Nomad Page 11

  The elevator arrived and he turned to walk in, but Royce pushed past Talia and stepped into Welles’s path. “Victor,” he said firmly. “Don’t take your personal dislike of me out on one of my operatives.”

  “Perish the thought.”

  Talia could stay silent no longer, and spoke up. “Marc Dane is a good asset. He’s risked his life for this country on dozens of occasions, and as a naval officer before he came to the Service. He’s not a traitor, he doesn’t…” She halted, floundering to find the right words. “He just doesn’t have that in him.”

  “I’m sure they said that about Philby, too.” Welles spared her a look. “All this impassioned support for your man is very touching, but it doesn’t change anything. There’s an undeniable truth here that the committee and I both agree on, which you have to accept.”

  “Which is?” asked Talia, dreading the answer.

  “Marc Dane survived an attack that blew up half the Dunkirk docks, when by rights he should have been killed along with the rest of the Nomad team. That fact alone means that he should be treated with suspicion.” He stepped around Royce and into the lift. “Green, Rix, Nash, Taub, Davies, Bell and Marshall.” Welles reeled off the names like a litany. “We owe it to all of them to be certain where the blame for their deaths lies.”

  * * *

  I’m a fool, Marc told himself.

  Of everything he had expected to occur when he returned to London, somehow it had never occurred to him that he would be blamed for all of this. He was just one of the blokes in the van, watching screens and working the tech. This kind of thing didn’t happen to him.

  His thoughts were churning, pulling him in different directions. The events of the past day were repeating, merging with flashes of memory, questions Marc had never wanted to answer now pushing themselves to the front of his mind. He felt afraid and alone, and it was a new kind of dread that was totally alien to him.

  Once upon a time, I was so fearless … Where the hell did that go?

  That was the past, when there had been nothing to lose. But then there was the helicopter crash, and then the Service … and Sam. His perspective had changed.

  And now all that was slipping away from him.

  The door opened, and he jerked upright in the chair, startled.

  “Hey, Marc. Welcome back to Legoland.”

  The last thing he expected to see was a friendly face. John Farrier stepped into the room and sat in the chair that Welles had vacated. He gave him a wan smile.

  The other man was six years Marc’s senior, and he wore all his experience in the lines around his eyes and the hawkish cast of his face. One of the very first OpTeam crew leaders, Farrier had been a mentor for the younger man during Marc’s training. He had a solid reputation as a veteran non-official cover officer, one of MI6’s lone wolf operatives. It was Farrier who had recruited Marc, back at the start.

  “Mate,” he told him gravely, “you look like shit.”

  Marc gave a dry chuckle. “Nice to see you, too.”

  Farrier frowned. “I know all about it, Marc. Patel brought me in to run top cover for the clean-up.” He shook his head. “What the hell happened?”

  “Did Welles send you?” Marc asked, hesitating as the thought occurred to him. “Are you gonna be the good cop?”

  “That oily little prick?” Farrier snorted. “He’d have kittens if he knew I was in here.” He nodded at the door. “I’m not supposed to be within a mile of you. But I’ve got pull.” Farrier pointed at the camera eye; the red “active” light above it was dark. “I called in a marker with someone in monitoring. That’s going to stay off for a while.” He leaned forward. “I wanted to talk to you, let you know you’re not being cut adrift by everyone.”

  “It feels that way,” said Marc. “I had nothing, John. And they had shooters out after me…” He ran out of breath. “They killed them. Sam … She died right in my arms.”

  “Who’s they?” asked Farrier, as that sank in.

  “The tangos. Al Sayf. Or whoever they were working with. The one that came for me was German, I think.”

  Farrier shook his head. “If it was Al Sayf, they’d have told the whole world by now. Get us into shit with the French for operating on their turf. Not a peep yet, though.”

  “The Combine, then,” Marc went on. “The ones supplying their weapons.” He looked up and saw Farrier watching him. “What?”

  The other man’s frown deepened. “Welles has got a serious hard-on for you, Marc. You know he has an axe to grind with Royce and he’s never liked the OpTeam program, right from day one. You might have been better off staying dark than coming in like you did.”

  “What else could I have done?”

  Farrier didn’t answer that. “He’s gearing up to put the frame around your neck for this.”

  Marc nodded once, feeling hollow inside. “I guessed that much.” He hated the way his next words made him sound weak and powerless. “Can you help me?”

  Farrier looked away. “I shouldn’t even be here. I’m jumping the fence, supposed to be going to diplomatic official cover at the embassy in Rome. Security deployment.” He straightened his jacket, his voice turning distant. “I’m already a day late.”

  “Right. I get it.” Marc’s throat went dry. “I’m not part of it, John. You believe me when I say that, don’t you?”

  Farrier nodded without hesitation. “Of course I do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. But I wanted to warn you. Welles is going to press hard. Harder than you’ve ever had to deal with before.”

  “I’m not afraid of him.” He said the words without conviction, and the other man saw it.

  “You should be,” Farrier told Marc. “He’s not stupid, and he’s got a lot of clout.” He fell silent, as if he had said more than he meant to.

