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, taking leave of the monument’s sight.
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, and had through much strife earned a
stellar reputation 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 ten people in the whole of
the world even knew who Simon Rowan
was. 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 company.
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, London 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.
“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, 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.
Years later, 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.
He 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 betrayed Her Majesty and caused
the deaths of twenty-two citizens, Hall. Did you think your treason would go
unanswered?” 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. You know me. I
trained you, for God’s sake!”
“Enough,” Rowan said. “It’s time for
you to stop running. Own 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.
“I wouldn’t believe you. What would
he have to gain from compromising national secrets?” Rowan could hear him
breathing now.
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 in the growing shadows.
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 he welcomed his young friend into the
Service, and 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 the hotel room 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 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, and found a small envelope, in which was the
key.
Inside the case was a USB thumb
drive. He took it to the computer and prepared to examine its contents. Before
he got that far, he came to an uncomfortable realization. He was unable to
access the computer. He was unable to do this because the computer belonged to
Richard O’Donnell.
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 a stolen computer in the mission
briefing. He imagined Hall obtaining the stolen files by stealing the entire
computer – crude, yet effective. It suddenly occurred to him that the 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. 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.”
Once when Rowan was on a mission in
Serbia, he was shot in the lower back by a man suspected of being a Russian
spy. He was taken to a local hospital, where he was admitted under a false name
and stabilized. He could not contact London. To do so would be potentially to
expose himself, and the Service’s involvement. He knew that he was on his own,
but he could not think of it as abandonment of betrayal. It was protocol.
Snow fell softly on the Palace of
Westminster. Rowan sat silently in a stolen BMW near the front steps. Six
months had passed since he became a fugitive and bought passage back to England
with a South African diamond smuggler. He sipped coffee in the dark, and he
watched the front steps. He was home. He sat minutes away from exposing O’Donnell.
And the Foreign Secretary was scheduled to arrive in mere moments, to address
Parliament regarding the manhunt.
A black government sedan arrived at
the entrance, and out stepped Secretary Cambridge, the same woman who had
declared him a traitor on world news. 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 guards. 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.
He was loaded into a van and bound.
A sack was placed over his head. Familiar voices 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 enhanced his discomfort
tenfold. He heard Honeycomb’s voice announce that they had arrived.
He had not, as he supposed, been
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. 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.
“My lad,” O’Donnell began, “I’m
afraid you’ve strayed too far. I can do nothing for you now. Gentlemen, the
room, please.” The three or four agents behind him stepped out, leaving them in
a brutal silence.
“Why?” Rowan groaned. “Why
compromise that base? Get those people killed? Money?”
“Simon … oh Simon. You think I was
the leak?” O’Donnell replied coldly, lighting a cigarette.
“Of course you were the leak! I’ve
seen the evidence. 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, O’Donnell. I’ve known you
eighteen years, and I never thought you could betray everything you
represented. Betray me. Why?” Rowan rose to his knees and faced O’Donnell. His
hands were tied fast behind his back. Otherwise he would have tried to
overpower him.
“I’m truly sorry, mate. That
evidence … it doesn’t exist. You
don’t exist. You never did, don’t you see? We’re all wicked, Simon. Wicked and
empty. We’re dead men. It wasn’t about money. What the fuck do I need money
for? I’ve got no bloody life outside this great bloody machine. The wheels of
things have a way of turning round, and then round again, and they’re different
every time. Nothing stays the same, it – it moves and shifts, and it’s all
rubbish. All of it.
If you want to know why … then I
suppose I’ll tell you. You deserve to know. You’re a good lad. Government’s a
foul thing, boy. Politics and thieving and God-damned murder is what its
become. Like us, really. We’re all the same. Well boy, there’s those that have
and those that have not, and those that have not figure they ought to have, and
so they take away from those others. Kingdoms lost and won. Loyalty? Duty?
They’re lies. They’re a fantasy.”
Rowan listened to O’Donnell speak,
his voice still and unwavering. He alluded to some sort of power play, a scandal
created to discredit the sitting government. Twenty-two innocent lives and huge
breach in national security - it was absolutely barbaric.
“Who’s Sprite?” he asked. O’Donnell
stared at him with the damning eyes of a priest.
“Somebody not like us. Somebody that
needed my help to get what he wanted. That’s as far as we go, son.” He gave a
long look and a little smile to Rowan. At length he drew a pistol and fitted a
suppressor.
Loyalty,
Rowan thought to himself. Service,
murder, lies, treason, all the same. It’s all true, every word. We’re shadows.
We’re spiders in the cellar.
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 the body secured? No,
no. Had to be done. What about the thumb drive? Find it.” 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.
