Ghosts

The second target laughed at something that Semenko said. Control switched his attention to him. He had introduced himself as Andrei Dragunov but, again, that was a lie. His real name was Pascha Shcherbatov. He, too, was Russian. He was in his early middle-age and he was a long-time KGB agent, an intelligence man to the quick; since the fall of the Wall he had amassed considerable influence in the SVR, the successor to his notorious previous employer, and was now considered to be something of an operator. A worthy opponent, certainly.

Semenko clasped the hand of the maitre d’, her face beaming. They both got up, leaving money on the table, and made for the archway that opened into the lobby.

“DOLLAR and SNOW are on the move,” Control reported. “Stand ready.”

Shcherbatov’s phone rang and he stopped, putting it to his ear. Semenko paused, waiting for him. Control stared at the pirated feed, willing himself to read Shcherbatov’s lips, but it was hopeless: the angle was wrong and the quality of the image was too poor. He watched, frowning hard. Shcherbatov smiled broadly, replaced the phone and spoke with Semenko. Control hoped that their plans had not changed. That would throw things into confusion.

“Control to One and Twelve,” Control said into the mike. “They are on the move.”

“One, Control. Copy that.”

Control watched as Semenko and Shcherbatov headed towards the exit. The pair stepped beneath the camera and out of shot. “Keep on them,” Control said, and the technician tapped out a command and switched views to a new camera. This one was in the elevator and, as he watched, the doors opened and the two of them stepped inside. Shcherbatov pressed the button for the ground floor. The camera juddered as the lift began to descend.

“Targets are in the lift,” Control reported. “One and Twelve, stand ready.”

“One, Control. Copy that.”

The technician swung around on his chair and brought up another feed on the second monitor. It offered a wide angle view of the street outside the restaurant. Control could see Semenko’s chauffeur. He was a large man, powerfully built, with a balding head. They knew he had a background in the Spetsnaz and would certainly be armed. He wore a pair of frameless glasses and was dressed in a dark suit and open-necked shirt. Control watched as he stepped out of the shadows, tossing a cigarette to the floor and stomping it out.

The lift came to a stop and the door opened.

Semenko emerged into the wide shot first, walking with a confident bounce across the space to the Mercedes. Shcherbatov followed, his phone pressed to his ear again. The chauffeur opened the rear door for his passengers and, as they slipped inside, he opened the front door and got in himself.

He started the engine. Control could see the fumes rising from the exhaust.

The Mercedes reversed and turned and then pulled away, moving quickly.

“Targets are in play,” Control reported.

Chapter Two

Beatrix Rose was sitting astride a Kawasaki motorcycle on Re

“They’re turning east towards the Bridge,” intoned Control.

There was another motorcycle next to her. The agent sitting astride it was nervous, despite the time he had spent in the army and then the SAS. He had a glittering resumé, with one mission behind the lines during the second Iraq War a particular stand out, but it was one thing to go into battle during a war when the rules of engagement were clear and success would often be publicised and quite another to conduct a clandestine extrajudicial operation like this, with no backup or recognition, and the likelihood of incarceration, or worse, if things went wrong. The man had his visor open, like she did, but where she was clear-eyed and focussed, he looked ashen.

“Milton,” she called across to him.

He didn’t respond.

“Milton.”

He turned to face her.

“You alright?”

“Fine,” he called back.

“You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“I’m fine.”

“Remember your training. You’ve done more difficult things than this.”

He nodded.

Beatrix Rose was Number One, the most senior agent in the Group. The man on the second bike was John Milton. He was Number Twelve. The Group was a small and highly select team. Twelve members. Milton was its most junior member and his presence in it was at least partly because of her influence. Number Four, a cantankerous Irishman who had served with the Special Boat Service before being transferred to the group, had been killed in a firefight with al Qaeda sympathisers in the Yemen six months earlier. Control had identified ten potential replacements to fill his spot on the team and had deputed the job of selecting the most promising soldier to her. She had interviewed all of them and then personally oversaw the selection weekend when their number had gradually been whittled down, one at a time, until Milton had been the last man standing. Beatrix had known before the weekend started that it was going to end up that way. His commanding officers described him as a brilliant soldier who was brave and selfless. They also spoke of a steely determination and a relentless focus on the goal at hand. He did not allow anything to stand in his way. He had demonstrated all of that. He was the most promising recruit that she had ever worked with and, in all the time that she had been Number One, she had tutored two men and two women who had replaced fallen team members. There had been more than three hundred possible recruits for those four spots and Milton was better than all of them.

“Here they come,” she called out.

The Mercedes turned the corner and headed in their direction. Beatrix flipped her visor down and gave the engine a twist of revs. Milton did the same, gu

“One, Control,” Beatrix said.

“Go ahead, One.”

“We’re in pursuit.”

Chapter Three

“Control, One. Roger that.”

Control had placed his agents carefully: One and Twelve east of the restaurant on Re

The driver of the surveillance van started the engine and they pulled out into the traffic and headed north. The Mercedes was out of sight but One was providing a commentary on its movements and it was a simple thing to follow.

Control twisted the wedding ring on his left hand. Despite his satisfaction with their preparation, he was still nervous. This had to be perfect. The operation was totally off the book; usually, the files with the details of their targets were passed down to him by either of MI5 or MI6, but that wasn’t the case this time. Neither agency had sanctioned this operation and he would have even less cover than he usually did if anything went wrong. It wasn’t just that this was unofficial business — all of the work they did was unofficial — it was personal.