  “What are you not telling me?” Marc demanded. Farrier’s sudden, uncharacteristic reticence was ringing alarm bells in his head.

  “Welles put in for JIC authorization to move you to a secure location. A country house.”

  “Where?”

  “Don’t know. He’s playing it close to his chest. But they gave it to him.”

  Country House was a typically mocking Service euphemism for what was more commonly known as a “black site.” Undisclosed detention facilities, some of them in allied countries with markedly less interest in human rights than the United Kingdom, others hidden in plain sight at military facilities across the rural counties.

  If Marc vanished into one of those sites, it would be as if he had fallen off the face of the world. Welles had him as the chief suspect of an investigation into the suspected breach of the OpTeam hierarchy, and once he was off-grid, Marc would be “processed”—another bland term with a darker meaning. The kinds of forceful interrogation utilized in a black site were not bound by any but the most cursory rules of conduct.

  “Someone very high up the ladder is extremely pissed off about what happened in France,” Farrier was saying. “They want a swift resolution and a body to swing from the gallows.”

  “That’s not me,” Marc insisted. “I’m not to blame for this!”

  “Then who is?”

  Careful who you trust, Sam had told him; but if not Farrier, then who? He was running out of options. “Welles is right,” he began, the words spilling out of him. “There’s been a penetration, someone inside the security services with connections to the Combine. I think it has to be someone at operational level or above. That must be why Nomad was targeted, that’s why—”

  Sam’s name was on his lips, but before he could say more, the door buzzed angrily and Welles’s security officer pushed into the room. “That’s enough,” he said, eyes darting back toward the corridor. “You’re done here, Farrier. Get out.”

  “No, wait!” Marc’s voice caught. “Not yet, damn it!”

  Farrier gave him a look. “Give me two more minutes.”

  “No minutes, no waiting.” The guard’s voice became a snarl, as he pressed a hand to his
head where a coil of cable led to the black comma of a radio earpiece. “Welles finds out you were here, and no amount of favors I owe you will be enough. Out!”

  Farrier stood up, turning back to give Marc a look that he couldn’t read. “Stay strong. Be smart,” he told him. “That’s what you’re good at.” And then, very deliberately, the other man tapped the back of the chair twice with his index finger.

  “Come on!” snapped the security officer, and shoved Farrier through the door, slamming it closed.

  On an impulse he couldn’t be sure of, Marc leaned forward and looked at the seat cushion where Farrier had been sitting, catching a glint of metal. He reached down and his hand came back with a silver ring the diameter of a large coin. Hanging from it was a black plastic fob that resembled the kind of electronic keys used on the majority of modern cars. On one side was a small solar panel, on the other a square button. Three white LED emitters protruded from the opposite face.

  Was this Farrier’s way of trying to help him? Marc quickly concealed the key fob inside the elastic cuff of his hoodie and leaned back into his chair. He glanced up at the security camera just as the red light winked on and he looked away, turning over Farrier’s words in his mind.

  “I’m on my own.” He said the words aloud to fix them in his thoughts, and for a moment the panic rose a little inside him, coming up like a slow, inexorable floodtide.

  But then he thought about Sam, and the nameless gunman who had tried to choke the life from him. He thought about the Palomino, and the people who were already dead. And slowly, he pushed the cold sense of dread away.

  * * *

  They came for him soon after, three men in black suits and identical glowers, the look of ex-police officers about them. Marc knew the type well enough, and didn’t give them any resistance as they secured his wrists in front of him with a pair of rigid cuffs.

  Welles watched, his expression neutral. “I think it’s better for everybody if we continue our discussion somewhere else. These gentlemen will take you to a secure location. I’ll be along later, and we’ll resume.”

  “What’s wrong with this place?” Marc returned, never breaking the other man’s gaze.

  “Emotions are running a little high here, don’t you think?” Welles shrugged. “Might be better to get some distance. No chance of interruptions, that sort of thing.”

  Marc studied his interrogator, trying to get a read on him. He decided to take a chance. “There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

  That got Welles’s attention. “Oh?” He threw the security men a look and they hesitated, waiting for a word of command. “Do go on.”

  “Sam Green knew there was a penetration of MI6 before the mission began. She told me she was investigating it.”

  “There’s no record of anything like that,” Welles replied dismissively. “And OpTeam field officers don’t look for leaks. That’s my job.”

  “This was off-book. Don’t you get it? That’s why we were ambushed. Someone knew Sam was sniffing around, so they took action!”

  “Was this her female intuition, or did Green have any actual evidence?”

  Marc’s lips thinned. “I honestly don’t know.” That was almost the truth. “But she had suspicions. I think I could—”

  Welles folded his arms. “That’s your best play, is it? Throw out some vague comments from a woman too dead to confirm them?” He turned to one of the men. “Please, give me the keys. I’m so convinced, I’m going to release Mister Dane here right away.”

  “Welles, listen to me—”

  Suddenly the other man was prodding Marc in his chest, his face tight with annoyance. “No, you listen to me. I don’t like anything you have said since you rolled up. Don’t you think we’ve already got men sifting through everything Green and Rix and the rest of Nomad left behind? I know what you and Royce think of my department. Now you’re going to watch it in action.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “We’ll see.” Welles sneered and stepped back. “I’m going to put you in a deep, dark hole, and lean on you until I get what I want.”

