Chapter 17
Friday, March 9th 03:30,
Moscow, Russia.
The night shadows covered every corner of Moscow as Patrice Marraud slowly crouched down in Alexandrovsky Gardens and looked through his compact set of night vision binoculars. Sure enough, Salenko and his mystery companion appeared and then got into a nearby black saloon. Marraud wasted no time and quickly made his way to his car, a rundown cream coloured Lada. Every time he saw it, he remembered the standard jokes about Lada cars, but the car did one thing really well, it didn’t attract any attention.
Marraud watched the car pass his position, and a smile came to his lips. Salenko was driving it. The image showed him who was in charge. Marraud’s mind sparked into activity as twenty questions all flashed by in a matter of seconds. Where could they be going at this time? Why is Salenko driving? What about security? The latter made Marraud wary of the mystery man’s background and abilities. Taking the potential next President of Russia out for a drive in the early hours of the morning with no security was some move and demanded respect. Whoever the individual was, he had to be supremely confident of his abilities and clearly felt able to protect Salenko from any threat.
Marraud kept the Lada at a respectable distance and slowed down as he crossed the Vodootvodny Canal. For a moment he saw a light in the rear-view mirror but when he checked again, he saw nothing. Was there someone behind him? He didn’t want to lose the chance he had to find out more and pressed on. The car ahead turned off the main road, and he did the same and turned into Yakimanka Bol Street, which was completely deserted. Panic set in slightly as he coasted the car down the quiet street as it wouldn’t be hard to be detected with no other activity around. Marraud saw light ahead, in a three-storey house in Zemsky per Street just a few hundred feet away. Taking a chance, he pulled over and parked the car, desperate to avoid detection. With his binoculars, he watched carefully. To his delight, he saw the saloon car park alongside the house some distance away, and the two passengers stepped out. Marraud kept his attention locked onto the mystery man and took note of his thorough inspection of the house and its surroundings. For a good thirty seconds, he made sure of everything with meticulous checks. This is no personal assistant or chief of staff.
Several minutes passed before Marraud left his car and made his way to the back of the house. Risk taking was part of the game but that didn’t mean he liked it, every bone in Marraud’s body knew what the consequences would be if he were caught. Slowly, he crept around the house and came to a window where he heard voices. Doing everything possible to make no sound whatsoever, Marraud squinted through a crack in the frame and saw Salenko and a senior Russian politician in the room. The name escaped him, but Marraud had seen him before. His blue eyes scanned for the mystery man, and he almost jumped when he realised the individual was right next to the window, with his back turned. All the hairs on his neck stood on end as he realised how close he was to Salenko’s companion. As the conversation continued, Marraud translated every word in his head and kept very, very still.
A street away, a Russian FSB agent (formerly KGB), crept low in the bushes and watched Marraud through his own pair of night vision binoculars. Denyer had been following the man for the last few hours and took in as many details as he possibly could. He was dressed all in black, his grey hair was covered by a black hood and his eyes never strayed from his target.
Moments passed, then he moved his young, agile frame and trudged back to his parked car. Within minutes, he was on the phone to his source at the FSB to match a name to the face and then he would double back and tell Akira…
Elliott looked to have aged a decade as he watched in horror at several screens that displayed the details of Operation Reprisal’s failure. Another showed the casualty list of agents from the operation. The Chief of MI6 looked away from the displays and tried to clear his mind from the mess of thoughts that focussed on S.U.C.O.’s first failed operation in a very long time.
Throughout both his reigns, the service had maintained a high level of performance and kept attention to a minimum. Two years ago, a new Prime Minister had been elected and had shown, on more than one occasion, disapproval of how Elliott was choosing to run MI6. From what he could tell, the PM simply wanted to remove him because of old age and stubbornness. Since then, he had been extra prudent in his decision making and operation authorisation.
A technician handed him a report. Elliot quickly scanned the words. The survivors were on their way back to the UK and scheduled to arrive within the hour. Elliott read the casualty list for the third time, but it hadn’t changed; three agents from Team A were missing, presumed dead and several agents from Team B were injured. Ramsey, his deputy, appeared beside him. ‘I have several urgent tasks for you, Kevin.’
