The Mentor

4

It only took a couple of hours for the media to christen the atrocity. Sky News, the tabloid of the TV news stations, did the honours. During the seven o’clock round up the anchorman referred to the Leicester Square bombing as 18/8, and the name stuck. The tabloids used it the next day, and it didn’t take long for the broadsheets to follow suit. Of course, BBC News and CNN weren’t far behind. 18/8 HUNDREDS DEAD, was the screaming headline on the front of the Sun the next morning, the typeface so large it took up the whole page. The story stretching across a dozen pages was big on sensational pictures – bodybags being carried out of Leicester Square, shocked survivors looking dazed and confused, grim firefighters with dirty faces – but light on words. At least, light on any words of substance. There were inches galore of speculation, eyewitness accounts, tales of bravery, but not much in the way of facts. Even now there was little to say on the subject, and certainly nothing that hadn’t been said a thousand times already. Almost two weeks had passed since the bomb attack. Autumn was rapidly approaching, the evenings closing in and the days getting cooler, and they were still no closer to nailing the bastards responsible for the atrocity. Sitting at his desk on the fifth floor, staring at his computer screen, Aston was painfully aware of this.

Fact: The bomb detonated at 5.21 p.m. on Friday, August 18th.

Fact: Another woman had died overnight, pushing the official death toll up to two hundred and sixty-two.

Fact: The manpower working on this one was unprecedented. MI6 had pulled every spare man, MI5 had done the same, so had the Met.

Fact: Two weeks on and they didn’t have shit.

It was so bloody depressing. Not to mention stressful. The internal phone rang and Aston picked it up with a sense of foreboding.

‘Get your arse in here now,’ Mac barked.

Before Aston could say anything the line went dead. Sighing, he picked up his notepad and pen and walked the dozen steps to Mac’s office, a distance as long as any last journey to Old Sparky.

Mac was pacing; wearing out rug, as he liked to put it. He’d been wearing out a lot of rug recently. As head of the PTCP he’d been right in the firing line. Under normal circumstances, Mac was as cool a customer as you were ever likely to meet. However, these circumstances were far from normal and he was definitely showing the stress. There were a few more lines, wrinkles that enhanced the rugged lived-in look of his face; his neat hair had a few loose telltale strands that could only come from nervous fingers. And more than once Aston had caught his boss with the top button of his shirt undone and the tie pulled down a fraction of an inch; something unheard of in the days before 18/8. The signs were subtle but they were there if you knew where to look.

And it wasn’t just Mac who was under pressure. They all were. The attacks had come from all angles. The media had crucified MI6, laying the blame for the tragedy squarely at the feet of The Chief, who’d promptly shared that blame around as best he could. Then there’d been the questions raised in the House of Commons, a hundred and one little questions which all amounted to one big question: how could MI6 allow this to happen again? To make matters worse, the PM had come out smelling of roses. He’d pulled out his smartest black tie, feigned the right amount of sympathy, made all the right noises, and the media had lapped it up. Overnight he’d become the public face of the country’s grief, and in doing so his approval rating had soared. There was nothing like a good disaster to get the public on your side. What the public failed to realise was that the Government was responsible for funding MI6, and year after year those budgets had been getting tighter and tighter. And maybe if MI6 had the funding they had asked for then all this could have been prevented.

‘Bastard,’ Mac said.

Aston wasn’t sure which particular ‘bastard’ Mac was referring to. The PM was a favourite candidate, but there were a number of likely suspects: MPs, reporters, colleagues at MI6. Over the last fortnight Mac had raged about all of them. The only person who’d escaped was Grant Kinclave, The Chief, and Aston guessed that’s because Mac and The Chief were best friends. They went back a long way, had both earned their stripes during the Cold War – probably had matching school ties hanging in their wardrobes.

Aston slipped into the chair on the tradesman’s side of the desk, flipped open the notepad, and waited to be spoken to. When Mac was in this sort of mood it was best to agree when called upon to agree, make the right face shapes as appropriate, but for the most part it was wise to just shut up.

