The Alex King Series A BATEMAN (summer reading list txt) 📖

World Wars, the Cold War… Everything we’ve ever done. These men used SIS assets and tried to feather their nests in international business affairs,” Villiers paused, watching Amherst for a flicker. He was quite sure that the civil servant knew nothing. Which was good. Because he could always elaborate and build on the situation. “It was a blemish nobody will benefit in making public. Which sort of buys your agent clemency, I suppose.”

“Sort of?”

“Yes. You see, I’m quite convinced that this King fellow, killed this top tier of reprobates. I’m also quite convinced that they used him and hung him out to dry. They saw him as a loose end and were foolhardy enough to try and have those loose ends snipped. It did not go well for them.”

Amherst shrugged. “No harm, no foul.”

“Well, not quite.”

Amherst returned his cup to the saucer and placed it back on the table. He glanced at his watch, decided it wasn’t too early for a proper drink. He would break out the bottle of Courvoisier when he got back to his office. He had been drinking more lately. It was no wonder why.

Villiers smiled. “I know. It’s in the bank. Quid pro quo. I want a favour.”

Amherst nodded. He had already decided to put someone on Villiers. Someone’s job was now to get something on the director of MI6. No. A team would be on it. He’d get his best analyst and watchers in place. The man’s rubbish would go through them before it reached the dump. His wife would be followed. If she wasn’t having an affair, then perhaps someone could be coerced to pursue her, a younger man who would sleep with her and put on a good show for the cameras. His teenaged children could be harvested for information somehow. He made a note to check if they were at college yet. University. Maybe drugs would be a way in? Amherst would have Villiers and his family shadowed for as long as the man remained in the role. He checked himself, Christ, what was happening to him? Ashamed, he looked back at his opposite number.

“Go on,” he said.

Villiers smiled. All teeth and snide, but no warmth. “I have a problem. I lost an asset. A Russian who wanted safe passage to Britain in return for what they knew.”

“Which was what?” Amherst prompted.

“All in good time,” Villiers said. “Only he didn’t show. Or, frankly, we don’t know if he did or didn’t. His handler went to meet him. And that was the last we heard. I sent another man in his place, but he did not make contact with either of them.”

“Where?”

“Finland,” he said. “Lapland, to be precise.”

“Lapland?”

“Yes. Turns out it’s not just where Santa has his grotto, but a strategically placed piece of land that meets with Norway and Russia at a single point.” Villiers reached into his pocket and retrieved a folded sheaf of four papers. He placed them on the table. “Everything you need right there.”

“What do you want, exactly?”

“Well, the way I see it, your agent went rogue. He has a chequered past, to say the least. He took down Russian mafia, then went on a personal war and killed the Russian president. I’m not interested what the Russian president did; I’m quite sure he deserved it. However, your agent’s actions have had all my intelligence agents, assets and support staff expelled from Russia. As well as Britain’s diplomats and embassy staff. We have no eyes or ears in the place. But what is worse than all of that, is I have another Russian defector on course with my handler in the frozen Arctic. Now, if my handler’s asset was compromised, and it is looking that way, then this defector will undoubtedly be hunted by agents from the FSB or the GRU. The defection is set, so they are effectively on the way and there is no way of getting word to them to halt their migration, and believe me, if they succeed, then what they are carrying with them could well save us all.”

4

 

MI5 Headquarters, Thames House

 

The bottle of Courvoisier had been a gift from Amherst’s opposite number in the French counter intelligence bureau, the DGSI, or Direction Générale de la Sécurité Intérieure. The man knew the connotations of the gift when he had given it, and Amherst had known as he had gratefully received it. It wasn’t a celebratory drink. It wasn’t Champagne. If you were going to have a drink to take the sting out of the awfulness of the job, then you had better have a good one. Amherst was on his third measure of the amber liquid, and it was worrying how well it was going down. To draw a line, he placed the cork stopper back in and put the bottle back in the open drawer beside him. He closed it and moved on.

The man seated opposite him had accepted a glass, but Amherst could tell it had been wasted on him. Should have served him tea. Whether he had accepted out of politeness, gauging his boss’s mood, or whether he had wanted to quench a demon or two of his own, Amherst wasn’t sure. It certainly hadn’t been the man’s style to conform, so he already acknowledged that he would probably never know why King had sunk the measure in one go. Perhaps he was toasting something, but as he looked at the man across from him, he could only imagine what that would be. On second thoughts, he knew he was better off not knowing for sure.

At a shade under six-foot, broad-shouldered, trim-waisted and fit, Alex King looked like a light-heavyweight boxer. He certainly had the eyes of someone who could stare down an opponent. They were the coldest, grey-blue that Amherst had ever seen. There were a few scars, thin white