Ramsey raised his eyebrows as he studied the tired expression on his superior’s face. ‘How much time do I have, sir?’
‘Send a signal to POL1 and have him check the Kiprich house for survivors, liaising with the Polish police. Any word from his superior in Warsaw?’
Ramsey looked worried. ‘Uh…no. We lost contact with HQPOL around the time S.U.C.O. was arriving in Poland. All attempts to raise our man have failed. I think we may have to assume the worst, sir.’ He shifted his weight as he thought over how to phrase his next comment. ‘Do you think it’s wise to keep POL1 in Cracow? This group seem to be covering all of our people. Shouldn’t we move him out straight away?’
Elliott remembered the rising number of dead agents and didn’t want to add to the tally. ‘A worthwhile risk, and one I will support. Get him out of the country and back in the UK as fast as you can.’ So far, he had not received any communication from Downing Street, but he was certain it would come in the next few hours. Elliott had assured the Prime Minister and the Defence Minister that the operation would run smoothly with his best team involved. At no point had he suspected the operation would take the turn it had. He struggled to maintain his focus, knowing all too well he would be lucky to still have his job by the end of the day. Over by the double doors at the entrance to Operations Command, Burton caught his eye. Workers moved out of his way as he approached the S.U.C.O. team commander.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Elliott snapped. He had not been impressed with the agent’s performance, and his late arrival only added to the problem.
Burton had large dark rings under his eyes. ‘Sorry, sir. I was just getting all the operation details and profiles together. Has something happened?’
Elliott controlled his temper, together with the urge to fire Burton on the spot. ‘S.U.C.O. has been hit, with three dead. The operation is a failure. We’ve lost contact with our man in Warsaw and as far as we know, the Kiprich brothers are in perfect health. Need I go on?’ Elliot was handed a message before he could continue.
Burton watched his superior physically deflate as his shoulders sank and a look of dread spread over his features. ‘More bad news, sir?’ he asked, knowing all too well it was most likely a summons to Downing Street.
‘My presence has been requested by the PM and the Defence Minister. Get yourself together, you will accompany me. Ramsey, take charge here.’ Elliott noted the look of shock on Burton’s face and turned around to signal to his aide as they both made their way to the exit.
Denyer, dressed in a casual jacket and trousers with his premature grey hair waving in the wind, parked his car near the bungalow on Zemsky per Street and walked towards the house ahead of him. He was certain French Special Agent Marraud was nearby. Not that it mattered now. A wave of confidence spread through his body. His source at the FSB had matched the photos and details he had provided and had sent him a file on the legendary French agent. What a history this man had, a career littered with achievements and accolades. He was a living legend. For a moment, Denyer almost wanted to rush into the surrounding gardens and seek him out himself but instead he casually approached the front door and went inside.
The house had a musty smell about it and the sound of Russian music came from the living room. Dark red striped wallpaper was on the walls as he knocked on the door and entered. ‘Excuse me. I need to speak with you.’ Denyer focussed his gaze on Akira, who sat alone in the corner of the room observing Salenko attempt to convince his fellow politician on his policies.
‘Carry on.’ Akira made his way to the door and replaced his hood over his head. By doing so, the shadows fell across his face and made him even more intimidating. ‘Well?’
Denyer didn’t flinch or move away but his usual aggressive manner was slightly diminished. ‘You were right. Someone is here, and he’s been following you both. I have all his details.’
‘Good. Whoever it is will need to be dealt with quickly. Nothing can come between Salenko and the presidency.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Denyer opened a file to remove some paperwork, but a photograph slipped out and spun to the floor. Angry with himself, he knelt down immediately, but a foot moved close to him, and he froze.
‘Is this him?’ asked Akira, in a quiet voice.
‘Yes, sir.’ Denyer tried to see the reaction through the shadows but could make out nothing for sure. He waited for more, but nothing came. Instead, his leader merely stood there, motionless. He continued anyway. ‘His name is Patrice Marraud, aged forty-one. He came into the country some time ago. I have several historic files, all of which detail his career with the French Secret Service.’