The office was furnished with utilitarian precision and dominated by a neat, uncluttered desk: the in- and out-trays were always kept at a manageable level, and the desk tidy was stocked with sharpened pencils and pens that actually worked (one of Aston’s duties; God help him if his boss ever reached for a pencil and found it blunt). Fish swum merrily back and forth on the flat screen monitor. The only personal touch was a small framed photograph next to the door. It had been positioned so you could see it from the desk. The picture had perplexed Aston to start with, but when he finally placed it, it all made sense. Orson Welles had made his famous ‘cuckoo clock’ speech in front of this big wheel in The Third Man. Not that Aston thought the Orson Welles connection was relevant. No, the connection was that the wheel was in Vienna, and Mac had been head of station there during the early Nineties, a posting that was the highlight of his career. This had surprised Aston. He’d never had Mac pegged as the sentimental type.

Mac stopped pacing and turned to Aston, seeing him as if for the first time. ‘Guess what they’ve gone and done now?’

Aston said nothing and waited for Mac to continue. ‘They’ could be anyone. The Government, the media, terrorists.

‘They’ve only called for my resignation … again. Bastards!’

Well, that narrowed it down. This was political, which meant he was here for one reason. To sit and listen while Mac blew off some steam. Aston flipped the notepad closed and settled back, all ears. If Mac was venting in that particular direction, then at least he wasn’t here for a bollocking. All that could turn in a heartbeat, though; Mac was a man of changeable weather. And to think, when he’d been assigned to work for Mac he’d actually gone out and celebrated. Working for the legendary Robert Macintosh, what an honour. If only he’d known then what he knew now.

‘Of course, it isn’t going to happen,’ Mac said. ‘And do you know why it isn’t going to happen?’

Before Aston could say ‘no’, before he even had a chance to shake his head, Mac was off again.

‘Because they can’t get rid of me. It’d be like getting rid of the ravens at the Tower of London. I go and this whole fucking building will crumble to dust, mark my words.’

The devil on Aston’s shoulder suggested that now might be a good time to point out that MI6 was bigger than one single person, that it was an organisation, which by definition meant it existed by virtue of the combined efforts of all those people in London and around the world who worked for it. The angel on the other shoulder vetoed this on the grounds that his next staff appraisal was imminent and a black mark from Mac wouldn’t do his promotion prospects any good. Promotion prospects, that was a laugh! If Mac had his way he’d have him working in servitude for the rest of his days. Face it, he was here for life.

‘Who the hell do they think they are? What do they know about the intelligence game? Absolutely fuck all, that’s what.’ Mac took a deep breath. Calm, calm, calm. Then he grinned the sort of grin that could charm the pants off a nun. The grin became a good-humoured laugh, the sunshine after the rain. ‘Storm in a teacup is what it is. By tomorrow they’ll be looking for someone else’s bollocks to nail to the wall. Okay, Aston, what’s new? Go on, impress me.’

Aston felt his heart sink and his stomach rise to meet it. Whatever he said next, it wouldn’t be impressive. How many different ways could you say you didn’t know shit?

5

The Farriers was buzzing, the after work commuter crowd twisting each other’s arms to have one more for the road. Nobody needed much persuading. Aston pushed between two stockbrokers – the bright red braces and loud ties were a dead giveaway – and waved a tenner to catch the barmaid’s eye. She was a pretty little thing in her early twenties, wearing a black thong that peeked out from the top of her hipster jeans, and a Little Miss Mischief T-shirt that stuck to her body like a second skin. She finished dealing with a businessman who had the shiny skin of one facelift too many, and an indecent amount of gold dripping from his hands and wrists. Aston waved frantically and she made her way over.

‘What can I get you?’ The accent was East European. Hungarian or Slovakian. Another ‘language’ student over here looking for her golden ticket. Aston didn’t blame her. The collapse of the Soviet Union had created a clusterfuck that would take decades to sort out … if it ever got sorted out. He ordered two JDs and coke and squeezed out from the bar.

