The Oktober Projekt (11 page)

‘I didn’t realise he was so serious.’ Setting off down the
room, Bensham needed someone or something to blame.

‘Deadly serious,’ Nick retorted, avoiding Bensham’s difficulty.
‘What did he bring as a sample?’

Bensham’s bravado deserted him and Nick told him to take his
time. By Nick’s side, a lace curtain was strung across the window. Yellow with
age it smelt of stale dust, a dead moth trapped in the tapestry had shed its
wings like petals. A mobile advertising truck crawled by promoting a new brand
of room freshener, a distorted
Greensleeves
belting from its speakers into the miserable day. Turning from the
window Nick heard the tune still ringing on, hollow notes with nowhere to go.

‘He told me that after the years of chasing the trail he’d
struck gold, but I was making him deliver too early, there was still work to
do,’ Bensham admitted at last. Expecting some form of praise, he turned sulkily
away as Nick merely nodded as though the point wasn’t that important after all.

‘Did he explain what trail?’

‘He went on about it or them in London and I thought he’s lost
it, he’s having a laugh.’

‘What did he mean by that?’ asked Nick, his temper rising.

‘I thought he was pumping up the value of his pitch,’ said
Bensham, tugging his scarf this way and that along his bullish neck, aiming for
a point of equilibrium.

‘What did he bring you?’ Nick’s voice had become so low, so
compressed, that to those who knew him they’d consider it dangerous.

‘He said he had run the London end of the Oktober Projekt
down,’ Bensham said, jamming himself into a corner of the room. ‘He was manic,
tell the senior ex-officer I have discovered three of them, tell him three.
Look, I should have paid attention but I didn’t, I had a lot on my plate,
okay.’

‘No it’s not
okay
,’
fumed Nick, ‘it never will be
okay
when super-inflated egos such as yours are cleared for operational duties. I’m
sick of your bullshit, your lame excuses and inflated opinion of yourself,’
Nick began, blocking Bensham’s escape from the corner. ‘You’re nothing to me,
mean nothing to me, got that,’ insisted Nick stepping closer. ‘I haven’t
decided if you leave here walking or crawling, but you
will
tell me the truth.’

Perhaps resenting Nick’s accurate assessment, the youthful
tucks around Bensham’s mouth darkened, and his assurance deserted him, a dire
spoiled face claiming its place. Finally, the novice intelligence officer
reviewed his options with the sort of cold logic that they had drummed into him
at Aspley during his initial training. ‘I told Lubov that a file name wasn’t going
to be good enough for me to risk my career by approaching
this
senior ex-officer. I asked him for more, something
sexy to sell,’ he confessed, visibly relaxing as Nick stepped away. ‘Lubov
wasn’t for sharing, but he realised it was me or early retirement,’ he
explained, his voice featureless. ‘And that’s when he gave me this crazy sales
pitch. The Oktober Projekt is more than a mole, Lubov told me, it’s more than a
dozen agents in place. These are elements he said, but they are just the means
to the end. According to Lubov, Moscow have not recruited agents to pass on
secrets, they have recruited agents that plant secrets, that is the symmetry of
the Oktober Projekt, and it is ready to enter a new phase.’

‘And you passed all this on to RUS/OPS?’

‘No, I still thought Lubov was winding me up, so I watered
everything down, kept it vague, sold it to RUS/OPS as the Oktober Projekt and
nothing more.’

The scale of Bensham’s disclosure sent him pacing around the
room once more. Catching his reflection in a cracked Tower of London souvenir
mirror, Bensham scowled at the memory of being responsible for Lubov’s
treasure.

‘What was RUS/OPS response?’

‘More or less ignored me,’ Bensham admitted. ‘I was told to
back off,
 
told it was way above my
pay scale and they would handle it. I guess that’s why they sent you and Mr.
Foula.’

That’s why they sent me and Alistair thought Nick; realising
that Lubov was already a marked man before they even reached Moscow because
Bensham had condemned him to death. Lubov must have suspected as much when
Bensham cut him free reasoned Nick, so he did what anybody would do; he tried
to save himself, he made sure that his treasure went on ahead of him, sent in
advance for his arrival in London.

‘Does that make any sense?’ Bensham asked, moodily attempting a
reprieve.

At that precise moment Nick didn’t know what made sense. ‘Not
now, but it may do,’ he said.
                 

Unconvinced by Nick’s assurance, Bensham shook his head. ‘I’m
sorry,’ he mumbled, fastening the buttons on his coat.

‘You should be,’ Nick answered as Bensham sloped off through
the door.

