The road was straight for a moment; Pope took the opportunity to reach up to his radio and pressed the button to open the channel.
“WATCHER, WATCHER, this is Five. Can you hear me? Over.”
“Barely. Speak slowly and clearly. Over.”
“I’m in pursuit of the targets. They are driving a Porsche Cayenne, partial registration BL12. Repeat: partial registration is BL12. We are proceeding west out of Kings Worthy. Over.”
“Five, copy that. Over.”
The road curved to the right; Pope gritted his teeth as he bent the bike low to the ground.
“Request police assistance. Track my location and get them to close the road ahead. Out.”
The road was narrow, with barely enough space for two cars to pass. There was open space to the left and right, with hawthorn hedges marking the boundaries. There was no light; Pope could see no farther than the glow of the headlamp. The wind rushed around him, pushing his hair back against his scalp and stinging his eyes.
A sharp left-hand turn approached. Pope drifted wide so that he could accelerate through the apex and, as he cleared it and straightened out, he saw the figure of a man standing in the middle of the road ahead of him. The headlamp bathed him in its golden glow and threw out a long shadow behind him; Pope could see that he had a shotgun braced against his shoulder and that it was aimed down the road at him.
He yanked the handlebars hard and leaned back. The bike slid through ninety degrees until it was almost parallel to the road. It bounced against the surface and then scraped along it. Pope travelled with it, then released his grip and allowed it to slide ahead of him. He felt the burn of the road’s surface against his legs.
He heard the boom of a gunshot, but the lead passed harmlessly overhead.
The bike continued down the road. It started to spin and, as it did, the front wheel clipped the legs of the gunman. The man toppled face first to the ground, his head cracking off the hard surface, his body bouncing once before it crumpled and he lay still.
The bike crashed into the hedge and came to rest. Pope slid by the man, digging in with the heels of his boots until he had arrested his forward momentum. His trousers were ripped and torn, and the flash of pain said that he had abraded the skin on his thighs and calves. Those were minor concerns that he had no time to worry about now.
The road was dark without the glow of the headlamp to illuminate it. Pope waited a moment for his eyes to adjust and then approached, covering the shooter with the machine gun. There was enough silvered light from the moon for Pope to see that his assailant was male and seemingly well dressed. He was face down, his arms splayed above his head. Pope knelt down for a better look. The man was no longer armed; Pope couldn’t see the shotgun in the darkness. He reached down with his left arm and turned the man over so that he lay on his back. It was too dark for Pope to see much, but there was enough light for him to recognise Vincent Beck. Blood was pouring out of a gash in his forehead.
Pope stood and gazed down the road. The bike was on its side, wrapped around the trunk of a small tree. The engine was still turning over, and the headlamp glowed through the vegetation. It wasn’t going anywhere. He looked beyond it, into the deeper darkness as the road led away. The agents were gone. He doubted that he would have been able to find them now, even if he had transport to continue the pursuit. Beck had sacrificed himself to buy their escape.
Pope pressed the button on his radio.
“WATCHER, I’ve got PAPERCLIP. Please send pickup to my location. Over.”
“Copy that, Five. The others? Over.”
“Gone. Have you informed the police? Over.”
“I have. But it’s late. Minimal assets available. Over.”
Pope knew it was a lost cause. Timoshev and Kuznetsov were in the wind. “Copy that, WATCHER. Out.”
Pope ended the call and took his phone out of his pocket. He switched on the flashlight and shone the beam on the old man’s face. The blood covered his face from his scalp all the way down to his chin, and more was still pouring from the gash. Pope opened the camera app, snapped off two quick photographs, and emailed them to Global Logistics. Then, he put the phone on the ground, the beam shining up, and frisked the man. He found a wallet inside his jacket and flipped it open. There was a driver’s licence in the name of Vincent Beck. Nothing else of interest.
Pope looked down at the old man. It had already been a rough night for him. That was a nasty gash on his forehead, but it was just an hors d’oeuvre for what was coming next. Pope didn’t envy him. His night was going to get much, much worse.
Farnborough
40
It was two in the morning and the motorway was empty. Pope was driving the plain black Range Rover that had been driven to Winchester by one of the Group Three bloodhounds. Vincent Beck was in the back, his hands cuffed behind him. PAPERCLIP had regained consciousness not long after Pope had loaded him into the car. He had been groggy and had grunted and groaned in response to Pope’s simple questions.
He followed the M3 northeast, approaching Farnborough on the way to Vauxhall Cross. Pope had pushed the speed up to a hundred and ten. The satnav suggested that they would be at their destination by three at the latest. There was no time to delay; Tanner had already relayed Control’s orders that they debrief PAPERCLIP as quickly as they could. Timoshev and Kuznetsov—and any other agents for whom Beck was responsible—would not be in the country for long. If they wanted to stop them, they would have to find them in the next few hours.
“Where are they?” Pope asked, looking up into the mirror so that he could see Beck’s response.
“Where are who?”
“Come on, Beck. This isn’t going to help you.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are talking about.”
“You know what’s coming. When we get to London—you know, right? It’ll be easier this way. Just tell me.”
“I’m sorry, Mr…”
“My name doesn’t matter.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I really do not know what you mean. I hit my head. I need to see a doctor.”
Pope drove on, his knuckles whitening around the wheel. “You’re going to have an awful morning if we get to London and you haven’t given us anything.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
What was the point in talking to him? Pope doubted that it would be fruitful and, anyway, there was something to be said for letting him stew in his own thoughts. If he was the agent runner responsible for the two sleepers, then he would know the gravity of the situation that he had found himself in. Despite that, Beck remained composed as Pope followed the motorway. His age suggested experience and he was probably old enough to have a realistic fatalism about what would find him eventually. Death or capture. It came to them all, one way or another. Pope was very aware of it. Not many made it out on their own terms.
They passed a sign for Fleet Services.
“I’m sorry,” Beck said. “I need the bathroom.”
“You’ll have to wait.”