Two neatly dressed middle-aged women at a table near one of the windows were finishing their drinks. Aston sidled up, ready to pounce. Their clothes were designer, and it wouldn’t have surprised him if each outfit was worth more than his entire wardrobe. Laura had tried to educate him on the difference between Prada and Gucci, but he didn’t get it (and had no particular desire to, either; you’d have to be out of your mind to spend a couple of grand on a dress just because it had a fancy name on the label). Still, these two obviously knew the difference. The women placed their wine glasses back on the table, stuffed their Marlboro Lights into tiny handbags that were no doubt worth their weight in platinum. As soon as they got up Aston was in there, just ahead of the stockbrokers. He raised his glass, flashed them a better-luck-next-time smile. The stockbrokers shrugged and went off to lean against the jukebox.

His mobile vibrated. Two sharp buzzes. Probably George replying to his whr th fck RU? text. He pulled it out, flipped it open:

soz hon gotta wrk L8:(

CU in abt an hr

lol george xx

No surprises there; they were both working stupid hours at the moment. It had been touch and go whether he’d get away, but Mac had left early tonight and he’d made the most of the opportunity. Aston settled into his chair and took a long pull on his drink. He could think of worse places to waste an hour. The Farriers was just off Soho, one of their favourite haunts. There was something elegantly shabby about the place. Wonky floors and squiffy right angles; the worn wood surfaces preserved with a couple of centuries’ worth of beer, tobacco and dirt that mingled into an aroma that was warm and comforting. George had once described The Farriers as ‘well matured’, and Aston thought that pretty much covered it.

Thursday night was their night, a tradition dating back to their training days. A couple of drinks followed by a curry, then a few more drinks to wash the curry down. During the IONEC they’d always gone for the diviest bars they could find, the divier the better. The first prize had gone to a nightclub called Bubbles. Even by Portsmouth’s standards Bubbles was in a league of its own. The carpets were so sticky it was like wading through treacle, the clientele ninety-nine percent male … all Navy. No mistaking what profession the three women at the bar belonged to. They’d had to step over the bodies in the stairwell and dodge between the ambulances and police cars to escape.

Alcohol was indeed the oil that kept MI6’s wheels running smoothly. If you wanted to find out what was really going on at Vauxhall Cross then the best place to head was the in-house bar. Another plus was that, unlike civilian boozers, the opening hours were somewhat more flexible. They’d been sent to The Fort to learn about spycraft, but boozing was an important part of the curriculum, too. Funnily enough, this was the subject the training officers seemed most keen to teach. Aston and George had passed this part of the course without trying.

Aston drained his drink and picked up George’s. He raised the glass in a toast to absent friends, took a sip. Waste not, want not …

‘Mind if I sit here?’

Aston looked up with the intention of politely telling whoever it was to piss off, and almost choked on his drink.

The man smiling down at him was in his early fifties and had the immaculate grooming of a politician: the Savile Row bespoke suit, Italian leather shoes, manicured nails. His hair was dyed black, the smile filled with perfect white teeth. He was average height, average weight, and the clever grey eyes didn’t miss a thing. Legend had it that Grant Kinclave lived in a gilded cage on the top floor of MI6’s HQ, a penthouse suite with sweeping views of the Thames. His private bathroom had gold fittings, marble floors, and a throne fit for a king. Every day he bathed in champagne and was scrubbed down by a dozen virgins. Or something along those lines.

‘Be my guest,’ Aston managed to say. He indicated the empty seat opposite, his heart frozen in freefall.

Kinclave sat down, slid a beer mat closer, made sure the writing was the right way round, that the edge of the mat was parallel with the edge of the table, then placed his G&T slap bang in the centre. Satisfied everything was just so, he turned his attention to Aston, studying him with those clever grey eyes.

‘So, Paul, how are things going?’

‘Can’t complain,’ Aston replied non-committally. Here they were, two old friends meeting up for a drink at the end of another long day. Nothing unusual about that … except one of them was MI6’s Chief, one of the most powerful men in the country, someone who was accountable to no one, not even God. There had been moves in the Nineties to change this. The Cold War was over and this was a new era, which meant a new way of doing business. It was a nice line to feed to the media, but the truth of the matter was that MI6’s doors were closed as tightly as ever. Aside from a few token nods towards accountability, gestures that were light on substance, it was business as usual.

