Lionel Dobbs tightened his scarf around his neck as he limped over Lambeth Bridge. A bitter wind was whipping down the Thames. On his right, dark clouds hung low above the iconic London skyline, and the impending storm was making his knee throb. He stopped and leaned against the railing, taking the pressure off his leg. He was still surprised by the fact that the injury was only a flesh wound. He had got off lightly. By all rights, he should be dead. The mother’s botched attempt to de-programme the daughter must have made the child sloppy.
The doctor had given him a robust prognosis. There would be a severe restriction of movement for a couple of months; he wouldn’t be able to lift his knee very much, if at all. But ultimately there would be nothing permanent, which didn’t stop the fact that the pain was constant and at the upper edges of what he could bear. It only increased Lionel’s resolve for what he knew he had to do.
He hobbled through the security doors of Thames House. It was three weeks today since Sara had disappeared, and he had come to dread the progress reviews at MI5’s headquarters on the Thames.
What more was there to say? He had mobilized the largest operation in the unit’s history. Then he scaled further and used bribes and threats to co-opt police forces nationwide into their network. The web was complete. Now they just had to wait for her to fly into it.
He exited the elevator on the fourth floor and made his way down the corridor. At the end the door was open and he stepped inside. The office was large, and still filled with boxes from the occupant’s recent arrival. Windows looked out on to the Thames. The thickness of the bomb-proof glass distorted the view, warping it subtly, like a carnival mirror.
The room’s occupant sat behind his desk. Lionel had known this man for his entire professional life. They had started off as agents together, but a natural aptitude for leadership opened up a yawning gap between them, propelling his former colleague up the ranks and ultimately earning him the director general stripes, a month earlier, and this corner office.
‘Has she come up on the radar again?’
Charles Salt spoke with the economy of a man whose next priority was more urgent than the last.
Lionel gripped the back of the visitor’s seat in front of the desk. No one sat during Salt’s meetings, which were famously short. His knee was still throbbing, and he felt light-headed.
‘No,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘The last time was the cash machine in Battersea. But we’re pretty sure she’s still in central London.’
‘Make sure the code stays active.’
Lionel nodded. Of course.
Salt picked up a newspaper from his desk.
‘What about the woman arrested at the house? Janey Small. Do you think she would know anything?’ asked Salt.
‘She’s doing one year in Holloway,’ said Lionel, shifting his weight to his other foot. ‘We grilled her while she was in custody. She didn’t know any of the details of Operation Orpheus. Or where the mother was. She was just some junkie ex-nurse the mother hired.’
‘But, as the only link, the daughter will want to find Small,’ said Salt.
‘Of course,’ replied Lionel, ‘but she’s not getting inside Holloway.’
‘She won’t need to,’ said Salt. ‘I arranged for Janey to be released. Yesterday. She’s out. Spent the night at a halfway house.’
Salt tossed the newspaper into Lionel’s hands.
Lionel felt heat prick under his shirt. Salt was getting directly involved. That meant Lionel had run out of time. His authority was now in question. He probably had weeks, if not days, to produce results or he would be permanently pushed to the side.
The newspaper was open at the middle pages, a large blue biro bubble highlighting a section of the print. As he read it, despite his discomfort, Lionel could not help but marvel at Salt’s chess-game mind, always seeing multiple moves ahead. He looked up at his boss, trying to conceal any overt admiration.
‘You placed this piece in the newspaper?’
The article was a masterpiece in spy craft, detailing Small’s release in such a breezy, journalistic style that no reader would suspect it was placed there. Even the mention of the halfway house, with sufficient detail for it to be identified, felt authentic. Above the piece was a black-and-white picture of a dead-eyed woman in her thirties, her slack, greasy hair falling by her sides.
‘It should be enough to draw out the daughter. Maybe even the mother too, although she’ll probably see it’s a trap.’
‘I’ll head there right now,’ said Lionel.
‘Small’s not there,’ said Salt. ‘The fool managed to get her hands on some drugs last night. Wound up at Guy’s Hospital. The house is under instruction to direct anyone calling for her to the hospital.’
Lionel pushed off the back of the chair and hobbled towards the door.
‘I want you to take support with you,’ said Salt.
Lionel shook his head emphatically.
‘I work alone, DG. You know that.’
‘They’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes,’ said Salt, as if he had not heard Lionel. Sensing the meeting was over, Lionel headed for the door.
‘One more thing, Lionel. I read your report,’ said Salt, his voice dropping, ‘and the answer is no.’
Lionel stopped in his tracks and turned to face Salt.
‘That’s a mistake,’ he replied. ‘She’s too great a risk. In someone else’s hands, she could be …’
‘I want the daughter alive,’ said Salt, emphatically.
A few minutes later Lionel stood on the pavement outside the building waiting for the detail to pick him up.
His world was unravelling. He sensed his reputation had taken a series of knocks over the past few months, but just heard the first tangible evidence of it. There was no point in trying to repair his relationship with Salt. His energies were best focused on keeping his eyes on the prize. Finding the daughter was the only way to reinstate his standing.
And not just finding her. Eliminating her.
It was Salt who had instructed Lionel to train her. And his genius had recognized what it would take to motivate her. So, Lionel formed a bond with the girl. Gave the fatherless girl a father. Gave a child of an unstable mother a context, a superstructure for living. And she took to it with a commitment that surpassed their expectations. Lionel taught her all he knew. Trained her like a new agent. Shaped her raw power into something efficiently lethal.
To Salt, the operation now was to get things back on track. But Salt hadn’t been in the trenches, hadn’t seen what Lionel had seen. Salt thought they had found the most powerful asset since Operation Orpheus was launched during the Second World War. Lionel knew better – they had created a monster.
And it was up to Lionel Dobbs to protect the country from her.