For King and Country
“Oh
what a tangled web we weave,
When
first we practice to deceive.”
-
Sir Walter Scott
A cold and oppressive rain fell on Turin.
A talkative group of French tourists passed Simon Rowan in a hurry, splashing
his shoes with muddy water as they tromped through the puddles on their way to
the Mole Antonelliana. Rowan looked down the street at the massive structure,
his eyes studying its majestic features, but his mind unable to devote much
thought to its countenance. It used to be a synagogue, as he understood it, but
now functioned as a National Museum of Cinema. Drawing his scarf tightly around
his neck, he stepped under an awning, abandoning the spectacle.
It had been eleven days since he
arrived in Italy. At first he had been excited to receive this assignment; he
often visited Italy as a child and had a great appreciation for the
architecture and culture. His profession often afforded him the opportunity to
travel to beautiful and exotic places, and he was grateful for the distractions
they sometimes provided. But as the days went by and he was no closer to his
objective, he grew silent and pensive, never diverting his attention from the
task at hand.
Simon Rowan was a British intelligence
agent of nine years’ service. Through many dangerous assignments, he’d earned a
reputation of reliability within the highest echelons of the Secret
Intelligence Service, more famously known as MI6. He was a charming and
personable man with a distinguished face and dark hair. But fewer than twenty
people in the world really knew Simon
Rowan. He had no family, and few friends. He was assigned to F-Section –
one of the more secretive divisions within the service, whose members did not
officially exist. But this didn’t bother him, and in fact it pleased him. He
had fairly little contact with other operatives, whom he considered
untrustworthy and distasteful.
He took out his radio and held his
thumb down on the biometric scanner. It subtly vibrated as the channel to SIS
Headquarters in Vauxhall Cross opened. “XO, confirm position of contact,
Baptist six-eight-delta-ninety.”
“Good morning, Baptist. CIDS
confirmed. Contact is inside the Museum. A friend of yours, in fact. It’s
Honeycomb. She’s waiting for you.”
“Affirmative,” Rowan replied, now
jogging briskly through the rain toward the huge monument. Honeycomb was the
codename of a familiar colleague, whom he had not seen in several months. He
disliked her overzealous enthusiasm for the Service, but he would admit that
she was a capable operative. There was a line at the entrance, which he quickly
bypassed by showing a false police ID.
Once inside he quickly spotted her
standing next to an antique projector. He approached casually and stood beside
her. Without looking away from the display, she whispered, “Good morning,
Baptist.”
“What have you got for me?” he
replied softly. She drew a large envelope from her satchel and passed it to him.
He placed it into his briefcase and began to step away from the display, toward
a large photograph on the wall.
“Our Mr. Hall. Cyber division
confirms he accessed his agency portal from a hotel in Cape Town. We have
reason to believe he’s established a safe house there. Documentation, briefing,
and passage are in the envelope. Now get going before he moves again.” He
quickly took leave of Honeycomb and hailed a taxi to the airport.
Albert Hall was it: the mission itself,
the target, and the enemy. Two months ago he had been responsible for leaking top-secret
documents that contained the location of a secret detention facility in Palau. A
local terrorist sect attacked the facility three days later, leading to
twenty-two deaths and the escape of several detainees. The incident caused
uproar in the Commonwealth, and the Prime Minister was in danger of being
removed from office. Hall was officially wanted “dead or alive,” but Rowan’s
mission from the very start had been to locate and terminate him.
Rowan was a man accustomed to such
work. In his career he had been charged with the “protection and service of
King and Country,” and this duty he upheld with steadfast loyalty. He never had
to think twice about taking a life in the execution of his duty; it was a
natural part of keeping one’s country safe from those who would harm her. As
the military did on the battlefield, F-Section did in foreign offices and dim
corridors.
The journey to South Africa was long
and uneventful. On the way he studied the briefing documents: a collection of
photographs, the computer surveillance report from Cyber division, and a
Service dossier on Hall. He was once an accomplished and trusted operative. It
was thus all the more shocking when he betrayed the Crown the way he did. His
service record was incredible. Sixteen overseas assignments under deep cover,
two high-sensitivity assassinations, and over a dozen foreign spies uncovered.
