Little Sister (A James Palatine Novel) Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Giles O’Bryen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503951945

  ISBN-10: 1503951944

  Cover design by Lisa Horton

  To Emma

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Part II

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part III

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  A Note on the Western Sahara

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Part I

  Chapter One

  In Eversholt Street the weird girl who’d been following him hailed a black cab and scrambled in. She was tall and big-boned, and agitation was making her clumsy. James Palatine watched intently, hoping to recognise her: a student of his at Imperial College, maybe, or one of the academic office staff? Her overstuffed canvas courier bag snagged on the taxi door, so she had to turn and yank it in behind her. James caught a glimpse of a pale, angular face with high cheekbones, a wide mouth, and hair that had been frizzed and dyed a bleached orange, though both the curls and the colour were growing out. She reached for the strap and slammed the door shut, and the cab rattled its way back into the flow of traffic.

  Who was she? She had none of the studied anonymity of a trained operative – and besides, a professional wouldn’t just give up and drive off in a taxi. Stalker? Lunatic? Or just confirmation that five years in the cyber surveillance business had left him sufficiently paranoid to make even shambolic young women seem threatening?

  Over the last week James had seen her in Camden, Bloomsbury and Pimlico, where he’d been to visit his accountant – something he did strictly once a year so it surely couldn’t have been a coincidence. Whenever he caught sight of her, she was fidgeting with something: checking the contents of her pockets or reaching down to tug at a sock. She always wore the same clothes – a baggy, plum-coloured sweatshirt printed with an American university crest, skinny black jeans and green canvas pumps that looked brand new – and always carried the black courier bag that appeared to contain a collection of small paving slabs. She shouldn’t have been as conspicuous as she was, but there was something discomposed about her – as if following James Palatine was an irritating chore she wished she’d never agreed to but could not now abandon.

  Three days previously he’d seen her watching his flat from the open space used by drunks and defecating dogs on the other side of Camden Road, and he guessed she’d be going there now. Approaching from the south five minutes later, James circled round to the entrance on the far side and knelt on a patch of meagre grass behind a holly bush. The girl wasn’t hard to spot. She’d sat down on a bench and was peering over the back through a screen of dusty foliage that separated the park from the pavement. The front door to his flat was directly opposite, on the other side of Camden Road. It was just after five, and the air was smeared with exhaust fumes from the line of rush-hour traffic heading north. She shifted back and forth along the bench, trying to get a better view.

  A gang of five teenage boys wearing sweatshirts and baggy jeans had congregated not far from her bench: two of them were engaged in a histrionic dispute, aiming extravagant shoves and kicks at each other while the rest looked on. The older of the two, who sported a black baseball cap with a gold badge, paused to look over his shoulder at the girl. Early twenties, James guessed. Too old to be hanging out with a bunch of schoolboys. He’d torn the sleeves from his sweatshirt to show off his gym-honed shoulders. He beckoned to a tall boy with loose, ropey limbs wearing a white Nike headband, who turned to stare at the girl. A sly, predatory stare.

  The girl leaned down and rubbed the heel of her left foot. The courier bag sagged beside her. It was obvious that she was in danger of being attacked. James felt oddly responsible for her, as if he’d invited her to run round after him and get herself mugged. He focused on the older man and the one in the headband, saw how they held their arms away from their bodies as if to accommodate the slabs of muscle beneath their hoodies. James could have guessed the weight of each of them to within five pounds and neither was as big as he thought he was. They and one of the other boys were armed: their hands, twitching compulsively over a cargo pocket or a section of waistband, were as good as pointing out where they kept their blades. The other two were negligible. James calculated distances, assessed the obstacles the girl would face if she decided to run. The more you see, the less you surprised. So Sam Hu Li, his t’ai chi instructor, would be telling him. Know everything, expect nothing. With Sam, the line between wise and glib was easily crossed.

  The one with the muscular shoulders moved in among the others and said something, then led them over to the bench. James stood up and started across the park. Headband sat down on the bench, threw a lanky arm around the girl’s neck and clamped one leg over hers. James saw her flinch and struggle, but Headband tightened his grip, forcing her head down into his groin.

  ‘Bitch wants to suck my dick.’

  Shoulders sat on the other side of her and started to go through her bag with an air of casual entitlement.

  ‘Let me go, shithead!’

  Despite being strangled by Headband’s grip, she managed to sound angry as well as frightened.

  ‘Yo, EJ! Man comin’, bruv.’

  EJ – he was the one searching her bag – looked up and saw James.

  ‘Let the girl go. This is over. Walk away,’ James ordered. He positioned himself at the end of the bench, with EJ and Headband and the girl in front of him, the rest grouped to his left. Headband relaxed his hold and the girl was able to lift her head. She caught sight of James and looked appalled.

  ‘The fuck you lookin’ at?’ EJ demanded.

  ‘The girl and I are walking away. Don’t try to stop us.’

  ‘Fuck you, wasteman.’