Akira had only heard two words. In fact, the photo had been quite enough to stir a reaction within him. The name had been like a physical blow, it was definitely familiar, but the memories resisted him. There could be no doubt about it, he remembered Patrice Marraud but from where? Denyer’s voice clawed him back to the present.
‘I’ll search the surrounding area,’ the young man was saying confidently.
Akira took a step forward and felt his charge flinch with fear. ‘No. I will deal with him myself when I am ready. For now, go and wait in the car.’
Denyer was stunned by the response. Something had definitely changed since he had disclosed his findings. Was Akira afraid of this Frenchman? Or displeased with his work? Whatever the problem was, it was apparently none of his business. He bowed his head and made his way back to the car.
Akira watched the door close and remained in the hallway. Salenko’s voice and the faint Russian music continued from the adjoining room, but he ignored it and tried to call on Madeline. His thoughts were racing, and he couldn’t focus, even though he could hear her faint voice in the background of his mind. The memories he so desperately wanted wouldn’t come to him either. All he knew was that Marraud was a threat, and a powerful one at that.
Olsen slowly walked through the airport arrivals area and saw the MI6 security team ahead. Jordan and several others were alongside him, apart from Carter, who had sustained a minor bullet wound and was being treated at the local hospital. Olsen’s mind had been a flurry of activity throughout the flight. How had they been ambushed? An aching pain refused to budge from his chest. Three agents had been killed and his first operation as S.U.C.O. team leader had been a miserable failure. He caught up with Jordan, who walked alone some distance ahead.
‘Give me a break, OK? I don’t need a lecture from the likes of you,’ Jordan snapped.
‘All I want to know is what happened at that house. You lost three of my agents, remember?’ Olsen stood in front of Jordan and demanded an answer.
‘My agents, Sam! It was my team and apart from Gibbs and me, they all died, so don’t give me that crap! It was a set-up, there was nothing I could do. I knew them a lot longer than you did!’ Jordan pushed past in frustration and got into the nearby vehicle that would take him back to headquarters.
Olsen looked at Agent Gibbs, not convinced he was being told the full story. I’d give anything to know what those guys are hiding. He caught the attention of a waiting agent who was part of the security team. Nothing was said of the failed operation. As one of his bags was thrown into the boot, Olsen noticed someone laying out the day’s newspapers on the nearby stands. The sight of the main headline on one of the papers made him stop in his tracks.
‘BUNGLED UK ATTACK ON HUNGARIAN TERRORISTS BY MI6! POLAND OUTRAGED. EXCLUSIVE DETAILS INSIDE!’
Olsen started to move towards the stand with the intention of buying a copy, but several members of the security team stepped in front of him and urged him to get into the car. Reluctantly he complied, but he wondered just how the media had gotten hold of the information. Olsen knew every operation was always treated with Level 1 security. Only the Prime Minister, Defence Minister, team members, Burton, Elliott, Ramsey and on this occasion POL1 knew about the op. In the car, the scenery flew by as Olsen gazed out of the window and prepared himself for the tough questions that would undoubtedly be coming his way.
Elliott was led into the conference room at ten Downing Street, with his aide and Burton behind him. The room was dimly lit, with a long, wide, brown oak conference table in the middle, a large display screen on one wall and some expensive looking artwork on the other. Elliott noticed the look of disdain etched on the Prime Minister’s face as he sat down. The PM was seated at the head of the table with the Defence Minister and to Elliott’s surprise, Peter Drake was also in attendance, his predecessor at MI6 and a long-time favourite of the PM.
‘What went wrong, Richard? I recall you telling me that this operation would pose no problem for your elite squad.’ Prime Minister Jacobs’ tone was one of disgust. Dressed in a smart black suit, white shirt and burgundy tie, he sat up straight in his chair and looked stressed. His thinning black hair looked dishevelled, and his normally fresh-looking face had turned a worried shade of red.
Jacobs had sanctioned the operation, but he had been wary of repercussions, and it had been the support for the operation from his Defence Minister that had reassured him. He threw the early editions of the morning’s papers on the table. They all carried a headline relating to the events in Cracow.