Hall used to be the kind of agent Rowan idolized. How could he have suddenly
turned against the nation he had so proudly and tirelessly served? It didn’t
make sense.
Espionage was never the future Simon
Rowan saw for himself. As a boy in Birmingham he wanted to be a football
player. At nineteen he joined the Royal Navy, and it was as a Lieutenant aboard
HMS Avignon that he first met Richard O’Donnell. O’Donnell was his Commanding
Officer. He took Rowan under his wing, noticing his aptitude for tactics and
diplomacy, and encouraging him to pursue a career in the intelligence community.
He shunned the notion at first, fearful of losing his identity under the cover
of secrecy. But eventually he realized that with his unique talents, there was
no greater service he could provide to Her Majesty. As a Commander, Rowan was
finally welcomed into the SIS by his friend and mentor, Richard O’Donnell.
Upon arrival in the sweltering city
of Cape Town, Rowan acted quickly. There was no time to waste, and he had been
in the field long enough to know the virtue of expediency. He secured a vehicle
and traveled as swiftly as subtlety allowed to the Hotel. The desk clerk would
not simply direct him to Hall, he knew, so he waited for the clerk to be
summoned down the hall by the manager, and checked the registry. None of Hall’s
known aliases appeared in the registry, but this was no surprise. In fact, the
hotel was nearly empty. Only three rooms were occupied. He looked at the key
case. Four keys were missing. 101, 124, 125, and 204. The registry revealed
that Room 101 was not listed as occupied.
The hallway was dim, and silent as
the grave. As he approached the door, he heard a footfall inside. He drew his
Walther PPQ, and knocked. Before the door opened, he withdrew into a dark
corner of the hallway and trained his pistol on the doorway. He listened for
movement. He heard none. Finally he heard a window being flung open inside the
room. Hall was making a run for it.
Rowan sprinted down the hall, his
leather shoes clacking on the hardwood floor. Reaching the end of the hall he
leaped through a window into the courtyard and scanned for Hall. He spotted him
running into a nearby office building. He pursued. Startled office workers
pointed in the direction he had run, and Rowan followed, until finally he
became lost in a crowded cafeteria. He searched the sea of faces, black and
white, for Hall, or for any disturbance, but saw none.
The report of a handgun shattered
the dull murmur of the room. The diners rose in a screaming panic and stampeded
out of the room, and shortly an alarm sounded. Rowan crouched behind the
counter, clutching the back of his neck. The bullet had grazed him. He decided to
try to get Hall to reveal his position. “Hall!” he cried out.
“Welcome to South Africa, Baptist!”
Hall replied. “Have you come to silence me?” From what Rowan could tell, he was
in the back of the kitchen somewhere.
“You leaked national secrets and caused
the deaths of twenty-two citizens, Hall. Did you think you wouldn’t be tracked
down?” he replied. He chanced a look over the counter. The kitchen was dark.
Hall had switched off the lights. He quietly moved to the kitchen entrance.
“That’s what O’Donnell told you, I’m
sure. But is that what really happened? Ask yourself, Baptist.”
“Enough,” Rowan said. “It’s time for
you to stop running. Think on your sins, Hall. You’re a traitor.” He rolled
silently behind a large refrigerator and peered through the dark room,
searching for Hall.
“What if I told you that it was
O’Donnell who leaked the documents?” Hall asked. He was close. Rowan could hear
him breathing now.
“I wouldn’t believe you,” he
answered, “What would he have to gain from compromising national secrets?”
Before Hall had time to respond, he
rolled out from behind the refrigerator and fired a single shot, striking Hall
in the upper chest. Hall dropped his weapon and slumped against the wall.
Leaping on top of him, Rowan prepared to finish the job.
“I can prove it,” Hall sputtered,
coughing up blood. “Go back to the hotel! Inside the toilet tank there’s a
case. Open it. O’Donnell …” He spoke no more. Rowan heard police vehicles
approaching outside. He searched Hall’s body, taking his weapon, identification,
and room key. He then lifted Hall’s body and carried it quickly out of the
building, depositing it in an old car parked out back. The sun was going down.
