THE crisis engulfing MI6 threatens to spiral out of control with the revelation an experienced agent has “gone rogue” in Ethiopia.
The female operative last reported to superiors 24 hours ago after being ordered back to London, sources reveal. She is said to be disobeying orders after becoming disillusioned with an operation that has led to the death of two MI6 spies – the only officers publicly known to have died as a result of hostile action in the history of the organization. The first operative, 28-year-old Jessica Medcalf, was shot in Istanbul last month. The second officer – who is yet to be named – was killed in an apparent ambush in northern Ethiopia earlier in the week.
And astonishingly, this newspaper understands the operation in question may relate to an archaeological matter. Senior MI6 officers are said to believe discoveries in both Turkey and Ethiopia may be of importance to national security. In light of the latest revelations the Prime Minister has called an immediate meeting of the Joint Intelligence Committee. Number 10 is said to be apoplectic that MI6 has been active in both countries without Foreign Office authorization. The chief of MI6 denies complicity in the actions, leading to speculation that a cabal within the agency may be acting independently.
Meanwhile, diplomats in Ankara are attempting to placate the Turkish authorities, following suggestions that MI6 was involved in the gunfight at Istanbul’s Topkapi Palace, witnessed by one of our journalists. The episode has severely shaken trust between the allies, with implications for Anglo-Turkish co-operation over the situation in Iraq and Syria, Iran’s nuclear programme and in the continuing battle against Islamist terror plots at home.
Evelyn Parr folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. “It doesn’t look good, does it?”
“No.” Waits produced the Glenfarclas. “No, it does not.”
“Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever come to your office and not seen you take a drink, no matter the time of day. What point are you trying to make exactly?”
Waits poured three fingers of Scotch and rotated the tumbler under his nose. “It’s about control.”
His grip remained steady on the glass.
“I don’t see much evidence of control at the minute – in fact I’d say events have proved quite beyond our ability to keep a hold on.” Her eyes returned to the headline. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, I think I’d better have one of those too.”
“As you like.” There was a glug as Waits half-filled a second glass which he prodded across the table.
Parr took a sip. “God, I needed that.”
A crooked smile passed the spymaster’s face as he placed his spectacles on his nose and picked up the newspaper.
“What worries me is the lack of bylines,” he said, voice muffled behind the pages. “Including leaders and comment pieces, I make it six articles on the topic in this edition, yet no one’s owning up to writing them. It can only mean the reporters are scared. Of us, probably.”
“Then there’s this line about the ‘archaeological matter’,” added Parr. “We know Wolsey’s been sniffing around it, but our man on the paper said the editor wasn’t taking his claims seriously. Well, he is now.”
“They’ve left it vague,” said Waits. “That suggests they don’t trust Wolsey’s journalism – or they haven’t got the evidence. The cat’s not out of the bag yet, my dear.”
“If not now, it soon will be. The opposition wants a public inquiry. What the hell are we going to do?”
Waits banged his whisky glass down on the table. “We carry on going! To the bitter end, Evelyn. There’s no choice now, don’t you see that? If we get what we’re looking for, if we show the PM that it works? Of course he’ll hush it up. No man of power could resist. The whole affair will be swathed in red tape and the Official Secrets Act and nobody’ll get near us. But first we need to lay our hands on the infernal thing.”
“I wonder sometimes …” Parr put her head in her hands and sighed. “All this bloodshed. And yet …”
“And yet what?”
“And yet the end result is already preordained. No matter what we do.”
“You know we can’t think like that,” snapped Waits. “It’s circular. If we decide not to do whatever it takes to obtain the Disciplina Etrusca, that decision would be precisely why it’s fated that we fail. A self-fulfilling prophecy, in other words.”
Parr studied him, picking over each detail of the florid face that confronted her. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s the only way.”
“Think what our predecessors would’ve done. We’re so close now, Evelyn – so close after all these years.”
“Are we that close? We haven’t added to our manuscript at all. And our only remaining asset’s been hospitalized.”
“Frank came round this morning – I just got off the phone to him. He’s got a few cuts and bruises but he’ll be ok.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, there’s good news and bad news,” said Waits. “The bad news is that the driver who hit him was our very own Jenny ‘off-the-scale loyalty’ Frobisher.”
“Good God,” whispered Parr. “We’re finished.”
“Not at all,” said Waits. “Not if we get the Disciplina. As I say, we’ll be protected from upon high for ever and a day. I daresay even Reader Number One would approve. She’s nothing if not a pragmatist.”
“But how do we get it?”
“That’s the good news,” said Waits. “Before Frobisher came riding to the rescue, Wolsey told Frank he’d found a new inscription in the monastery. He photographed it. Begging for his life, you see. The inscription’s been removed by our rivals, but if we catch Jake, we get the photos of the Debre Damo texts – and whatever he got in Istanbul to boot.”
Parr nodded.
“Frank’s a proud man,” said Waits. “He won’t appreciate having been bested by the likes of Frobisher. If I had to put money on it, I’d say our journalist friend and his new accomplice will not be around much longer.”
“You do realize he’s a borderline psychopath?” asked Parr. “Literally and clinically, I mean.”
“Frank’s propensity for violence has proved just the right side of useful.”
“Do you know how many people he killed in Iraq?”
“It takes dangerous men to take on dangerous men,” said Waits. “Given the stakes, I’d say it’s rather comforting to have the certified most lethal man in the British Army at our disposal. Wouldn’t you?”
“But he’s one person,” Parr pressed. “One guy against an unravelling situation and the full apparatus of Chinese state security. We don’t have enough boots on the ground to compete – and we certainly can’t bring anyone else into the fold.”
“Well, you know what they say.” Charlie poured himself another dram. “If you want a job done properly …”
“What, you’ll go out there yourself?”
Waits inclined his head, and Parr seemed to relax.
“Let me tell you a little story,” he said. “It’s 1942 and the Battle of El Alamein is raging. Rommel looks set to break through our lines. As you might expect, Cairo’s in a bit of a flap – secret documents going up in smoke, the colonials fleeing, that sort of thing. And do you know what the British ambassador did?”
“What did he do?”
“He ordered the railings of the embassy to be repainted.”
For the first time in the meeting Parr smiled.
“To sangfroid.” Waits raised his glass.
“To sangfroid,” Parr repeated.