolutely not. The less, the better. That goon in the White House won’t keep his mouth shut anyway, most likely send a Tweet and tip them off.”

Villiers shook his head. “What a world we live in, eh?”

Amherst glanced at his watch. He had known the chief of MI6 for as long as he’d held his own post of that of Director of MI5, or as it was officially known - the Security Service. His opposite number was a cautious man, and one never really knew how the man ticked. Amherst didn’t dislike the man on a professional level but wouldn’t be inviting him down to the country anytime soon. He never fully felt at ease in the man’s company, unsure how much to divulge, or nip at the bait he so often dangled in front of him. It was eleven-AM and the COBRA meeting had finished. Villiers had asked if he could have a word with Amherst on an unrelated matter. Amherst had proceeded with caution.

“What can I help you with, James?”

Villiers sipped some tea, placed it back down on the thick porcelain saucer. In MI5 they used white mugs, similar in quality to most motorway service stations. In Whitehall, they were afforded cups and saucers, but they were utilitarian destined for chain hotels with buffet breakfasts and airport drop-offs every twenty-minutes. In Downing Street, it was fine bone china.

Hierarchy and budget.

“The Russian president.”

“Nice fellow.”

“Aren’t they all?” Villiers said sarcastically and smiled. “Haven’t had much of a chance to assess this one yet.”

“No doubt.”

“The death of his predecessor was, well, sudden.”

“Certainly unexpected.”

Villiers murmured as he sipped his tea. “If you say so,” he said.

Amherst was a liar. He was paid to lie. Half of his personnel were taught how to. Even so, his neck bristled. “Meaning?”

“Your kidnapped agent last year,” he said nonchalantly. “Some people of mine did some digging. An agent in our South African station filled in a few gaps. Unwillingly, I might add. But things sort of caught up with him. A wicked little web he weaved for himself. Thought he could handle it personally. A right old pickle it was too. Missing agents, unsanctioned hits, misappropriation of government funds…”

“Things can quickly get out of hand in the field.”

“Don’t I know it,” Villiers agreed. “But your department had a merry little shindig, so it would seem. Where are your agents now?”

“Sabbatical,” he replied cautiously. “We thought it for the best.”

“Everybody involved?”

“The ones who count.”

“For the best, I’d imagine. As you say. Allow them to lay low,” he paused. “Like I