Turning off the electric fire, Nick made his way down to
reception, avoiding Easton’s attempts at anything close to a conversation.

At the newsagents across the street a customer was accusing the
assistant of short changing him, their bitter feud hanging in the musty air.
Nick bought a bar of chocolate between accusations; lingering in the doorway,
spinning a wire rack of postcards crisp and brown from a forgotten sun, he
watched a Service car drop off a team of two from internal security.

A check along both sides of the street from the hotel steps and
the internal security team swept inside. Bensham has tried to cut a deal and
save his own neck by giving them mine he thought; or Hawick has had me listed
as wanted, a handsome bounty to be claimed, and even Freddy had to make ends
meet. This is still their territory Nick reasoned. Their lies, their denials;
these are the contours on the map. Striding smartly away from the newsagents
Nick took a call on his phone.

Four

Someone to Trust

London, November

Nick
came out of the Tube at London Bridge station, and by Battle Bridge
Lane he already had a scent of the river. The Thames was ebbing and its mud
reeked of salt and diesel. Around him he saw a river robbed of its soul, its
warehouses gentrified, squeezed between utilitarian office blocks and
apartments. The warehouses had been built to store exotic goods and had somehow
survived the best intentions of the Luftwaffe during the Blitz, but they had succumbed
to the developers and now stored people instead. Calling it Docklands was the
supreme irony, he decided pressing on. And for once he played the good tourist,
queuing to pay his entry fee to board H.M.S.
Belfast
on a grey
freezing afternoon, complete with a small blue rucksack on his back bought from
a branch of Blacks in Kensington. Ambling round the upper deck, Nick selected a
position on the starboard rail by the bow turrets. A few tourists in two and
threes strolled by venturing up to the bow. Towards the stern, a school party
loud and boisterous intent on mutiny, and Nick prayed they weren’t heading his
way. Turning his back on the river, Nick watched Rossan pelt up the gangway as
though the ship was about to sail without him.

‘What on God’s good earth are you playing at?’ panted Rossan,
pulling up at Nick’s side, catching his breath. ‘Bloody Bensham is threatening
to scream blue murder, the cretin. You didn’t strike him, Nick?’ demanded
Rossan, ‘nothing physical occurred did it?’

‘He provided me with background on Lubov.’

‘Have you forgotten you’re suspended?’ he ranted.

‘Just tying up a few loose ends in my own time.’

‘Well make sure they’re tied up pronto,’ said Rossan, meshing
his fingers together, forcing his leather gloves onto his fingers. Warily
looking round he inched closer. ‘I’m risking a hell of a lot by being here.
You’re officially classed as dodgy currency, a contaminated entity.’

‘Better make sure you’ve had all your jabs, Paul, don’t know
what you may catch off me.’

‘Early retirement for a start,’ Rossan said with feeling.

‘What was Wynn doing freelancing?’

A party of Japanese in clear plastic rain capes scurried
through the first wave of drizzle, clanking down below to the mess decks.
Rossan bided his time until they’d passed.

‘No one is talking and no one is telling, so forget it.’

‘Someone must have sent her to Hamburg?’

‘Let’s walk,’ suggested Rossan, touching Nick’s arm, coaxing
him away from the starboard rail. ‘You’re a valued senior officer, Nick and a
friend,’ he said, concern in his clear eyes. ‘You and I both know that Moscow
is now counted highly, a strategic partner in more ways than it used to be
because of its perceived value in preventing terrorist attacks.’

‘Sally Wynn had twin boys for Christ’s sake, Paul. I’m not prepared
to let this go.’

‘I didn’t say you should, but there are factions who wouldn’t
mind if you were thrown out on your ear, door slammed, thank you and bugger
off.’

‘Who knew about the collection apart from Parfrey?’

They’d stopped at the stern and Rossan gripped the rail looking
towards Tower Bridge, his arms straight and locked tight.

‘The usual suspects probably,’ Rossan said slowly,
 
‘any operations on European soil are
cleared by Jane, Teddy, Roly, C and myself.’
  

‘No one else, no friends or associates?’ Nick asked, setting
off without warning, Rossan having to hurry to catch up.

‘Not to my knowledge,’ Rossan said.

‘Well someone invited Moscow to the party,’ said Nick.

Braving the rain on a second slow tour of their own making,
they passed under the barrels of the forecastle’s six-inch guns.
 

