“Thirteen dead. Six of them bloody ours.” Rathdowne paced before Atticus, his red face sweaty and furious. “The PM is screaming for blood. The Foreign Minister is calling this the biggest cock-up since the fall of Singapore.” He used his hanky to wipe down his forehead. “You were tasked with interviewing one of ours, not starting a bloody war!”
For all the bluster Rathdowne threw around in the spittle-fuelled rage, for all the theatrics, the pauseless rants, Atticus knew one irrevocable truth: the man was right. They had screwed up. Good people had died. They had put the organisation in even more danger while trying to save it. Worse, they had nothing to show for it. If the situations were reversed, Atticus would be casting equally venomous vitriol.
“Five.”
“Rathdowne’s face was still red. “What?”
“Five dead on our side, not six.”
“No.” Rathdowne squared his jaw. “Six. Flynn, Jayne’s superior, wrapped his car around a tree last night. Given what’s been going on there’s no bloody way in hell I’m chalking that one up to an accident.”
There was no denying it now. Atticus’s presence had altered the timeline. It was impossible that six MI6 deaths wouldn’t be mentioned in hushed tones even in his day. Every move he’d made to try and correct the catastrophic impact of his presence only made it worse. Atticus had affected the past, and not for the better. Add to that the burden already on his shoulders with the passing of Henry. He slumped further into his chair, trying to stay focused on the moment. He had to set this right.
Even though he still had doubts as to Rathdowne’s motives, the verve with which he dressed down Atticus made him question his own suspicions. Surely a mole would be overjoyed at their mission’s failure. Rathdowne was anything but. There was nothing for Atticus to do than sit and take the reprimand, and throw in the occasional word of agreement when Rathdowne took a breath between castigations.
Thankfully Oliver and Maggie had given their statements before Rathdowne had arrived. The three had headed straight for MI6 headquarters from the airport in the eerie London pre-dawn. Both were visibly shaken, but had done their best not to appear so. Immediately after they had delivered their version of events, Atticus sent them home. This would be his burden to bear alone.
And bear it, he did. Rathdowne’s tirade ran out of steam sometime around ten o’clock, when he called for tea. After the squat tea lady had delivered her tray and scuttled off, Atticus’s manager passed him a cup and sat next to him, devoid of all the bluster that had been so rampant only moments before.
“So, this Esther chap Jayne mentioned, the fellow who was stabbed on his doorstep. Is there a way to find out who he was?”
“My guess, and I have no proof of this, is that he was Main Directorate for Reconnaissance, got wind of a spy who was to be outed and tried to get ahead of the game by giving Jayne the heads up. Again, supposition, but he was probably looking to get himself a free ticket to the West. Jayne said he mentioned the bloke wanted to defect, so it fits the hypothesis.”
“Only, he was followed.”
Atticus nodded. “Pure guesswork on my behalf, but that’s what I’m thinking.”
“The kid not only tipped his hand and ruined the Stasis’ sting, but got himself killed for his trouble. A fiasco for all concerned.”
Taking a sip of the scalding hot and flavourless tea, Atticus’s mind wandered. Rathdowne seemed far more reasonable now the ranting had ceased. It was as if he were obligated to issue a dressing down, and now that it was done the real spy work could proceed.
Atticus was only too happy to oblige. “The government organisation that pays GDR employees…”
“The Abteitsministerium?”
“Yes, that. I can never pronounce it.” It was a lie, but Atticus thought it better than admitting he didn’t know a key piece of information about East Germany, his apparent area of expertise. “Do we have an asset there?”
Rathdowne puckered his brow. “We do, as a matter of fact. A low-level secretary from memory. How is that going to help?”
The question was triggered by an incident in Atticus’s recent history. In the 2010s, Chinese hackers breached the Office of Personnel Management, exposing the personal data of ten million employees. This would be of concern for most organisations, but when the data was for the US government’s human resources unit, whose roster included the FBI, NSA and CIA it was a monumental espionage fiasco. Spies’ criminal history, psychological records, information about past drug use and gambling habits were out in the open for exploitation. One of the simplest ways to target an ex-employee ripe for cultivation was to identify a list of those who had ceased to be an employee. Several were groomed and enticed to add to their retirement fund. Atticus was about to turn the idea on its head.
“Why don’t we use the asset to find out who was recently terminated in the Stasi or Main Directorate for Reconnaissance.”
“What use would that be?”
“Government bureaucracy may be notoriously inefficient, but they rarely make a habit of paying dead men. You find out who they stopped paying, you find out who Esther really was.”
