Crossfire (11 page)

Vauxhall Bridge
2017 hrs

The evening was still warm when the cab
dropped me at Vauxhall station. Even the daffs
were pushing up here and there. I crossed to a
traffic island, leather bomber over my right arm,
the other in a sling.

It wasn't just the weather that had changed
since the last time I was here. The roads were
plastered with big red Cs to show the start of the
congestion zone, while CCTV and number-plate-recognition
cameras had sprouted everywhere.

The railway arches were no longer the shabby
tyre warehouses and dodgy MOT centres I
remembered from four or five years ago. They'd
been turned into trendy wine merchants and
bathroom stores. There was even a gay club
and sauna, and a wine bar with little aluminium
tables and chairs outside trying to keep the office
workers there all night with happy-hour wine
deals and free dips. The sauna lights flashed
enticingly.

MI6, the Secret Intelligence Service, the Firm,
the Office: everybody had a different name for it.
Some insiders had even called it Caesar's Palace
when it first went up, and it wasn't hard to see
why. It was a beige and black pyramid with its
top cut off, and large towers at either side. There
was even a terrace bar overlooking the river. It
only needed a few swirls of neon and you'd
swear you were in Las Vegas. Maybe it would
become a super-casino when it had had its time.

I'd always preferred Century House myself,
the old SIS building near Waterloo station. It
might have been 1960s square minging architecture
with droopy net curtains and antennae all
over the roof but it was a lot handier for the bus
and tube, and much more homely. And the old
guy who ran the greasy spoon on the corner had
served real food – dead animals and snacks with
so many E numbers they glowed in the dark.

Even at this time of night, the multiple lanes of
city traffic rumbled along like a slow-motion
explosion. I crossed at the lights. I'd never
expected to come face to face with the Yes Man
again, but it wasn't like I had a whole lot of
choice. The Firm had known where to find me
within hours of my landing at Heathrow. Maybe
it was the flight manifest, maybe face-recognition
cameras at the airport. Whatever, if I tried to run
they'd lift me before I got a mile down the road.
Then they'd do more than ask for their envelope
back.

This wasn't the Women's Institute, and it
wasn't just a cake-baking session I'd be refusing to
attend. The people who worked in the building in
front of me killed for a living. It was pointless
running: I'd just die knackered and out of breath. I
didn't want to be a body pulled from a car crash
just for saying no to a meeting. Besides, I wanted to
find out what job he had in mind. I was pretty sure
that the reappearance of the Yes Man at this precise
moment in my life was no coincidence.

And, anyway, I'd just got the sack. There might
be cash involved. When you live at the bottom of
the food chain you have to take a bite of the shit
sandwich when it's shoved in your face. Maybe
that was why I'd never found it hard to get on
with Africans, Arabs, squaddies, whoever. They
soon discovered I was like them – waist deep in
the shit-pit and happy to get my head up enough
to take a few breaths occasionally before I got
pushed back down.

I followed a couple of suits along the pavement.
They must have been the night shift. They
disappeared behind the steel fencing of 85 Albert
Embankment and into the pyramid. I followed.

I wondered how an arsehole like the Yes Man
fitted in with life behind the triple-glazed
windows, these days. I'd heard the Firm's new
leadership matched the new building: younger,
meaner, more aggressive. If the Yes Man was still
the boss of deniable operators, the Ks, it could
only mean he'd slipped off the greasy pole.
Good. Fuck him and the boils on his neck.

The physical threat had increased since 9/11
and the Firm had obviously been given a big wad
of cash to boost its security. I entered via a single
metal door and got funnelled towards six
perspex security cubicles that looked like giant
test-tubes. A small queue of suits had formed.
They placed their bags on an X-ray machine and
waited in line to swipe their card and enter their
PIN. If they got accepted, the perspex door
opened and they stepped inside. A pressure pad
on the floor made the door close behind them
again, trapping them in the capsule.

All sorts of tests would be carried out during
the next couple of seconds. For starters, the air
would be analysed for traces of weapons or
explosives. If the electronics were happy, the
door in front would open, releasing them into
the inner sanctum.

A perspex cylinder wasn't for the likes of me. I
had to go to the visitors' desk, where a woman in
her forties with thick-rimmed glasses sat behind
a bulletproof screen. She looked at me a bit sadly.
The words 'disappointing' and 'divorce settlement'
were written all over her.

I put my mouth close to the microphone. 'I
have an appointment. Extension two seven
double eight.'

'You need to fill this in.' She pushed a ledger
under the glass. 'Do you know the name?'

'No, sorry. Can't remember.'