Elliott peered at the papers on the large table. It was the first time he had seen any of the headlines and he could not hide his shock at the realisation that all of them were related to the failed operation.
The Prime Minister was perceptive and noticed the shocked look on Elliot’s face. ‘You didn’t even know of this leak? My God, Richard, what sort of circus are you running over there? My Polish equivalent has been on the phone to me for the last hour, reading the riot act. I don’t blame him either. The operation was a shambles. Am I to understand that a third of the team is dead and the targets are nowhere to be found? To make matters worse, the media have now gotten hold of it.’ The agent to Elliott’s right caught his attention. ‘You must be Agent Burton, head of team S.U.C.O.’ He spat the last words out with contempt. ‘What is your take on this?’
‘It seems clear to me, sir, that someone had inside information on the operation.’ His voice grew quieter as he made his point.
The Prime Minister looked back at Elliott. ‘Is that the latest assumption? Do we have any evidence to prove this?’
Elliot stood firm and shot a look at Burton. ‘That is our initial theory, Prime Minister. I have our man in Cracow now, we are awaiting the report. It would certainly fit the events. It could well be linked to whoever leaked the story to the paper.’
The Prime Minister sat back in his chair and gave the two men scathing looks. For years he had tried to remove Elliott from office simply because, in his opinion, he was an old, worn out man not capable of handling the stress and strain anymore. Was he an icon? Absolutely, but the man was well past seventy, and the time had come for change. Jacobs had been waiting for his chance and was not going to waste it. He leaned forward and placed both hands on the desk. ‘I am not convinced of your theory, Richard. In fact, I’m not impressed at your lack of control at MI6. You should be running a far tighter ship to avoid these bungled operations. It’s not over yet either, there are still too many unanswered questions.’ The PM looked at the papers strewn out over the table and thought over his next words carefully. ‘I want your letter of resignation on the Defence Minister’s desk by morning. As for you, Burton, I will not be giving a glowing report about you to the new Chief of MI6.’
Elliott didn’t move but looked at the Defence Minister, normally his strongest supporter. This time, however, a look of pity stared back at him as the former Chief of MI6 realised, he would receive no help this time around. ‘Wait!’ he shouted, with a weak voice, one that sounded a far cry from his deep baritone of yesteryear. ‘I’ve been in this job for close to thirty years, you cannot and will not remove me from office!’
Jacobs wouldn’t budge. ‘You’re seventy-two years old, Richard, you’ve had your time. I suggest you retire to a quieter life and take things slowly from now on. We can’t have our icons working too hard now, can we?’
‘How dare you patronise me!’ Elliott forced his aching body to rise and eventually, it responded. ‘A war is looming, this is no time for change. My agency and the very heart of the West are under threat!’
Jacobs was now gesturing for his staff to leave and had barely heard the rant from the senile man ahead of him. I just hope that doesn’t happen to me. ‘My decision is final. Good day, Richard.’
Elliott watched the room empty around him. His career appeared to be over, what was left for him now? Retirement? The very word made him cringe. He shook his head violently, furious with his aging body and mind for letting him down so badly. To his left, Burton was slumped in a chair with his head in his hands.
The Prime Minister came out of the conference room and started walking. ‘Peter, I have a favour to ask of you.’ He led the former Chief of MI6 into a side room and sat down. ‘I want you to take over at MI6. We have to contain this situation. I need someone there that I can trust.’
Drake had missed the prestige and status of his former position and couldn’t help but smile. ‘Certainly, sir, I’ll have everything under control by the end of the day.’
The Prime Minister maintained eye contact with Drake as he continued. ‘These are changing times and I feel we need to reorganise things at MI6. I’ve had lengthy discussions with the Defence Minister about this and we have agreed that MI5 needs to adapt as well. Now, obviously the service has a mandate and a duty to protect national security but more than anything, I want you to reduce the profile of MI6 and keep the risk taking to an absolute minimum. I want a second term and I will not allow today’s events to happen again. Is that clear?’
‘I agree entirely, sir. You can rely on me to create the MI6 you require. Is that all, sir?’