  ‘Stand up, move away from the bench,’ he told the girl. She jabbed Headband with her elbow, but he held her hard.

  ‘OK, I’ll buy the girl off you for twenty quid. If not, I start picking on your boys. You’re the boss, you decide.’

  He continued to stare at EJ, seeing the usual overcharged mixture of front and fear, at once insubstantial and dangerous. Some hint of intoxication, probably skunk, but not recent. EJ stood up, took a step towards James and began to bounce on his heels and weave from side to side like
a boxer, hands up, biceps pumped. His bloodshot eyes had the petulant, vindictive look of a man who has never got beyond thinking he’s been hard done by and someone ought to pay for it. But there was also a flicker of unease: James was supposed to retreat and he hadn’t. EJ stopped swaying and lowered his right arm.

  ‘Gi’ss the note.’ He held out his left hand.

  ‘Let the girl go.’

  EJ reached round and made as if to scratch his back. The boy who had seen him first approached from James’s left.

  ‘You don’t want to attack me,’ said James evenly.

  He moved on EJ without waiting for a reply, right hand stretching for his throat. The weapon appeared, a kitchen knife with a four-inch blade, slashing at James’s arm. James swivelled from the waist and his arm was gone, leaving EJ slicing air. His left hand clamped EJ’s wrist from the side. He stepped in, continuing his rotation, pushing the knife-hand on through its parabola until he had the back of EJ’s upper arm braced across the point of his shoulder. He pulled back sharply, felt the arm pop clear of its socket. EJ screamed. James let him fall. The knife clattered on the path.

  Headband was rooted to the bench, his arm still hooked around the girl’s neck. Two of the younger ones were backing away. The one to James’s left had a blade out, but his eyes were showing fear. James didn’t want to let him run. He moved in sideways, watching for the boy’s reaction. It came: a reluctant dart that stopped a foot from James’s stomach. James feinted a kick and the blade swung down, leaving him wide open. A jab to the mouth and the boy wobbled, the knife dangling. James caught his knife-hand and twisted a half-turn, looked up to see Headband and the other three running off across the open space. The boy he’d caught was doubled over, the top of his head pointing at the concrete apron round the bench. James pushed down smoothly on the boy’s wrist, twisted another quarter turn until he felt the bone crack. The boy gave a moan of surprise.

  EJ was sitting on the bench cradling his bicep, his face grey with shock. ‘Broke my fucking arm,’ he said.

  ‘Frontal dislocation of the shoulder. Get to A&E, you’ll make some junior doctor’s day.’

  James turned to look for the girl. She was heading for the gate. He ran ahead of her and turned.

  ‘I saved you from a mugging and now I’ll probably be prosecuted for assault. You can’t just walk away.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to beat them up, did I?’

  She looked down and started to fasten the buckle on her courier bag.

  ‘You think I should have let them get on with it?’ said James. ‘Come to the pub over there and I’ll buy you a drink.’

  She turned to look at the place he’d indicated. She didn’t seem to be able to make up her mind what to do, so he took her elbow by way of a prompt. She shook her arm away.

  ‘You don’t have to steer me, I’m not a five-year-old.’

  Clive Silk stepped from the lift into the lobby of the seventh-floor executive office suite of MI6’s Embankment HQ. It was 5.15 p.m. The PA stationed at the reception desk saw him coming and called through to tell Sir Iain Strang that he’d arrived.

  ‘Do you want to take a seat, Clive? They’re not quite ready yet.’

  ‘Who’s in there?’

  ‘Oh, just Sir Iain and Nigel. Coffee, tea?’

  Clive shook his head and walked over to the seating area, modular blocks of foam rubber upholstered in purple fabric arranged around two glass coffee tables. The decision as to which module to sit on was so trivial that for a moment Clive couldn’t make it, and found himself swerving from one to the other, until he finally came to rest next to a threadbare weeping fig. A vacuum cleaner whined from the corridor behind him. He set his briefcase on the table, and pulled out a report entitled The Theft of the Grosvenor Systems IPD400: Preliminary Findings. He’d sent it in shortly before eleven the previous night. Clive was an officer in MI6’s Strategic Projects Department. Eighteen months ago he had been discreetly seconded to the Grosvenor Systems board so that he could monitor development work on the IPD400 – or Little Sister as it was known by the wags at Grosvenor. Which was not to say he was in any way responsible for the thing going missing.

  The door to Sir Iain Strang’s office opened and Nigel de la Mere, Sector Chief for North-West Africa, stalked out. He was a tall man, narrow-shouldered but heavy around the bottom and thighs; his dusty-looking hair stuck up from his head, making him look permanently surprised. He was dressed in black needlecords and a plaid shirt. He came over and sat on the outer edge of the purple module next to Clive’s, squashing the foam rubber so badly out of shape that he had to brace one knee against the floor to stop himself falling off.