Slowly putting his teacup down, Rathdowne pursed his lips, impressed. “That’s … damn, why didn’t our people come up with that?”
“I thought I was our people.”
Rathdowne dropped his bottom lip, conceding the point. “I meant our old people, not our new people.”
“Right.”
Scribbling on his notepad, Rathdowne underlined the idea, hopefully signifying the urgency the task would be given. A silence descended on them once more.
Glad of the stillness, Atticus began formulating his own interrogation of Rathdowne, ideally without the man even knowing. According to Jayne, only Flynn had been aware of his mission, and not the man sitting beside him. Determined to uncover the truth, Atticus had to take a meandering route to get to his destination.
“The mole, this Cardinal Wolsey—”
“Mightily odd reference, if you ask me.” Rathdowne took a bite of his digestive biscuit.
“Jayne virtually confirmed there is a mole, if we are to take him at his word.”
“And why on earth wouldn’t we? The man died in a shootout with the enemy, it hardly seems likely he’d be making things up for a lark.”
“In espionage no one should be taken at their word.”
Rathdowne gave Atticus a curious glance. Nodding, he prompted him to continue.
“Therefore, the leak came from this office. No one else had the information, not the Foreign Office, not the Americans. This was a closed-door operation. If Flynn was killed because of what he knew of the operation, and there’s no way in hell I’m betting against that, then there’s nowhere else for the information to have come from.”
“Perhaps Flynn was the mole?”
“Then why kill him?”
Rathdowne threw up a conciliatory hand, accepting the point. “Logical. Therefore?”
“Given no one has left the organisation, and this mission took place after Philby escaped into the night, they have to be right under our noses.” Atticus watched Rathdowne’s face for the slightest of movements.
“Could Henry have been the mole?” Rathdowne must have caught the distaste on Atticus’s face. “Terribly sorry to speak ill of the dead, but we can’t be sure why he was here at such a ridiculous hour, or with whom. You just said yourself no one in espionage should be taken at their word, did you not? Who knows, he could have come in with an enemy agent, had a disagreement, got cold feet or what have you and then come to a sticky end.”
Granted, it was an angle Atticus hadn’t considered. It seemed farfetched, but not something to be dismissed entirely. He frowned. “A possibility.”
“But you don’t buy it?”
Atticus shook his head. “Again, why kill him?” He blew air out his nose. “How well did you know Flynn?”
Rathdowne twisted his face. “I don’t wish to denigrate the departed.”
Atticus snorted. “But you will.”
He tilted his head in agreement. “He was the usual insufferable MI6 toff. Country estates, driving his MG, wearing a beak cap above his unpleasant chinless face. Why?”
“You didn’t meet with him or Jayne about the mission?”
“No, of course not, we’ve been through this. They were the only ones who knew about the mission.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” Rathdowne’s tone indicated the question and?
“Until we have any evidence to the contrary, I’d say Flynn’s still the prime suspect.”
Rathdowne scoffed, then upon seeing Atticus’s face became sombre. “His family name is revered; his grandfather was bloody Speaker of the House of Commons, for Christ’s sake. The man was beyond reproach even before he was the honoured dead. It’s all in the breeding, you see.”
“Are we spies or corgis?”
That seemed to amuse Rathdowne. “There was an internal investigation. He was cleared.”
“An internal…” Atticus straightened his back. “I thought I was the internal investigation?”
“You were, er, are,” Rathdowne shifted uneasily in his seat, “well, one of the investigations. It was… the Heads Of deemed it inappropriate that an underling question a superior.”
“Inappropriate? Jesus. Is this the fucking dark ages?” Incensed, Atticus did his best to head off a tirade of his own. “So, I really was set up for failure, then?”
“What’s that?”
“I’m an outsider, for multiple reasons. I don’t know your people, I don’t know their capabilities, their strengths and particularly their weaknesses. I’m practically the worst person to investigate a mole in an organisation I don’t know.”
“I thought an impartial eye—”
“So you’ve said, but I don’t buy it.” Atticus put the vile tea down; it wasn’t worth the effort. “The reputation of the entire organisation is on the line, the stability of the nation, and you hand the investigation to someone you only met a couple of hours before.”
“I’m a fast judge of character.”
“But you don’t like me.”
“That’s not true, and besides, I don’t need to like someone if they get the job done.”
“Ah, but I haven’t.”
“Well, not yet. There’s still time, although not much. We are on the clock here. What is this about? You yourself boasted you have the best people on it.”
“Not as far as the organisation is concerned.” Atticus threw in what he hoped was a wry smile to soften his words. “We’re the outcasts, the refuse of MI6.”
