“The GRU would never work with a foreign agency on a project like that,” Amherst said coldly. He took a fold of paper out of his pocket and opened it up. “These accounts are in your wife and children’s names. Offshore accounts, but I’m sure neither of them are aware they’re knocking on the door to being millionaires.”
Villiers’ shoulders sagged. King gripped more tightly just in case it was part of the man’s plan to lull him into a false sense of security. King looked down, saw the damp patch soaked into the area around his groin and doubted he had it in him.
“So, what are you going to do?”
Amherst stood up. “My man here wanted to break your neck,” he said nonchalantly. “And trust me, he’s more than capable. But we’ve had a chat about the bigger picture and he agrees, of sorts. You’ll be far more useful to us on a leash. An extremely tight leash. Of course, your wife and children will only be safe for as long as you cooperate. And it goes without saying that you’ll be under surveillance twenty-four-seven. In short, we’ll know what colour toilet paper you use. Which, we do already. And the man who has just made you piss your own pants will be all too pleased to twist your neck if you fail to fall in line with us.” Villiers went to say something but seemed to think better of it. “Your accounts have been frozen, and your assets seized. Your passport has been flagged and you will hand it over to us when you come in to Thames House tomorrow morning at nine for the first in a series of meetings. Naturally, you will still retain your position, for now, but I am appointing Simon Mereweather as my liaison. He will be working fulltime in the River House until further notice. We’ll call it a joint MI6/MI5 operation. He’s on his way over now, but I thought I’d spare you the embarrassment of him being in on this meeting. He’ll hear all about it later, of course.” Amherst stood up and casually adjusted the sleeve of his jacket. “We’ll start this new venture by maintaining your relationship with the Ruskies. And then we’ll gradually trickle-feed them disinformation. By the time we’ve finished with you, the Russians will be thinking how to get Novichok on your door handle. By then, of course, we’ll be your only salvation. Your only protection. So, play the game, stay onside and you might just have a future.”
King gripped tightly, pulled Villiers out of his chair and the man put up no resistance. A ragdoll in his hands. “Make no mistake,” he said coldly and threw him back into the stained chair. “The Security Service own the SIS now. And if you think about doing a runner, make no mistake, I’ll hunt you and I’ll find you, and I will kill you…”
76
“He’s a slippery one,” Ramsay said. “But I think he understands.”
“He’ll hang himself,” said King. “Metaphorically, that is.”
“Do you think?” asked Amherst.
“He’s arrogant. He’ll dust himself off, regroup, build his ego back up and he’ll cross the line again,” King said. “Which is fine with me, because I meant every word.”
The sky had clouded over, and it was raining. So much for the promise of spring. The spray from the vehicles had made a greasy smear in the windscreen wiper’s tracks. Seated in the front passenger seat, Amherst’s bodyguard cracked his window down an inch and checked his own rear-view mirror for the hundredth time since leaving the River House. King wondered how much the man had listened too, but noted he was probably too situationally aware to care. Parliament Square looked less colourful than before as they followed the road to the right and headed for Thames House.
Amherst said, “The documents mention a name several times. Someone who oversaw the project from its conception. This person is of interest to us. A former communist hardliner. A general who ran a subversive wing of the KGB. His involvement in this horror-show project is compelling, because he will no doubt have further information. Undoubtedly more than we have gained thus far.”
So much for nipping this in the bud, thought King.
“What’s his name?” Ramsay asked.
“Vladimir Zukovsky.”
King felt the wall of his chest tighten, his heart skip a beat. Adrenalin surged through him, and he found he was gripping the door handle so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. His mind raced and for a moment he was caught up with images of things he’d rather forget. Of bodies and blood, of timers and detonators and cannisters of plutonium. He looked at the palm of his hand, the ragged scar from where he had cupped the detonator - a reminder of how close to oblivion the country had come. He closed his eyes and thought about Caroline, of the cove in Majorca, the engagement ring he had bought her after the operation had gone according to plan. Of the start of a new life ahead of them and Vladimir Zukovsky found and placed under permanent arrest. Simon Mereweather had been acting director, and King had put together the hastily conceived abduction plan while he was still on official sick leave. Caroline had been none-the-wiser.
“Are you alright, dear boy?” Amherst asked. The car swept past Downing Street and King turned and looked out of the window.
“I’m fine,” he said. But like so many things in his life, he thought he would never be able to truly outlive his past. The feeling that he would forever be haunted. And the feeling that whether he wanted it or not, a new and deadly chapter in his life would soon open. He looked back at Amherst and said dubiously, “Never better.”
77
There was