  ‘Heads up,’ he said, leaning in close so that Clive could see the pale mottling on his cheeks and smell stale coffee on his breath. ‘Fair amount of blood on the carpet but I think we’re through the worst. Don’t be tempted to make excuses for yourself, is my advice.’

  ‘Sir Iain’s blaming me for this?’

  ‘You do seem to have taken your eye off the ball.’

  ‘That’s absolutely not true. It was never in my remit to—’

  ‘Only came out for a pee, Clive.’

  De la Mere levered himself upright and hurried off. Clive leafed apprehensively through his report and now saw that the entire thing could be read as just that: making excuses for himself. On his way back, Nigel paused. His boyish, club-bore’s face looked strangely eager.

  ‘Do a lot of nodding. You’ll be fine.’

  Another ten minutes had passed before the PA trotted over and told Clive he could go in. He walked to Sir Iain’s office, knocked and heard a bark from within. Nervousness had drained the strength from his arms so that he couldn’t open the heavy door more than half way and had to sidle round it. The Director-General of MI6 was watching him from a chrome and leather sofa. Nigel de la Mere sat beside him in a matching armchair, his hands folded behind his head in a display of lofty detachment. The view of the Thames beyond was curiously flat, as if it might actually be a backlit photograph that could be changed with a flick of a switch to a vista of the Himalayas or a street-scene in Shanghai.

  ‘Clive Silk, our Grosvenor mole, reluctant paddler in that slurry pit of ineptitude.’ Strang’s full, leathery lips formed the words with scornful precision. ‘Sit here, next to me.’

  His accent was Manchester Grammar, carefully preserved through years of contagion from Whitehall’s Oxbridge riffraff. Unwilling to meet Strang’s gaze, Clive’s eyes wandered over the Director-General’s office, which looked as if it had been inspired by a corporate furnishings catalogue, then once installed, zealously protected from the sullying effects of human occupation.

  ‘Can I just say how much I appreciate the opportunity to work with you on this,’ Clive blurted out. He hadn’t fully resolved to speak and his voice sounded shrill. He cleared his throat and continued: ‘I hope my inside track on Grosvenor’s processes will be helpful—’

  ‘Unless you’re planning to give me a blowjob, Clive, I think we might start. I’ve read your report, but please strain my credulity once more by explaining what the fuck happened.’

  Clive had always dismissed Strang’s reputation for being foul-mouthed as office tittle-tattle, and was disconcerted to find it was true. He turned to a random page of his report to cover his embarrassment, and started again.

  ‘One of the Grosvenor finance officers offered to import the inventory data from the warehouse into the accounting system, so they could use it to value Grosvenor’s assets,’ Clive said, trying not to gabble. ‘Once he had administrator access to the warehouse system, he deleted the UNDER EMBARGO tags from the entry for the IPD400. Anyone who looked at an inventory print-out would think it was OK to sell.’

  ‘And within a matter of days the confounded thing has been shipped off to Claude Zender in Morocco,’ said Nigel de la Mere. ‘Which is not a coincidence.’

  ‘Please tell me there’s more to it than that,’ said Strang.

  ‘The paperwork
was in order.’ Clive couldn’t think what else to say. ‘The internal paperwork, I mean.’

  His mouth was dry, but he couldn’t even summon the nerve to pour himself a glass of water from the jug on the table in front of him.

  ‘I put copies with my report.’

  ‘I saw,’ said Strang. ‘The authorisation-for-release box is labelled “Operations Director”, but it’s been crossed out and someone’s written “Logistics Manager” instead. Why?’

  ‘Oh, yes, the Operations Director had a car accident on the way in to work. Not hurt—’

  ‘I really don’t give a fuck. Hit and run?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘I am. Nigel, see what the plods can dig up. So, some dick-in-a-suit pisses all over the inventory, the post-boy slaps down his big rubber stamp, and the greatest British military invention since the longbow gets trolleyed out of the back door and into the hands of the panto villain from Marrakech.’

  Clive thought it prudent to confine himself to a nod.

  ‘If that turns up in your memoirs, Nigel, I’ll have so many briefs up your arse you’ll be shitting horsehair for the rest of your days. Dick-in-a-suit went back to the States forty-eight hours before the IPD400 shipped out, correct?’

  ‘Yes. Said his mother was dying.’

  ‘Background?’

  ‘Harvard Business School, accountancy, two years at Lockheed, four months at Grosvenor.’

  ‘What about the Grosvenor Sales Director who did the deal with Zender?’

  ‘Natalya Kocharian. She’s from Kiev originally, though her father’s Armenian. Worked at Gazprom in Moscow, then GE.’

  ‘And on a KGB training course in the northern steppes she had a brief fling with an ageing he-man called Vladimir Putin?’

  Clive attempted to laugh at his superior’s wit, but the noise came out like a yelp stifled by a cough. ‘She was vetted, of course,’ he managed to say. ‘A career woman – highly rated at Grosvenor.’

  ‘Get her file over here and have it properly checked. The IPD400 walked out of the Grosvenor warehouse, then what?’