She picked up a phone and checked a monitor
to her left that must have held the internal-numbers
list. 'Do you have a picture ID?'

I fished out my passport and held it open on
the photo page. 'He's expecting me at eight
thirty. What's his name again?'

She gave me another of her sad looks as she hit
some keys. I signed in the two marked boxes in
the ledger and passed it back under the window.

With the phone still to her ear, she tore my
signed strip from the ledger and folded it into a
small plastic holder with a blue ribbon to go
round my neck. She pushed it under the glass.
The badge was blue too, and said, 'Escorted
Everywhere'.

She put down the receiver. 'Wait over there.
Someone will be along to collect you.'

I tried to get a smile out of her and held up the
pass at the window. 'That's good. I'd only get
lost.'

It wasn't going to happen. I wandered over to
a backless black leather settee with chrome legs.

The doors of the security pods opened and
closed as they chomped their way through the
queue. A young clerk appeared, dressed in a
black suit, checked shirt and a tie with a knot that
was far too big for the collar. He had the kind of
madly enthusiastic smile they normally only
teach you at estate-agent school. He held out a
hand. 'Mr Stone?'

I stood up and followed suit.

'If you'd like to go through that glass door to
your right, I'll meet you on the other side.'

I nodded at the X-ray machine and held up my
bomber. 'You want this in there?'

'No, the room will detect anything.'

A female guard buzzed the door open. A sign
on the wall opposite told me to stand still until
instructed to move. I couldn't hear any
machinery or sucking sounds as the atmosphere
was extracted to check for weapons or explosives
residue, but I was sure it was happening.

The clerk appeared at the other side of the
glass exit. The door clicked open.

The walk to the lifts took us over ivory marble
floors, past grey slate walls. No wonder the
building had come in at twice the estimate.

We whooshed upwards.

'Which floor we going to?'

'Fifth.'

It would have been pointless asking him more.
Even if he'd known the answers he wouldn't
have told me.

We stepped out into a world of grey carpet tiles
and white-emulsioned walls. I felt conned, like
when a hotel invests in a big makeover down in
Reception but as soon as you get upstairs it's all
shite – and tough, you've already checked in.

We set off down a bare corridor. There were no
names on the doors, only acronyms I didn't
understand. The armed services are fanatical
about the fucking things, and the Firm had fallen
into step. Even when I was in the Regiment and
working here, I'd only been able to remember up
to the three-letter ones.

Vauxhall Cross was a category-A post, which
meant that, like Beijing, Moscow and other major
stations abroad, it had an HPT (high potential
threat) from terrorism and sophisticated HIS
(hostile intelligence services). Operatives from
the TSD (technical services department) in
Milton Keynes ensured that the building was
protected from HTA (high-tech attack).

The triple glazing didn't have anything to do
with the government's new green policy. It was a
safeguard against laser and radio-frequency
flooding techniques as every HIS and his dog
tried to hear what you were talking about. There
were even techniques now to read the radiation
from computer and photocopying machines, so
every bit of machinery in the building was
specially shielded. If anyone got on a boat and
spent the day bobbing up and down on the
Thames pointing technical stuff at the decapitated
pyramid, they'd be wasting their
fare.

The corridor opened up left and right into
open-plan offices. Men and women bent over
computer screens, processing information, collating,
whatever the fuck they did to support the
five hundred officers running round overseas.
There was little noise apart from the air-conditioning
and the rustle of deli bags as people
weakened.

We came to an office at the far end. No
acronym on this door. The clerk took me straight
in without knocking. 'He'll be with you soon.'

I walked into what looked like a solicitor's
office. There was a round, beech-veneer IKEA
table, with a telephone in the middle, and
matching chairs with leatherette seats.

At the far side of the large room was a desk. I
wandered over to have a look at the framed
pictures among the files by the PC monitor. They
were of the Yes Man and his loving family, all
smiles, and, judging by the ages of the kids and
the generosity of his hair, the pictures were a few
years old.

I looked out of his large window, almost the
length of the room, at the bright lights of the
railway-arch shops the other side of the road.
Headlights moved noiselessly in both directions.
The motorbike shop was still there. I really
wanted to get a new one. I missed riding.

The Yes Man hadn't been given an office with
a river view, but at least he got catering. A full
cafetière and a small mountain of shortbread
fingers sat on a nearby tray.

Maybe things weren't as bad as I'd thought.

The door opened. The Yes Man had two buff
folders in his hand. He was exactly as I remembered
him: five foot six, florid complexion.

'How was Harley Street?'

I held up my arm a little, as if he could see
through the dressing. 'Haven't been yet. In the
morning.'