He slipped away.
The day Rowan received his
commission in the SIS, he stood in Chief O’Donnell’s office, looking out the
window, across the Thames to the north. O’Donnell poured two glasses of Scotch
and sat down at his antique desk. “Simon,” he said warmly, “You and I are cut
of different cloth. That lot out there – they’re not like us. They see nothing
beyond this island. They fear no evil, and they know no danger. Why? Because
men like us lurk in dark rooms all over God’s green Earth, splicing wires and
cutting throats. And do they thank us? Fuck no. They don’t even know who we
are. They look at us, and they don’t see us. We’re shadows. We’re spiders in
the cellar. And what a tangled web we weave. Welcome to the business, lad.”
As O’Donnell welcomed his young friend
into the Service, he regaled him with exciting stories from the last years of
the Cold War. He seemed to be constantly chuckling to himself. Rowan remembered
thinking that O’Donnell seemed eerily satisfied in his job. Rowan joined MI6
because he possessed a natural talent for the work, and because it was his duty
to make use of himself, not because it was fun. But O’Donnell had an air of
wicked bliss about him when he spoke of conspiracies and terminations.
Returning to Room 101 at half past
one, he stealthily unlocked the door and crept inside, weapon drawn. After all,
it could be a trap. The room, however, was empty. He searched the room, finding
only a few files, a laptop computer, and an SIS-issue pistol. Finally he
stepped into the bathroom and lifted the lid off the toilet tank. Just as Hall
said, there was a small gray case within. He removed and examined it. It was
locked. Searching the room again, he found a small envelope, in which was the
key.
Inside the case was a thumb drive.
He took it to Hall’s government laptop and prepared to examine its contents. But
as he opened the computer and attempted to log in, he realized that the
computer didn’t belong to Albert Hall. It belonged to Richard O’Donnell.
Suddenly he didn’t know what to think.
The biometric scanner blinked
patiently, waiting for O’Donnell’s fingerprint input. Why hadn’t O’Donnell said
anything about this? There was no
mention of the director’s computer having been stolen in the incident report
from Hall’s disappearance. He imagined that Hall must have obtained the stolen
files by stealing the entire computer – crude, yet effective. It suddenly
occurred to him that the thumb drive must contain some means of bypassing the
biometric login safeguard. He inserted the drive.
It took less than twenty minutes to
uncover the awful truth. Secret communiqués, encrypted lists of foreign
contacts, and unofficial instructions passed between O’Donnell and someone
referred to as “Sprite.” O’Donnell was the leak. It was all part of some
grander plan, but he didn’t know what it could be.
The sting of reality hit him as he reflected
on the mission. He had chased an innocent man from England to France and from
there to Italy, and ultimately to South Africa, and murdered him. The real traitor
was sitting in Vauxhall smoking cigars, and feeding the P.M. all manner of
vicious lies. Unless there was a
reason for him to expose the facility. A strategic directive. Something from on
high; the secret of secrets. Who was this
Sprite? What did it all mean? He had never heard of anyone by that name, or
pseudonym. None of it made any sense. He had to return to London. Questions
needed answering.
The next day he stood in the
airport, arranging a return flight. The terminal was full of people going about
their business, but he noticed that several large groups had formed around a
few television screens tuned to BBC. Special military correspondent Leslie
Chakworma was speaking.
“Earlier today, Foreign Secretary
Leona Cambridge confirmed that the Palau Leak was originated by MI6 agent Simon
Rowan, also known by the codename ‘Baptist.’ Rowan is believed to have stolen
the information along with a computer from the director of MI6, Chief Richard
O’Donnell. When questioned regarding Rowan’s location, Secretary Cambridge
assured the press that authorities throughout the Commonwealth have been
briefed, and MI6 personnel are currently in pursuit. Simon Rowan is charged
with treason, and according to the Joint Intelligence Committee, is wanted,
dead or alive.”