“I won’t deny there’s a few around here who had, let’s say, inappropriate names for you all.”
“I’d like to hear them.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t.”
Atticus crossed his arms and glared. In response Rathdowne lurched backwards, giving his head the slightest of shakes. Atticus continued to glare.
“Fine, but don’t hold me accountable for the distaste of others. You lot have been referred to as the spook, the shirt-lifter and the walking pair of tits. Now, I obviously don’t—”
Lifting his hand, Atticus silenced the man. He’d expected as much. This wasn’t exactly an enlightened time. He’d experienced the sneers hidden behand hands, the reluctance to move aside in the hallways. His complexion was considered more suited to punching tickets than walking these hallowed halls. Atticus had a well-honed thick skin against the bigotry of others. But that wasn’t what bothered him. It was the insinuation that Oliver and Maggie were deemed far from equal. While it was suspected, it still stung.
Atticus spoke carefully, watching for a reaction. “All the more intrigued as to why you let us be your point team. Hardly what the leadership of this organisation would traditionally call the elite team, wouldn’t you say?”
Rathdowne eyed Atticus suspiciously. “I can’t help but think I’m the one being questioned here.”
“I have no idea why you’d think that.” Atticus tried the tea again in the hope that after cooling from its molten heat level it might now offer some flavour. It didn’t.
Rathdowne’s eyes narrowed. “What was it you did at the Navy again?”
“Oh, all manner of espionage business. Classified, clandestine, covert. Lots of lurking in shadows, that sort of thing.”
“How very… cryptic.” He lit a cigarette and contemplated the glowing tip for a moment. “I still can’t quite reconcile a naval tactician being able to single-handedly take down a heavily armed Stasi assault team. It strikes me as a might peculiar.”
Determined not to be distracted from his aim, Atticus ignored the bait. He was doing the interrogating.
There was the faintest hint of humour in Rathdowne’s features, as if he knew Atticus hadn’t been thrown off topic. Atticus knew the man could be a prime suspect, but he just couldn’t see it. He had always had Rathdowne down as the possible mole. The man did have a working-class contempt of his elitist superiors. In this time, working class did lend itself to socialist leanings, which could slide towards communism given the right nudge. However, the man seemed genuinely dedicated to the same organisation Atticus was. There was nothing in his facial tics or mannerisms to indicate deception or deceit. As far as Atticus’s well-honed skills could tell, they were on the same side.
That simple fact only made the situation more disheartening. The list of suspects was slim, and no doubt heads would start to roll following the Berlin disaster. If Rathdowne or Flynn wasn’t his man, Atticus was more out to sea than ever before.
Deprived of Jayne and his inside knowledge and unable to provide even an arbitrary physical description of Esther, they had little to go on. Even the fragments of what they’d uncovered failed to reveal why Henry would have been lured to MI6 headquarters in the middle of the night and murdered. The fact weighed him down.
“I’d like to see the report on the other investigation where Flynn was apparently cleared.”
“Of course, of course.” Rathdowne sipped his tea and stared off into the middle distance.
Atticus glared in return. “Now is a good time.”
“Oh, oh. Right, I didn’t think you meant…” Rathdowne went to his disorganised desk, picked up the heavy black handset and mumbled a set of instructions.
Within a few minutes a pimply kid slunk into the office with a sweaty forehead and even sweatier hands. Rathdowne dismissed him with a wave and handed the damp manila folder to Atticus.
“I can’t believe you didn’t even mention another investigation.” Atticus shook his head and examined the report.
“Like I said, beyond—”
“Reproach, yes I heard the first time.” Struggling to contain his exasperation, Atticus went on. “When I first arrived weren’t you the one banging on about the ongoing battle against privilege? And yet here you are automatically exonerating your superior because of his breeding. Sounds awfully elitist to me.”
Rathdowne’s jaw clenched. “Do you ever not say what’s on your mind?”
Not taking his eyes off his boss, Atticus replied, “Constantly.”
Turning his attention to the brief four-page report, Atticus allowed the world to fall away. The typewritten report, the only copy in existence, detailed information that would have made Atticus’s own investigation infinitely easier. It contained the details of every meeting Flynn could recall where he’d planned Operation Odysseus. It contained not only the details of what was discussed, but also the initials of who attended.
When he’d finished, Atticus turned it over and started again. After his fourth reading he lifted the typewritten document close to his eyes and examined the third page closely. Screwing his face up, Atticus placed the report on his lap, sighed and rubbed his eyes.
“You see?” Rathdowne waved in the general direction of the report. “There’s nothing there, all above board. He was an aristocratic twat, incompetent at times even, but he wasn’t a traitor. At best he was—”
Rathdowne stopped as Atticus stood. Marching to the door, the newest member of MI6 didn’t look back.