He wore a dark business suit, with a white
shirt and a scarlet tie. On his left hand he still
wore a wedding ring.

I pointed through the window. 'Changed a bit
since I was here last.'

He was busy pulling a chair from under the
table. 'My new office?'

I joined him at the long table but kept a three-chair
distance. 'New shops. The gay place. You
lot get corporate membership?'

He stared at me across the table, not enjoying
my joke. I smiled even more broadly. 'It says it's
got a sauna.'

The Yes Man pushed one of the folders across
the table and started to pour the coffee. Even
upside-down, I could read the stencil UK EYES
ALPHA, which meant it was for the eyes of MI5,
MI6, Special Forces, GCHQ and Whitehall only,
and never to be read by a non-British citizen. There
was no yellow card paperclipped to the cover.
This was still an unaccountable document, a mere
draft or proposal. That normally meant they
hadn't found anyone stupid enough for the job.

The cover sheet was stamped with various
acronyms, like O2G2/OPS and IO/GN, all
meaningless to me. They'd have been senior
officers, though, who'd signed it off as read. Like
every organization, the Firm liked to cover its
arse.

The best part of any MI6 file, as far as I was
concerned, had always been the title, and this
one said simply: 'The Need to Locate Dominik
Condratowicz, Polish TV Journalist'.

The reports themselves might be full of
gobbledegook, but the titles were always bang on
the money. The best one I'd ever seen was: 'The
Need to Assassinate President Milosevic of
Serbia'. There hadn't been a yellow card on it,
though, which was probably the reason he'd
ended up in the dock at The Hague instead of
dead in a Belgrade gutter.

I opened the folder to find just two printed
pages of A4. The document might have been
stamped by whoever had had to read it, but
the signature page on the inside flap was
missing.

The two pages included a digital photograph,
probably from his passport application. It was
definitely Dom.

I looked up. 'Locate? Don't the Firm know
where he is? I assumed you—'

'He's disappeared. Nobody's heard from him.'

I ran a thumb over my stubble. 'He was pretty
shaken after what happened, by all accounts. I
left messages for him, and made arrangements
for Media Ops to look after him when he turned
up. It was all I could do before I flew out. I had
some other stuff to see to here. Then I was going
to make some calls. You sure he isn't just off on
some story?'

'I don't believe so.' The Yes Man reached for
the coffee and nudged a full cup my way. 'I'm
still trying to sift through what I can rule in and
what I can rule out. Did he mention anything out
of the ordinary while you were there? Anything
about his home life, family, Dublin, that sort of
thing? Anything that might give us any indication
of his whereabouts or plans?'

'Nothing. He just got on with his job, really.
I'm not exactly a bosom buddy.'

The Yes Man sat forward and took one of the
shortbreads. 'Did he say anything about his
work, perhaps?'

I had to give him something or he'd know I
was fucking him about. Which would mean
Sundance and Trainers being told to fuck
me
about. 'Nothing much. I know he was fixated on
the heroin trade, but on the whole Dom kept
things close to his chest.'

The Yes Man sat back with his brew, deep in
thought.

'You don't think he's been lifted, do you?'

He pursed his lips. 'It's a scenario, Nick.'

I frowned, and not just because of what he'd
called me. If Dom was being held, the decision
whether or not even to try to rescue him would
be made very high up. It all boiled down
to PR. What was the propaganda value of a
rescue? Would it actually be better for the
government if the fucker died? Would a nice
beheading online get the public sparked up?
Chances were, the Regiment had only gone in for
that charity worker Norman Kember because
somebody had done their sums and worked out
there was more mileage in a recovery than a
beheading. I could just hear the discussion. 'He's
already done the interviews to camera. We've
seen him making his statements online. Public
opinion has already reached the height of shock
and horror. There's nothing to be gained by
letting him be killed. He's old, he's a peace
worker. Let's see if we can get him back before
his head rolls.'

Would the Yes Man help make the risk assessment?
If the danger of SAS casualties was too
high, the troopers would stay in their tents. The
PR gain wouldn't be worth the pain, especially if
the hostage got killed in the attempt. Maybe that
was what this was about. They were going to
send in Ks. It was a matter of economics as much
as anything else. It cost the taxpayer three or four
million pounds a time to train an SAS trooper. All
I'd cost was the price of a cremation.

I scrolled down the page. Dom had read
English literature at Krakow University and
found a job straight away on a Polish national
newspaper. The rest was platinum-plated
history.

Now was the time to ask. 'He's not a British
national. What do you want him back for?'

The Yes Man sighed and pushed the second
folder across the table. 'Because Dominik
Condratowicz is not just a journalist, Nick. He's
an asset.'