  “Even if I don’t have what you want?” Marc shot back.

  Welles gestured to the security officers. “Get him out of here. Make sure he doesn’t talk to anyone.”

  The three men formed up around Marc and marched him to the elevator bank, where a lift was waiting. He saw Welles’s face vanish from sight as the doors slid closed and then they were on their way down toward the building’s secure parking garage on the sub-levels.

  * * *

  When the elevator doors opened he was marched out toward a glossy black Range Rover. The vehicle sat low on its shocks, a clear sign that it was reinforced with bulletproof glass and sidewall armor. But even with the car’s opaque windows, it would blend easily into city traffic, just one more “Chelsea Tractor.”

  The back door was opened for him and he took the center seat, pressed in on both sides by two of his minders. The third man climbed in behind the wheel and the Range Rover rumbled into life, rolling away from the curb toward a ramp leading to street level. Through the windscreen, Marc glimpsed a widening chink of daylight up ahead, as a heavy security gate began to slide open.

  Welles had been right, after a fashion. Mentioning Sam and her suspicions had been the last card Marc had, and the investigator’s reaction had told him all he needed to know.

  Working in the Service made you suspicious—it came with the job, where conviction was a rare coin, when the people you met out in the world could easily be there to burn you—but now Marc was seeing deceit on the faces of everyone around him. The people he could trust, the people he had trusted … all of them were now dead and gone.

  Maybe Welles was the one responsible for that, or maybe he was doing just what he was supposed to, searching for the weak link inside the Service. Either way, the man would never give Marc the benefit of the doubt. He looked down at the black metal encircling his wrists.

  If Sam and the others had been right, if there really was a traitor in the ranks at MI6 who had cold-bloodedly sent them off to perish, then Marc Dane was a clear and present danger to that person. A potentially lethal threat to their safety.

  Marc had come back to headquarters because he believed he would be safe, following some sort of blind animal instinct to run for the lair; but now his life was narrowing toward two equally unpalatable conclusions. He would either be made to take the fall for what had taken place in Dunkirk, or he would be silently erased, before anything he knew could have an impact on the plans of the Combine and their insider.

  There was a third path, but he had no idea of where it would lead him, or how far it would go.

  EIGHT

  The Range Rover’s engine growled as the car sped out on to Albert Embankment, turning tightly into the nearside lane.

  Marc watched the buildings flash past as they headed northward along the line of the Thames. He tried to build a mental picture of the route they would take, out of the city to the London Orbital motorway and then … Where?

  They were less than an hour away from the nearest airfield, where a courier jet could pick him up for a discreet cross-border rendition, but Marc had his doubts about that. Welles wanted to interrogate him in person, and Marc didn’t think that he would go to the trouble of following a detainee to a secret prison in another nation—not when there were facilities within the UK where he could do as much and still be able to make it back to Mayfair for drinks at his club.

  No. They would take Marc to a holding location, some hole in the ground built during the Cold War to resist a barrage of Soviet nukes, just a door in a hillside at the end of a footpath. There were more of those places than people knew, repurposed after the fact.

  They passed Lambeth Palace and the car slowed as the traffic started to thicken. Marc looked up across the river and saw the tower of Big Ben through the dull afternoon. He didn’t make it obvious, but with his peripheral vision he took the measure of the guards.<
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  The driver was bull-necked and he had the nose of a pub brawler, broken more than once and unevenly reset. He wore a pair of glasses that rested awkwardly on his face. On Marc’s right was the man who had let Farrier in to talk. He had a heavy brow, deep-set eyes and the smell of cologne about him. He caught Marc’s eye and gave him a loaded look, a silent warning not to mention his earlier indiscretion. Marc considered that for a moment, wondering if he could use it to his advantage, but nothing sprang to mind and he discarded the thought. The third man was dark-skinned with a shaven head and a well-maintained beard, and he kept a wary eye on the lines of vehicles around them. Marc was certain that they were armed.

  All of the security officers had more body mass than Marc’s spare, wiry frame, each built heavy to intimidate and project threat. But they were different kinds of men to the operatives that Marc usually worked with. They were reactive, just on the right side of thuggery to be considered professionals instead of common heavies.

  He thought hard about the third path. This was it, right here and right now. Marc was at the fulcrum of a point of no return, the tension of it turning around him, and what he did in the next few minutes would be critical.

  He could wait until they were out on the motorway and look for an opportunity there. But that felt wrong, it felt like the weak choice. London was the better option. In the city, he could blend in and fade, at least for a little while. And there was something he still needed to do here.

  He began to regulate his breathing as the Range Rover drove by St. Thomas’s Hospital, the engine note falling as the vehicle continued to decelerate. Up ahead, traffic threaded around the Plaza Hotel roundabout leading on to Westminster Bridge. The approaches to the junction were full of double-decker buses, delivery vans and cars, steady but sluggish, picked up from the feed roads and let off to cross the river, or pass under the rail bridge out of Waterloo station.