Years ago, in Serbia, Rowan had taken a
bullet while pursuing a suspected Russian operative. He was taken to a local
hospital and stabilized, but identified himself as a humanitarian worker. He
could not of course reveal his true purpose in Serbia, or contact MI6 in any
way to request evacuation. To do so would compromise the secrecy of his mission.
Therefore, as he lay bleeding in a run-down Serbian hospital, near death, he
did not feel abandoned or betrayed. He understood when he accepted the
assignment that in the event of his failure, he did not exist, and would not
receive aid from Britain. This was not Serbia. He had not failed. He was abandoned and betrayed. Not only
that, but framed for high treason.
He fled to a little hotel in Cape Town
and checked in under the name Christian LeChiffre. He destroyed the passport
and other documents MI6 had given him and set about finding a way back to
England. After a few months of posing as a gangster, he eventually earned the
trust of a diamond smuggler and arranged to join a shipment being sent to
Paris. Once there he laid low in a homeless shelter, making daily trips to the
nearest library to read the news and follow events back home. By the onset of
winter he felt it was safe to travel through the Chunnel in disguise and
attempt to clear his name.
Snow fell softly on the Palace of
Westminster. Rowan sat silently in a stolen BMW near the front steps. He sipped
coffee in the dark, and he watched the front steps. A few people in heavy coats
walked by, no doubt on their way home to enjoy a warm meal. As much as he felt
he no longer belonged anywhere, the sights and sounds of Britain were a welcome
change from the lonely exile of the field. He was, in whatever sense still
applied, home. And he was close to setting everything right. He sat minutes
away from exposing O’Donnell for what he was. Foreign Secretary Leona Cambridge
was scheduled to arrive in mere moments to address Parliament regarding the
manhunt. He had copied the evidence of O’Donnell’s treason onto Hall’s thumb
drive, and as soon as she was inside the building, he would confront her and
deliver it to her. Even if he were arrested on sight, she would have in hand
the proof necessary to exonerate him.
A black government sedan arrived at
the entrance, and Cambridge stepped out of it, accompanied by several aides. She
was a tall, red-haired woman with thick glasses and a confident smile. He had
met her several times before to receive a decoration, and liked her well
enough. He wished that this time he were meeting her under happier
circumstances. He got out of the car and quickly stepped into the shadow of a
pillar near the doors, pulling his hat down to obscure his face. Cambridge and
her aides entered the building, flanked by palace guards in brilliant red
uniforms. As he moved to slip in behind them, the merciless barbs of a taser
penetrated his back, and he fell writhing to the cold stone pavements.
A sack was placed over his head. His
hands were tied behind his back, and he was thrown into the back of a van.
Familiar voices inside communicated by radio with Headquarters. He didn’t know
where, or when, but MI6 had caught his trail and followed him to Westminster.
The ride to Vauxhall felt longer than ever, and the barbs of the taser still
stuck in his flesh made it unbearable. He heard Honeycomb’s voice announce that
they had arrived.
He was not taken to Headquarters,
but to a crumbling loft in a nameless building. The agents ripped the sack from
his head and the barbs from his back, and deposited him in the dusty living
room. The gray brick walls seemed to be held together only by the thick and
populous mold which grew on them. A small space heater provided enough of a
glow for him to discern Richard O’Donnell sitting in a folding chair near where
he lay. He sipped a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette. Rowan fixed his eyes
on the glowing end in the dark.
“My lad,” O’Donnell began, “I’m
afraid I’ve wronged you. Gentlemen, the room, please.” The three or four agents
behind him stepped out, leaving them in a brutal silence.
“Why?” Rowan groaned. “Why expose
the base? Why get those people killed? Money?”
“You’re a sharp lad, Simon, but you
ask too many questions.”
“I’ve seen the evidence, Dick.
That’s what Albert Hall really stole
from you. That’s why you sent me to kill him! You made me your fucking
henchman! An accessory to treason! And then you gave the BBC that bollocks
about me! Said I was the leak! Eighteen years, Dick. I’ve known you eighteen
years, and I never thought you could betray everything we’ve worked so hard to
preserve. You betrayed me, your friend!” Rowan rose to his knees and faced O’Donnell.
His hands were tied fast behind his back. Otherwise he would have tried to
strangle him.
