London, England
From the comfort of the sumptuous white leather sofa, Lindegaard inspected John Sanderson’s handsome drawing room. At least that was what Sanderson had called this room. To Lindegaard, it was simply a lounge. There were no drawing implements in there at all. Even if there were, Lindegaard would have simply called the room a studio. What the hell was a drawing room?
Sanderson, a lifelong MI6 agent and fellow member of the JIA committee, had invited Lindegaard over to his extravagant Georgian townhouse to discuss various matters before a planned committee meeting the following day. Though both men knew there was one matter that would likely dominate proceedings in the morning: Carl Logan.
It wasn’t the first time Lindegaard had been to Sanderson’s home, and on each visit he couldn’t help but feel a puerile envy of his counterpart. Sanderson was close to fifteen years older than Lindegaard, but with his wrinkled features, wispy, balding head and out-of-shape body, he probably looked twenty-five years older. Lindegaard liked to keep himself in shape; he got extreme satisfaction from knowing that he looked and felt as strong and fit as he had at thirty. But although Lindegaard knew he was a far more impressive specimen of a man physically, he was insanely jealous of Sanderson’s home.
Sanderson had fifteen years of additional wealth on Lindegaard, but even his extra years couldn’t explain the money that was surely required to buy and furnish such a top-end London property. Lindegaard knew Sanderson had come from a well-to-do family and some of his wealth had been passed down to him, but he also had the sneaking suspicion that Sanderson was much better remunerated for his services to MI6 and the JIA than Lindegaard was likewise for his services to the CIA and the JIA. And that really irked him.
Sure, Lindegaard had a comfortable life. He owned two properties – one a modern apartment in Washington that was commutable to the CIA headquarters in nearby Langley, and the other the family home that was set in three acres of land in rural Georgia. But he doubted those two properties combined were worth even half of what Sanderson had paid for his London home.
Sanderson came back over from the mahogany dresser carrying two tumblers of Scotch, one neat, the other for Lindegaard with ice.
‘Is the lovely Susan not here tonight?’ Lindegaard said as Sanderson took a seat on the matching armchair adjacent to where Lindegaard was sitting.
‘No. She’s staying with my son and his wife for a few days at our place in the Cotswolds.’
Lindegaard breathed out into his whisky glass, trying to suppress his reaction. The fumes of the spirit caught in his nose and made his eyes water. Sanderson having just the townhouse had been enough to get Lindegaard’s envy racing, but he had never known Sanderson had more than one home.
‘I really love what you’ve done with the place,’ Lindegaard lied, referring to the fact that Sanderson had recently redecorated the room they were in and most of the downstairs. It was gaudy and monstrously over the top as far as Lindegaard was concerned.
‘Thanks. It’s Susan’s work, really. I just pay for it.’
‘Ha, yeah, I know how that feels.’
The two men sat in silence for a few moments. Despite working together closely, they had little in common. Although Sanderson had invited Lindegaard to his home, there was as ever only brief chat between the two stalwarts. Lindegaard really had very little to say to the man.
‘Shall we get down to business?’ Sanderson said, breaking the increasingly awkward silence.
‘We probably should.’
‘So what’s the latest?’
‘I’ve been keeping on top of Winter,’ Lindegaard said. ‘If you ask me, he’s too far out of his depth now.’
‘I’m starting to come to that conclusion too. Putting him in charge of Mackie’s agents was a necessary step, but it was only intended to be temporary. It’s not too late to move him back down a rung to where he was.’
‘Well, I definitely agree he should be removed from a commander position,’ Lindegaard agreed. ‘My concern, though, is whether he’s even suitable for an assistant role now, given everything that’s happened.’
Sanderson frowned and stared over at Lindegaard. ‘He’s an excellent prospect, Jay. Probably the best up-and-coming commander we have. I just think it’s too soon for him. Get rid of him altogether? Are you sure?’
Lindegaard huffed. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Let’s keep that one on the back-burner. We can come back to it.’
‘Fair enough. So what about our two missing agents, Logan and Evans? Is there any news at all?’
‘Nothing that I’ve been made aware of.’
‘Logan I can understand. He was trained to live off the grid, after all. But Evans? Why haven’t the Russians made contact? I’ve never known a foreign agent be captured before and a deal not be offered, or at the very least an acknowledgment from the other side as to what’s happened.’
‘It’s a worry for Evans. That’s for sure. But I don’t think we should underestimate just how much damage Logan’s escapade has done to relations.’
‘Maybe you’re right. What we need is to get access to someone on the inside, at the FSB, to see whether we can find out what’s really happening.’
‘Do you have any candidates?’
‘On our side or at the FSB?’
‘Either.’
‘Yes, actually,’ Sanderson said.
He leaned forward in his seat, glancing around the room as though checking for eavesdroppers.
Silly old fool, Lindegaard thought.
‘I understand the JIA has a potential sleeper,’ Sanderson said, his voice quieter than it had been before.
Lindegaard raised an eyebrow and almost spat out his whisky. ‘We do?’
Sanderson shifted in his seat, as though uncomfortable about the information he was relaying.
‘The wife of one of the FSB’s deputy directors,’ he said.
Lindegaard’s mouth opened wide, but no sound came out. He was genuinely shocked by Sanderson’s disclosure. The deputy directors of the FSB were the cream of the crop – only two pay grades removed from the overall director. Having a sleeper not just in bed with but married to such a senior official was an incredible coup.