‘Look, Nick, you’ve spent so much time on the road recently
that you’re out of the loop as far as new allegiances on the eighth floor go,’
Rossan disclosed with a bitter smile. ‘Teddy is still nursing his ego after the
appointment of our new Chief which seriously put his nose out of joint. I
sincerely hope that you’re going to stay out of town for the foreseeable
future, or until you’ve had this meeting on Monday. Listen to me,’ urged
Rossan, gripping Nick’s wrist. ‘C is a slick political act who finds darling
Jane his new best friend and flavour of the month, Teddy as his doer of dirty
deeds, and Roly and me are simply tolerated and suffered in silence.’

‘How far do we go back Paul?’
 

‘A way and some more.’

Looking over to the boarding kiosk on the embankment, Nick
noticed a lone figure patrolling forlornly backwards and forwards. ‘That why
you brought along a babysitter?’ Nick nodded to Rossan’s minder.

Rossan didn’t immediately reply, but seemed to be searching for
the right answer to satisfy each of them. ‘It’s better for both of us this
way,’ said Rossan, his voice and his eyes unable to disguise his embarrassment.

‘Did you get my things?’

‘I swore your secretary to a lifetime of pain and torment if
she so much mentions what I collected,’ Rossan declared, his voice low and
urgent, passing Nick a plain A4 buff envelope. Nick tore back the gummed flap,
glancing inside at a number of worknames he’d used before; different
professions, different lives, all of them
 
bearing photographs of Nick with sullen expressions. ‘I didn’t ask and I
don’t want to know.’

Slipping the package into his rucksack Nick nodded his thanks.
‘Just following up a possible lead, a Latvian source of Wynn’s, that’s all.’

‘Damn it, Nick, I don’t want the details,’ said Rossan in a
temper. ‘This is as far as I go,’ Rossan added, ‘from here on in, you walk by
yourself. We haven’t met, we haven’t discussed a thing, we haven’t even said
hello.’

‘I owe you.’

‘You bloody do,’ Rossan said, softly patting Nick’s arm. ‘Oh,
by the way, Jane wants to see you, usual place, usual time.’

‘Take care Paul.’

Halfway down the deck Rossan turned but didn’t wave, seeming to
Nick that his old friend was taking a last look at him, fixing this moment into
his mind.

• • •

Nick arrived home after eleven that
evening and the milk bottles were already out; four in a neat line that he
almost kicked over. Angela had obviously ignored his warning and remained
obstinately at home and Nick felt their separation was complete, two lives
divided by their own needs and rituals. What could be more natural than a
secret life here as well, he thought. We could arrange to avoid each other
through the Dairy Crest milkman; skimmed, semi-skimmed, silver and organic, the
Torr code for complete separation would never be broken. He’d eaten and waited
for Jane at the Cittie of Yorke in Holborn, but she never turned up and after
making a couple of pints last almost an hour, he’d written her off, not for the
first time, and left.
 

The house was dark, an after smell of casserole pressed into
the warm air. In the kitchen he opened the fridge, finding more packs of
Japanese lager had been added. Nick helped himself to a can.

Crossing the kitchen he turned a lamp on in the alcove, light
swimming out in a warm wave across the dining room table. Two dirty plates, two
pudding bowls, two empty bottles of wine, red and white, two cans of lager
crushed, no doubt with a finger and thumb. So what was the hurry Angie that
stopped you clearing away? Nick wondered. Amidst the remains of a dinner for
two, a photographic timeline of Tom set out in uneven columns along the table.
Nick took a drink and tried to work out why Angela was reawakening the
past?
 

Wanting an answer, Nick swung out into the dark hall. One
stair, two climbed, drinking as he went, past Angie’s barrier up to a smaller
staircase and the second floor. Tom’s room had become Angela’s untouched shrine
to their dead son; its door a spacecraft flight deck painted full size on the
panels was slightly open. Nick hadn’t ventured in here for years and he pushed
the door open, one hinge needed oiling he remembered too late. Everything
untouched, a family memorial that reminded Nick how it had once been the centre
of his life. The room still and sad, one vital ingredient would always be
missing; pine bed and sleeping boy, a clown night-light and serene breaths,
unexpected joy.
 

He took a final glance and closed the door. He’d have given
anything to hold Tom, apologise for ever raising his voice, showing his temper,
his impatience, his annoyance. He felt every molecule of Tom flowing through
him, a continuum between father and son; love, hope, joy, the promise of the
future and Nick didn’t want the responsibility for breaking the link.

 
His head raked back
draining the can, Nick didn’t notice a large ceramic dish. Kicking it sideways
it delivered its load of polished pebbles through the banister spindles,
thumping on down the stairs. A dash of light hit the landing below and Nick
sensed a figure waiting by his bedroom door. An explanation would be demanded,
he’d apologise of course. Maybe he’d even get one of Angie’s tearful polemics
that he he’d never been able to find an answer for.