Prime Minister Jacobs nodded, shook Drake’s hand and left the room.
Drake was by no means surprised. The PM’s request for his presence at the emergency meeting could have only meant one thing. Elliot’s reckless reign as Chief of MI6 has finally ended. Drake made his way to the front door to organise a car to take him straight to MI6 headquarters and back to the job he had always regretted leaving.
With his legs crossed on the floor and his hands apart, Akira sat alone in his quarters at Salenko’s home. The room had been tailored to his needs but there was no bed, just an area on the floor that was his makeshift sleeping area. There wasn’t any furniture, or any photographs. There was nothing that could create an emotional response. Nothing that could weaken him.
The meeting had gone well and the politician in question was now an ally and was already gathering speed with his recruitment of others to vote for their cause. All was well. Or so it would seem. For Akira, there was still the matter of Marraud.
With his eyes closed, Akira tried to make sense of his thoughts and the fragments of memories that had returned to him. There was nothing substantial, just images, snapshots of another time and what felt like a different life. Again, he tried to slow them down in his mind. One came and then disappeared again. It was of a younger looking Marraud happily smiling away. At him or someone else? As he tried harder to focus, another image flashed by but this time it was of himself, and he looked so different. Younger, fresher, happier, even? No, he looked disillusioned. Things were so different back then, in a way that—
He has to die.
Madeline. Her voice was unmistakable. She came to him so clearly and interrupted his thoughts.
Patrice is here to kill us. He will stop at nothing until both you and Salenko are dead.
Akira kept his eyes closed and spoke in a calm but slightly fragile tone. ‘He is determined. I know he always has been, but I can’t remember it all. When did I meet him? What was—’
It doesn’t matter, my love. All of that is in the past. The future will be the dream we both envisioned. Do not think of what has gone. Focus on the here and now.
‘But he could be saved, Patrice could join us?’
Never. Patrice Marraud is loyal to the West, he is too far gone, corrupted over the years. We could never convince him to join our cause. He would destroy us.
‘But what if—’
He must die, my love. There can be no change of heart. No sympathy. Marraud is like the rest, they cannot be convinced. None of them see what we do. We can’t help it if they don’t…
A knock on the door interrupted everything and Madeline faded away. Akira opened his eyes sharply and turned towards the opening door in a fit of rage. What was Madeline going to say? His voice carried every trace of his anger. ‘I ordered no interruptions!’
Denyer cautiously stepped inside. He half expected to see two people, having heard Akira talking to someone moments before. He couldn’t hide his surprise when it was just his leader in the room and nobody else. ‘Sir…I apologise but Mikhail urgently needs you downstairs. He received a phone call and looks in need of your guidance.’
Akira clenched his fists and stared at Denyer. He didn’t take his eyes off the Russian until finally, he responded. ‘Tell him…I will be down very soon and will deal with his crisis.’ He spat the last word out, with contempt.
Denyer closed the door and went to find Salenko. He had never seen Akira look so angry and didn’t want to again. His confusion was justified though; who was he talking to?
Akira took a deep breath and desperately tried to control his rage and clear his mind to hear the voice of his wife once more. Minutes passed, but it was no use, no matter what he tried his mind was racing again. All that was there now were the fragments of memories again. Nothing but a tangled mess of what had gone before. He left his room and started to walk down the stairs. Out of the blue, something came to him. In pieces at first but then so clearly, it stopped him in his tracks.
Martine Marraud.
And there it was. That was why he was unsure about how to act on Marraud. The truth still seemed lost within his mind, but he knew one thing for sure. Martine Marraud had died a tragic death, just like his beloved Madeline. He tried to remember the details of her death, but it was lost to him. His frustration faded away, but it was replaced by doubt. How in the world could he kill Patrice when he was probably the only man who could understand? They were the same, surely?
Ramsey quickly read through the report, but his eyes went back to several lines at the top of the document. His heart missed a beat when he saw that POL1, Agent Martin Bedford, had been killed. Yet another skilled agent is dead. How many more are we going to lose? Ramsey had first met Bedford a decade before and had trained him initially. It was a heavy loss and Operation Reprisal had caused the death of five agents, with every chance the number could increase further. He caught the attention of an aide. ‘Put aside some resources to make sure Bedford’s wife and daughter are looked after and put some time in my diary for me to visit them. Put this near the top of the priority list, please.’
