Milton squinted. “You saying that’s the same man?”
“Heavily disguised, of course. The hair, the beard, the glasses. We’ve run the biometrics. The techs are confident.”
“How confident?”
“Confident.”
“I only ask because sending me into their home might mean that they die tonight. I’d like a little more than ‘confident’ before I do that, Tanner.”
“This is the best we can do. MI6 has a source in the Center. He’s been asked to confirm that Kuznetsov and Timoshev are the Ryans, but that’s not going to happen tonight and we don’t have time to wait. They’ll be gone and it’ll be too late.”
“Jesus,” Milton swore.
“It’s as good as we’re going to be able to do,” Tanner offered with a shrug. “If that’s not good enough, you’ll have to take it up with Control.”
Milton stared at the screen and the image of a bearded man walking by the camera. He felt a clamminess, sweat beading on his brow, and turned away to look out of the window.
He saw Callaghan’s reflection in the glass, mocking him.
He turned back. “What does Control want me to do?”
“Bring them in. Find out why the SVR would take such a big risk to assassinate an old spy who hasn’t been operational for over a decade.”
“And if I can’t bring them in?”
Tanner drew his finger across his throat. “You know.”
Milton felt the nascent throb of a headache. “Who else?”
“Five’s on the surveillance. He’s there now.”
Milton was pleased with that, at least. Number Five was Michael Pope, and he was the nearest that Milton had to a friend in the Group. They had known each other for twenty years, ever since they were in the Royal Green Jackets. They had been in the Gulf together, although in different battalions, but, upon returning to the United Kingdom, Pope had transferred into the same battalion and had then been assigned to B Company, the same as Milton. They had been sent to South Armagh and Crossmaglen, bandit country that was very much in the pocket of the Provos. They had both joined the SAS and then Pope had followed Milton as he was selected for the Group.
“Anyone else?”
“Ten is on her way—we’ll meet her when we land. And Ziggy Penn is in charge of intel. I know, before you moan, that he’s annoying. But he’s also brilliant.”
“Yes,” Milton groused. “He is. Right on both counts.”
“We’re investigating the house and the area as subtly as we can. There’ll be three of you, fully armed, and we don’t think they know they’ve been blown. They don’t know that you’re coming. You go in, grab them or put them down, then get out.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“I have unshakeable confidence in you, Milton,” Tanner replied, a wry smile bending his lips.
PART II
Winchester
29
Pope had taken up position in the churchyard of St Mary’s Church. It was open, with a lych-gate that stood alone as if the wall it had once offered access through had been removed at some point in the past. There was a path to the building that cut between the graves and several large shrubs had been planted along it; these offered excellent cover from the house and the occasional car that passed by, while also allowing Pope a good view of the entrance to the driveway. He checked his watch. It was 12.30 am. He had been watching the house for ninety minutes. The temperature had dropped quickly and he wasn’t really dressed for a long stake-out. Never mind. He would be busy soon enough.
Another five minutes had passed when the van with the BT Openzone logo came around the corner. It continued around the bend in the road until Pope couldn’t see it any longer. He waited a moment to check that no one was watching from the drive and, happy that he was still undetected, cut between the bushes and shrubs and followed the van. He walked for three minutes until he reached a car park that served the Itchen Motor Company. There was a one-storey building set back from the road with enough parking spaces for six or seven cars. The spaces were empty save for the van and a vintage Jaguar that Pope guessed was waiting to be serviced. Pope heard the buzz of an engine and, as he approached the van, he saw a drone detach from the roof and lift off into the night. It had eight mini-propellers and a suite of cameras was cradled beneath the airframe. The drone climbed almost noiselessly and then proceeded toward the house.
Pope reached the van. The driver’s compartment was empty. Pope went around to the other side of the vehicle where he couldn’t be seen from the road. He tapped on the door and, after a pause, it slid open.
The interior was not what one would have expected to see from the outside. It had been fitted with a console along the opposite wall. There were two monitors, one of them displaying the feed from the discreet 360-degree periscope that poked up from the top of the van and the other showing aerial footage from the drone. There were digital recording devices, a directional antenna that was sensitive enough to discern the details of conversations from distance and a microwave receiver. There was a man at the console.
“Evening, WATCHER,” Pope said.
“Good evening, Five.”
WATCHER was the operational codename for Ziggy Penn, the hacker from Group Six who was on long-term loan to Group Fifteen. Ziggy was short and wiry with untidy ginger hair, a messy thatch that had not seen a comb—or, Pope guessed, shampoo—for some time. His eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets, sitting above puffy bags that suggested a lack of sleep. His skin was pale, thanks, Pope knew, to a life spent inside staring at computer screens. His face was sallow, the skin on either side of his nose pitted with old acne scars. Pope had worked with Ziggy on a previous occasion and had found him mildly annoying, although the irritation was alleviated somewhat by the fact that he was unquestionably talented at what he did.
The van’s ceiling was low, and Pope had to crouch.
“You took your time,” Pope said.
Ziggy indicated the van. “It’s not really built for speed,” he said. “Got here as fast as I could.”
“What do you have?”
“Not as much as you’d like,” Ziggy said. “I’ve got the estate agent’s plans from the last time the house was sold.” He nodded to one of the screens with a plan of the property displayed on it. “And I just put a drone up.”
“I saw it,” Pope said.
“It’s equipped with a day/night camera and a thermal camera. Here.” He indicated the screen with the overhead footage and pushed a button; an infra-red shot replaced the feed on the screen. Pope saw the church and, using that as the waypoint, found the house and the van that they were in. Ziggy smirked with self-satisfaction. “I’ll station it over the house. I’ll take a close look before you need to go in.”
“Anything else?”
“Well,” he said, stroking his chin. “They’ve got a standard domestic broadband connection that I should be able to hook into. I’ll have a look for alarms and cameras and, if they have them, I’ll see if I can take them out. And if—” Ziggy was interrupted by movement in the drone feed. “Wait a minute,” he said. His fingers flashed across the keyboard and the display focused on the car. It had already turned off the road and was rolling into the property. Pope saw its brake lights flash as it rolled to a stop.
“Can we get a better look?” Pope said. “I want to see who’s driving.”
Ziggy moused over and clicked a button. The drone swung several feet to port, opening up an angle so that it could look down at the car as two occupants got out. He froze the footage, drew boxes around the two people—a man and a woman—and zoomed right in. The software corrected the digital artefacts that would otherwise have spoiled the image, lightened the shot and presented an acceptable view of both people.