Aston had only seen The Chief up this close once before. During orientation on his first day, the door of the conference room had swung open and a man strode in, moving as though he was the centre of the universe. Aston had shared a look with George: it was obvious she didn’t have a clue who this was, either. However, from the grand entrance, and the way the two training officers jumped to attention, it was apparent he was someone important. Unsure what to do next, the six trainees had followed suit, rising uncertainly, bewildered expressions passing between them. The man smiled thinly and indicated they should sit. When everyone had settled, Kinclave introduced himself and welcomed them to MI6. He spoke for the next ten minutes in the stirring tones of a Baptist preacher, stressing time and again how important the work they did here was, how secrecy was paramount. While he spoke his eyes moved constantly, scanning the room, scanning faces. More than once, Kinclave’s gaze settled on Aston, and it was an effort not to look away. Afterwards The Chief went around the table shaking hands and wishing the candidates well. Aston wasn’t sure – and he’d replayed the scene in his mind a thousand times since – but Kinclave seemed to take more interest in him than the others. Holding his hand longer, picking him apart with those eyes. Maybe it had been the same for everyone. After all, it was one of those life moments where every single detail, no matter how trivial, takes on extra significance.

Pokerfaced, Aston sipped his drink and said nothing, curiosity eating away at him. Now he’d got over his initial shock, he wanted to know what was going on. Your drinking partner suddenly has to work late and the head of MI6 happens to wander in, plonks himself down at your table and wants to chat about the weather. The whole thing smacked of a set-up. Aston took another sip, eyes surreptitiously wandering around the pub. No way would Kinclave be on his own. And he wasn’t. Aston counted three of them. The man by the door wearing a long leather Matrix coat was a definite; too conspicuous, wanting to be seen. He had the air of someone who knew how to take care of himself. Probably carrying. The man was trying to look bored but he kept glancing over at Kinclave, like Daddy Bear protecting its cub. The other two shadows were at the table near one of the windows. They’d been there when he arrived. From their body language, the uncomfortable way they touched hands, he’d assumed they were having an affair, out in public and worried about being caught. Now he knew different. It was so obvious he could have kicked himself. He’d played the same game with George on numerous occasions.

‘Anything new on 18/8?’ Kinclave asked.

Aston shrugged. ‘Not really.’ It was a redundant question, something to fill the uncomfortable silence. The Chief already knew everything happening there, undoubtedly knew a hell of a lot more than Aston did. All he could add to the official story was that the nightmares in which he was cradling the dead baby were as terrifying as ever, that he would give anything for a decent night’s sleep, that he was drinking way too much and picking stupid fights with Laura, but he didn’t think The Chief would be interested in any of that.

Kinclave lifted his glass, turned it in his hand, momentarily fascinated by the reflections and smudges. He took a drink, straightened out the beer mat, placed the glass back dead centre. ‘Of course, I can depend on your discretion,’ he said.

Aston nodded. ‘Of course.’

Kinclave leant in closer and spoke so quietly Aston had to strain to hear. ‘This is difficult … but have you noticed anything, well … odd about Mac recently?’

‘Odd?’

‘You know,’ The Chief said, ‘is there anything about the way he’s been acting that strikes you as unusual?’

Aston thought carefully before answering. Mac was no more eccentric than usual, no more grouchy, no more of a pain in the arse. ‘No,’ he said.

‘We’re worried about him. Very worried,’ The Chief said. ‘You see, ever since his wife died …’

Aston was aware of those piercing grey eyes crawling across his skin, burrowing into secret places.

‘Ah,’ Kinclave said, ‘you didn’t know about his wife’s illness.’

Didn’t know about her illness? Aston thought, I didn’t even know he was married. Obviously this was a day for surprises. Almost three years he’d been working for Mac and he didn’t know he had a wife.

‘It’s so sad,’ Kinclave said. ‘They’d been together for over ten years, you know. He met Sophia while he was heading up the Vienna station. I thought Mac was a terminal bachelor. Just goes to show, eh? And the fact they managed to stay together all that time … well, I don’t need to tell you how hard it is to keep a relationship together in this business …’