A commotion at the large double doors of Operations Command caught his eye. Ramsey did a double take and saw an unwelcome visitor stride confidently into the area. I hope he is just a visitor, that guy is the last thing we need.
Peter Drake walked into Operations Command at MI6 and scanned the command centre. It had been a long time since he had been back in the HQ. Drake was late fifties, five-foot-ten inches tall, with shaven black hair on the side of his head and bald on top. He had been in charge of MI6 for just over two years when Richard Elliot had been forced out when he suffered his first heart attack. A lucrative offer to become a top security advisor to the Defence Minister had been too tempting at the time. He didn’t regret the move but always felt he had unfinished business at MI6.
Drake thought back to the meeting at Downing Street and the look he had received from Richard Elliott. Elliott only had himself to blame because he was too cocky. Caution and prudence were the key factors in doing the job well, he reminded himself. There was no place for reckless decisions and ‘strike teams’. Some of the operations staff stared at him as he walked by. The relatively small Drake approached a tall, dark and powerful looking figure that stood near several computer screens. ‘Good evening, Kevin, it’s not surprising to see you still here.’
Ramsey ignored the comment and feigned surprise. ‘Peter, what brings you here? Where is Mr. Elliott?’
Drake sniffed and raised his head, almost in disgust. ‘Heading to the retirement home, thankfully. The PM has placed me back in command for the foreseeable future, long may it stay that way, in my opinion.’ Drake visibly straightened as did his bland looking suit and suitably drab tie. Black-rimmed glasses protruded from his chest pocket. ‘Status report?’
Ramsey’s heart sank when he realised that Drake was now the Chief of MI6. He couldn’t help but feel hurt that he hadn’t been considered, but the overwhelming feeling was one of disappointment that he wouldn’t be working with Richard Elliott anymore. Ramsey towered over his new boss. He looked down at Drake and enjoyed doing so. ‘I understand, sir. S.U.C.O. is heading back here as we speak, three agents are down. We’ve lost HQPOL and moments ago I was told we lost POL1 as well. He was a good man, sir, I was involved in his training years ago. It’s been a total hit on all sides.’
Drake moved to a monitor and inspected the display. ‘Indeed.’ He saw a report given to Ramsey and took hold of the envelope. ‘If you don’t mind, Ramsey?’ He put on his glasses and read the information slowly. ‘There might be something here…’ His forehead wrinkled slightly as he read further. ‘Oh my God…here, read this.’
Ramsey took the report and read several key statements. ‘Three dead MI6 team members…what’s this? Three Polish women and two Polish men found dead in the back room of the house. All bodies riddled with bullets from a Colt M16A2 rifle.’ He looked up and saw Drake’s glare.
‘What rifles were the S.U.C.O. teams using on this operation?’ Drake’s eyes asked the same question through the thick lenses of his glasses.
‘All team members were assigned Colt M16A2 rifles, sir. It’s possible the terrorists planted—’
‘Spare me your theories, Ramsey. When S.U.C.O. arrives, I want them taken to briefing room one straightaway. Make sure they don’t speak to anyone else. Is that understood?’ Before the younger of the two could answer, one of the technicians came to his side.
‘The S.U.C.O. agents have just arrived, sir. Would you like me to bring them up?’
‘No, that’s fine. I’ll bring them up to briefing room one myself.’ He left Drake and made his way to the exit doors. With every step, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the return of Peter Drake was the biggest mistake the Prime Minister could have made. In Ramsey’s opinion, Richard Elliott had been the finest leader the agency had ever known and with a war looming, the last thing needed was a cautious approach.
Olsen stepped out of the car and followed the other agents to the nearest lift, under the murky lighting of the MI6 headquarters car park. He saw Ramsey ahead and noted his grim expression. ‘Don’t tell me, we’re going to be thrown to the wolves, right?’
‘Something like that, Olsen,’ Ramsey said wry