Rehearsing his excuse for trespassing into Tom’s room, Nick
made his way down and came face to face with Guy. Standing in an oblong of
light spilling from the main bedroom Guy stood firm, naked except for boxer
shorts and a hockey stick Angie kept by the bed for when Nick was away; grasped
firm, ready to take a strike.

‘It’s okay, Guy, he belongs to me,’ Angela said standing in the
doorway, dressed in a loose creased white T-shirt and black Agent Provocateur
knickers.

‘That’s right, Guy, I’m Angie’s husband, I live here,’ Nick
said.

‘Sometimes,’ sighed Angela.

Then Nick did the most ridiculous thing, crushing the Japanese
can he pitched it towards Guy’s bare feet. ‘Not bad.’

‘What’s mine is yours, what’s yours is mine,’ grinned Guy,
flicking the can to one side, weighing the hockey stick in both hands with
menace.

‘Don’t,’ urged Angela coming to Guy’s side. ‘Nick works for a
security company, he’s served in the Royal Marines.’

‘That’s right, Guy,’ said Nick, taking a couple of paces
forward, calculating his striking distance his eyes set resolutely ahead hardly
blinking, his hands locked firm and tight.

‘I’ve read all about your sort,’ sneered Guy. ‘Fast buck
mercenaries someone called you in
The Independent
.’

‘Not that sort of security,’ Angela put in quickly, realising
the danger. ‘Nick’s a consultant. He advises foreign businessmen about
protecting their employees and anti-kidnapping techniques,’ she said,
attempting to prise the hockey stick from her lover’s hand but having no luck.
‘You adore the travel more than anything, don’t you?’

‘The travel’s great,’ said Nick, inching a step closer. Who
wouldn’t want to see the inside of a Moscow military prison, he thought.
Thinking also of his recent operation in Afghanistan, that was all fun as well.
A British patrol supporting Nick’s team had been ambushed; casualties from the
patrol’s lead WMIK Land Rover were being treated by the medic as the vehicle
burnt itself out. After a short contact they’d taken three Taliban prisoners,
holding them in a dry riverbed, sitting cross-legged, hands cuffed behind them,
their AK-47s and ancient bolt-action rifles kicked clear.
 

Nick in combats solid with dust, his face sporting a three-week
beard, stood behind members of his highly pissed-off team as an NCO from the
patrol attempted to discover from their Afghan Army interpreter how the Taliban
knew about their route and timing. The interpreter spoke to the prisoners in
Pashto relaying their replies to the NCO, explaining how a senior Taliban
commander from a different district had provided all the information. Nick
pushing his way to the front, asked the interpreter in Pashto why he was lying,
why did he tell the prisoners to say nothing important, only to give small talk
as their answers? Laughing to cover his surprise, the interpreter cockily told
Nick in English he must be mistaken, must have misheard. Drawing his 9mm P226
Sig-Sauer, Nick put a round into the interpreter’s knee, advising the NCO that
they had their informer, then started to question the prisoners in Pashto all
over again.

‘I really do like the travel,’ said Nick for Angela’s benefit.

‘Bit of a lame excuse for neglecting a beautiful woman,’ said
Guy with real venom. ‘Good job I’m here to take care of her.’

It was over in a matter of seconds. Though Nick could only
recall connecting with Angie’s lover once, it must have been more; because
after Angie screamed for him to stop, had slapped his face, Nick had the hockey
stick and Guy was on his hands and knees inside the bedroom gasping and
retching. Everything then moved at speed. Nick had Guy’s arm bent in a nasty
lock behind his back, ordering him to grab his clothes. With his shirt, jacket,
trousers, shoes and socks in a bundle clasped to his chest, Nick ran Guy down
the stairs taking the treads two at a time. With Angela screaming ‘bastard’ all
the way to the front door, Nick heaved her lover out onto the garden path
kicking the door closed after him.

‘That’s it, we’re really finished now,’ yelled Angela as Nick
came through the hall, adopting her usual defensive position on the stairs.

‘I didn’t know we’d even started,’ shouted Nick going down to
the kitchen, helping himself to another can of Guy’s favourite lager.

‘You’d better leave,’ she demanded from halfway up the stairs
as Nick returned, placed a foot on the first tread as a sign of intent, though
he wasn’t ready to advance.

He drank greedily going for half the can but couldn’t swallow
fast enough. To stop himself choking he closed his eyes. When he opened them,
Angela was gone. So was the light. Drifting from the bathroom, he heard the
shower’s wet rays and the loud blast of a radio. A portable battery one she
toted everywhere and used effectively to obliterate him from another of her
senses.