“What… what is it, Wolfe?”
Finally turning to his superior, Atticus found it impossible to rein in his fury. “I’ve just found your fucking mole.”
Atticus marched out and slammed the door.
“I… I don’t believe it.” Maggie’s response mirrored Oliver’s reaction not twenty minutes before.
The two of them sat across from Atticus in their tiny office, trying to come to terms with what he had told them. An uncomfortable stillness filled the room.
It had taken far longer to get them into MI6 than he was used to. What once would have required five seconds to send a group message or text message took comparatively forever. First, he’d had to obtain their home phone numbers, then actually call them—a novelty in itself—then wait for an answer and explain himself. Twice. It was laborious and mundane. Everything took far longer in the past.
Pushing the four-page report away with her finger, Maggie then wiped her digit on her skirt, as if afraid she’d catch mole. “Now that we have this information, what do we do?”
Unsurprisingly, Atticus had a plan for that. In fact, he had a plan behind the plan. And a spare plan if needed. He loved a plan.
Oliver picked up the report and shook his head as if he didn’t believe it either. He wasn’t the only one. The report seemed innocuous enough. It detailed the times and dates when, to the best of his recollection, Flynn had anything to do with Operation Odysseus, including the discussions with Jayne himself. It was all rather dull—that is, until the third page, when it became incendiary.
It was the minutest detail, easily missed. In shorthand notes it outlined the content of half a dozen meetings discussing everything ranging from whether MI6 should conduct the operation, a short list of names, and when it should run. It was the notes on one meeting in particular that brought down the entire house of cards. The minutes themselves were mundane, almost non-existent. When it came down to it, the mole had been uncovered with just two letters.
That was enough.
Atticus checked his no-longer-smart watch. “It’s time.”
Maggie and Oliver wore the exact same expression: foreboding apprehension. Unfortunately, Atticus had no time to soothe their anxiety. They had somewhere to be.
The three of them made their way up to the sixth floor. Their mission was brought closer to home as they stood in the space once occupied by their lovable teammate. Atticus felt Henry’s absence every time he stepped into the elevator. As the doors shuddered open, they stepped out onto the path to bring his murderer to justice.
The men stood in a clump. Some were bemused; more, perhaps the majority, radiated an expression akin to gleeful self-satisfaction. They were all there. Henderson, Pillar, Hildebrand-Burke, Vincent, the whole chinless gaggle. There were two more members of the mob who had been specially invited. Without a word, Atticus stormed past them all and strode towards Rathdowne’s office. The horde joined Oliver and Maggie in Atticus’s slipstream and followed him as he burst into the office.
Startled, Rathdowne dropped the heavy black phone handset. Fumbling to pick it up again, he mumbled that he’d call the other party back, then hung up without waiting for a response. On seeing the mass of bodies streaming into the office, he stood, horror blanching his features.
“What the hell is this all about?”
With hands on hips, Atticus’s jaw clenched. “I’ve successfully completed my assignment.”
Face crinkled in confusion, Rathdowne stared. “You, you found the mole? Well don’t leave it hanging, man.” He eyed the crowd in his office and gulped. “Who the bloody hell is it?”
Atticus just glared.
“I knew it!” Hildebrand-Burke slapped his hands together and turned to his compatriots. “I told you, didn’t I? I damn well told you. The little weasel was more red than pink. I knew it.” He glared at Rathdowne gleefully.
Rathdowne’s mouth dropped open. “What… what?”
Oliver held up the report. “The super-secret second report. You really should have read what Flynn reported more thoroughly. One part in particular, a meeting he had with a certain party with the initials O and R. There’s only one O.R. at MI6, and that’s Oscar Rathdowne, is it not?”
“A meeting? What meeting? I never… What are you insinuating?”
“I knew it.” Pillar shook his head. “I damn well knew it. Class will out, you lecherous little toad.”
It was then Rathdowne noticed the final members of the mob: two Metropolitan Police officers. Neither MI6 nor MI5 had the ability to arrest anyone. That’s where the two stern men came in. There was no hiding the delight on the faces of the elite in the room. The upper-class toffs watched on with rapt delight, thrilled that one of their inferiors had lived up to their expectations.
Rathdowne skittered backwards, aghast at what was unfolding. “This is ludicrous! What the hell are you up to, Wolfe?”
“You’re the mole, Rathdowne.” Atticus crossed his arms. “We figured it out ourselves. The spook, the shirt-lifter and the walking pair of tits.”