More than anything, Lindegaard was concerned that he had known nothing about this. Immediately, he began thinking through what damage a sleeper agent in such a position could mean for himself.
‘What’s her name?’ Lindegaard said.
‘I don’t know,’ Sanderson responded. Lindegaard wasn’t sure he believed him. ‘This is about as big as it gets, Jay. If the FSB found out about her, can you imagine what damage it would do to our credibility?’
‘We have to try to use her,’ Lindegaard said, even though in reality it was the last thing he wanted to happen. ‘Has she been activated yet?’
‘As far as I’m aware, no. Never, in fact.’
‘Who’s her handler?’
‘I understand it was Mackie,’ Sanderson said. ‘He was the only one to have ever dealt with her. She’s been in place for years. To be honest, I don’t even know if she’d be reliable anymore.’
‘But she could still be a way back into what’s happening at the FSB.’
‘Yes, she could be. We need to discuss this with Winter tomorrow. He’s the only one who has access to Mackie’s files.’
‘No. Let’s not bring that up tomorrow,’ Lindegaard said, his cunning mind in full swing. ‘Let’s see what Winter has to offer us first. Like you said, this is big. We don’t want the wrong person to activate that sleeper. If you ask me, it’d be better for all concerned to remove Winter first and take it from there.’
‘He may already know who she is, though,’ Sanderson said. ‘We need to find out what he knows.’
‘Let me handle that,’ Lindegaard said, struggling to hide a smile. ‘John, if you’ll excuse me, please could I use your restroom?’
‘Of course. You know where it is, right?’
‘Yeah,’ Lindegaard said, putting his whisky down.
He got to his feet and headed out of the room, his head spinning with thoughts. The sleeper agent was a real revelation. And one that could cause untold damage to his plans if the JIA were in contact with her without his knowing. He couldn’t let that happen. The radio silence between the FSB and the outside world was essential to keeping his dirty deeds in the dark and his plan on track.
When Lindegaard returned from the toilet, Sanderson was still in the armchair, facing away. Lindegaard stopped and studied a picture on the wall, a floral landscape where two bright bumblebees were feeding. Lindegaard hated it. It was garish and crudely drawn. It fitted the rest of the horrific furnishings perfectly. He guessed that nonetheless it had probably cost a small fortune.
‘In many respects, I find the life of the bumblebee to be quite sad,’ Lindegaard said after a few moments, moving away from the picture as he spoke.
Sanderson turned around in his chair, a quizzical look on his face. ‘You do?’
‘I just feel they got the rough end of the stick, so to speak,’ Lindegaard said. ‘The bumblebee is bigger, stronger than its counterpart, the honeybee. It’s more visually eye-catching too – its colours more vivid. Overall, you’d say it was a superior being.’
‘You could say that.’
‘And yet it has so many apparent flaws compared to the noble honeybee. Particularly in the eyes of us humans.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, comparatively they’re loners, their colonies significantly smaller. They don’t reproduce quickly, which is one reason they struggle to maintain a nest for more than one season. They do make honey of course, but their workers are just lazy. I mean, have you ever heard of anyone selling bumblebee honey? No, because they can’t make it as quickly or in as sufficient volume as those damned honeybees that congregate in their thousands and work all the hours God sends.’
‘Very interesting stuff, Jay,’ Sanderson said, getting to his feet and walking back over to the dresser to pour himself some more whisky.
‘No, John, it really is,’ Lindegaard said, more enthused now. ‘Because for all its apparent flaws, you shouldn’t underestimate the bumblebee. You know, the honeybee might characterise China or India or some such place. Endless drones, monotonous workers producing all the products you could ever need. Cheap labour. But what kind of life is that?’
‘Do you want another one or not?’ Sanderson said, shaking his empty glass.
‘Yes, please,’ Lindegaard said, grabbing his glass and moving over toward Sanderson.
He downed the remainder of the whisky in his tumbler and handed it to Sanderson, who poured them both another large measure before placing the bottle back into the dresser next to the vast array of other expensive-looking drinks.
‘It’s a novel way of looking at the life of the bee,’ Sanderson said, sounding just a little condescending.
‘It is, John. You’re right. But to get to the point, the bumblebee, you see, is still the king. Because it is bigger, it is stronger. It is the superior being.’
‘That was your point?’
‘No, John. The point is, I’m more like the bumblebee. And you’re not.’
Lindegaard lunged forward toward Sanderson, who still had his back turned, and coiled his thick right arm around his colleague’s neck. Sanderson squirmed and dropped the whisky glasses, which crashed to the floor. The amber liquid splashed onto the bottom of Lindegaard’s trousers, angering him and making him pull harder on his arm; he used his left hand to pull the vice-like grip tighter.
Sanderson squirmed pathetically and Lindegaard pulled and squeezed as hard as he could, gritting his teeth almost in a smile as he did so. Sanderson bucked and wheezed but he had no chance.
In the end, it wasn’t even a contest. Sanderson was old and soft and tired. Lindegaard still felt as strong and fit as he’d been at thirty.
Yes, he really was the superior specimen, he thought, as he happily choked the life out of the older man.
Just a few moments later, Sanderson’s body finally went limp. Lindegaard released his grip and the lifeless body of the MI6 agent slumped to the floor.