“Simon, boy … you’ve been my top man for
years now. It pained me immensely that you couldn’t be spared. But don’t you
see? I had to send you after the leak. You’re the best I’ve got. What sort of
fool would send anyone but the best on such an assignment? And, well, as
predicted, you found the leak,” O’Donnell explained with a twisted grin.
“And that’s you,” Rowan replied.
“Smart lad,” O’Donnell began
jovially, “But listen boy, this evidence you’ve got – I suppose you were after
Cambridge, to give it to her? – I’ll be taking that now. We’re ghosts, Simon.
We’re dead men. You know this. Dead men like us aren’t meant to communicate
with the living. Best if that evidence stays here, in the shadows. With me.
I suppose you want to know why. Well,
son, you’ve earned an explanation, that’s for sure, but you know as well as I
do that as soon as I’ve told the tale, we … part ways. But let’s talk shop.
Do you remember back in 2010, when
Dexter Pfeiff was killed in that cock-up in Baghdad? You remember the committee
that investigated the incident.” Rowan remembered.
“The Fox Committee,” he confirmed.
“Right. Daniel Fox, of the House of
Commons, led an investigation that revealed that the Prime Minister failed to
handle the security breach, which resulted in Pfeiff and six other operatives
being captured.” Rowan interrupted and stepped closer.
“I know all this! What of it?” he
shouted.
“Easy, boy. Fox’s investigation
discredited the Prime Minister, but not enough to get him deposed. Do you know
who James Lipton is?”
Rowan thought for a moment. The name
was familiar. He searched his mind for the significance. Ah, yes. James Lipton was a political ally of Daniel Fox, and the
leader of the British Labor Party. He frequently attacked the P.M., and was
likely to be his opponent in the upcoming election.
“Former Lord Speaker James Lipton,”
Rowan answered.
“Absolutely right, lad. Now Lipton,
you see, he wants the P.M. out of the competition. But how do you suppose he
could bring that about? … Right! Another Baghdad! So he calls a meeting with
Daniel Fox, a few other damnable sods in Parliament, and yours truly. But this
wasn’t a formal meeting, of course.
Can you guess what the meeting was
about, Simon?”
Unbelievable,
Rowan thought. Of course, it was politics. Lipton got to O’Donnell somehow
and convinced him to create an international scandal that would make the Prime
Minister look incompetent. Twenty-two
lives lost for a fucking election. Barbaric.
“So, I suppose you can imagine what
happened from there,” O’Donnell added with a smile. Rowan stared into his eyes
for a moment, studying his satisfied expression.
“What did Lipton offer you in
exchange?” he asked in a trembling voice, filling with rage. He thought of the
twenty-three British citizens (including Albert Hall) whose deaths this madman
had caused. O’Donnell smile but gave no answer. “Which one is Sprite? Lipton?
Fox?” he asked. O’Donnell stared at him with the damning eyes of a priest.
O’Donnell seemed to reflect on the
question for a moment, and then shook his head and spoke again: “That’s as far
as we go, son. Enough story time.” He gave a long look and a little smile to
Rowan. He drew a pistol, fitted a suppressor, and leveled it at Rowan’s face.
Simon Rowan slumped down to his
knees and stared at the floor. It all made disgustingly perfect sense now. For
King and Country he had spent a short and misguided life in the shadows, living
as a spider in the cellar, only to be caught in the web himself, along with
twenty-three other diligent little spiders. Somewhere in Westminster, James
Lipton was writing his acceptance speech in blood. He closed his eyes, and
thought of Italy.
Three hours later, Richard O’Donnell
stood in his office by the light of a small lamp, sipping a latte and staring
at a portrait of Sir Walter Scott. His desk phone rang, and he picked it up
without looking away from the painting. “Chief. Yes. Is Baptist’s body secured?
No, no. Had to be done. Did you destroy the thumb drive? Good. I’ll see you in
the morning for the press conference. We’ve caught the leak, gentlemen. Well
done.” He hung up the phone and sat in his desk chair with a sigh. He stared for
a long while, at nothing in particular, and sipped in the dark.
