Final Traitor

Book 0: Alex Reeve

by Andy McDermott

Genres: Spy Thrillers

Synopsis

'A writer of almost cinematic talent' DAILY EXPRESS

EVERY OPERATIVE KNOWS THE RULES.
The mission comes first. You are a deniable asset. Betrayal is punished by death.

Alex Reeve - OPERATIVE 66 - is a former special-ops soldier and one of the UK's most deadly weapons. Once a member of SC9, a covert assassination unit, Reeve was framed for treason and now works as a mercenary - while the cold-blooded killers he trained with continue their ruthless pursuit.

To be reunited with the woman he loves, Reeve must bring down SC9 - but only a lone British politician can help expose them. As SC9's Operatives close their lethal net, Reeve and those he has to protect are plunged into terrible danger.

Reeve must rely on his instincts and expert training to have any chance of survival. But if there's one man that can never be underestimated . . . it is Operative 66.

Release date: July 11, 2024

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 384

Sample

The people Alex Reeve had come to meet were in hotel room 517. He didn’t knock on the door. Instead he waited silently outside, all senses on alert.

In theory, there was no danger. He was here on a mission, his soon-to-be comrades selected by his handler. He had worked as a freelancer for Otmar Kiersch for three months now. So far, he’d had no reason to mistrust the Austrian. His four jobs to date had paid well, all suited to his skills.

His military skills, at least. Reeve had once been in Britain’s elite Special Reconnaissance Regiment. His speciality there had been undercover work: infiltration, disguise and evasion. But after he’d killed in the line of duty, a new career began. One even more dark and secretive.

He had been recruited by the agency known as SC9. Officially, it did not exist. Founded by a former MI6 officer, it was secretly funded by the UK’s intelligence community. It was the blackest of black operations – an assassination bureau.

Reeve had undergone the hardest, most intensive training of his life to join it. He succeeded. He became one of its agents: an Operative. Then . . .

Everything changed in an instant. His tutor and mentor, Tony Maxwell, had tried to kill him. Reeve only survived through the skills Maxwell himself had taught him. The other trainee Operatives also turned on him. SC9 had declared him Fox Red: a traitor, to be eliminated at all costs. He was alone, on the run, hunted by the world’s most lethal assassins. And he had no idea why.

Only later had he learned the truth. Another newly qualified Operative was a mole, aided by Russian intelligence. Craig Parker was no political traitor; his hatred of the British state was entirely personal. He had taken advantage of the Russians’ resources to pursue a shared goal. Both wanted to damage and humiliate Britain diplomatically, rendering it a pariah. Exposing SC9’s murderous activities worldwide would do precisely that. Parker had hacked into SC9’s servers and stolen its records. He then framed Reeve for the theft. With SC9 distracted, Parker could carry out his own plan undetected.

Reeve had stopped him at the last moment. But Parker’s death changed nothing. SC9’s head, Sir Simon Scott, still considered him Fox Red. Choosing survival over death made him untrustworthy. So the hunt continued.

Now, over two years later, Reeve was highly attuned to danger. SC9 had twice almost caught him. He had survived, escaped. But in doing so, he’d lost the most important person in his life . . .

A swell of emotion – regret, anger at himself. He forced it down. Mind on the job. The reason he hadn’t knocked on the door was that self-same attunement. He trusted Kiersch, as far as anyone. But this operation was giving him a twinge of unease.

Muted voices came from beyond the door. Two people. Both male. Distant enough that they were probably on the balcony. It was a hot May day in Gran Canaria; even freelancers liked to catch the sun. He also caught the faint acrid scent of cigarette smoke. The hotel forbade smoking, even on balconies. Someone inside didn’t care.

Brief amusement at that thought. SC9 had required him to be willing to break laws at home and abroad. But this was rule-breaking on a petty, personal level. I want to do this, so I will. Selfish, arrogant. It revealed something about one, or both, of the men in the room.

Was that the cause of his twinge? No. Whatever tripped his mental alarms had happened before he’d even reached the doorway. Something about the job itself. What, though? The objective was similar to another mission he’d undertaken for one of Kiersch’s clients. That one hadn’t raised any worries.

That concern existed at all was itself a concern. He made a decision. There would be no knock on the door. He wanted to see whoever was inside before they saw him.

He headed back to the lifts, taking out his phone. It was a basic burner, one of a couple he had bought on arrival. He entered a number from memory and sent a text. Then he took the lift down to the ground floor.

The hotel’s bar was large, catering for holidaymakers. Even during daytime around thirty people were drinking in groups. Reeve bought a bottle of water, then took up position in a booth. From there, he could observe all the entrances. How long would he have to wait?

A television on one wall caught his eye. CNN, reporting on some international conference. The scrolling chyron at the bottom of the screen told him it was in Sardinia. The Italian connection briefly caught his interest. A man with an American flag lapel pin was being interviewed outside a glass tower.

Not his concern, he decided. Reeve looked back towards the doors, but the flickering images remained in his peripheral vision. A faint smile. Connie had once joked that men’s eyes automatically went to screens, no matter the situation.

Connie . . .

She was the person he had lost. The woman he loved. He had left her, for her own safety. If SC9 found them together, they would both die. That had been his thinking when he walked away from her in Venice.

He had been wrong. Things had changed at SC9. By making the hunt for Reeve very public, Scott had made the agency visible. Too visible. Backed by the UK intelligence chiefs, Tony Maxwell had intervened – and killed his boss. His first act on taking over was to end the hunt. He opted for détente – if Reeve didn’t threaten SC9, so the reverse would be true.

But Reeve hadn’t known. As far as he’d been aware, the Operatives were still targeting him. Connie would be collateral damage. So to protect her, he had abandoned her.

It was the greatest mistake of his life. The wound to his heart was still open, aching. But he had promised himself that he would make things right. First, though, he had to find her. Which was why he was working for Kiersch. The Austrian was a facilitator, acting on behalf of wealthy clients, individuals and businesses alike. He had contacts and resources far beyond Reeve’s. Through him, Reeve would find Connie – and protect her again. It was just a question of how long it would take.

His mind snapped back to the moment as people entered the bar from the lobby. He appraised them with a professional eye. Two men, three women, all wearing bright and light holiday clothing. The men and two of the women were white, the third black. Were the men the other freelancers? Unlikely. Too young, late twenties at most. Kiersch hired people based on their experience. At thirty, Reeve was at the low end of the age range. The group passed him, heading for the bar. The black woman, trailing slightly behind, glanced in his direction. A hint of approval; was she checking him out? He would have to disappoint her. She was attractive, sure, but the only woman he was interested in was Connie.

He looked back at the doors, continuing his watch. Another television, further away, also showed CNN International. He dismissed it, keeping his focus on the entrance. But the distraction remained. Maybe Connie was right about men’s eyes—

Someone he knew appeared on the screen.

His full attention went to it. He’d never spoken to the woman on the television – but he had saved her life. Elektra Curtis was a young, progressive Member of Parliament. She had also been Craig Parker’s first target as an Operative. Scott had decided she was a threat to the country, a troublemaker. He had doubtless expected Parker to arrange an ‘accident’. Instead Parker planned an assassination on live television – followed by the exposure of SC9. The password to decrypt the stolen files he’d emailed to the media would be revealed.

But that never happened. Reeve stopped the attack. He had ended up mere metres from Curtis, looked her in the eye. Then she ran while he pursued Parker. A trained assassin had saved her life, an irony he doubted she would ever learn.

Her career had advanced since then. He vaguely remembered reading that she had become a junior minister while in Opposition. There had since been a general election, which her party won. She had apparently kept her post in government. A caption named her as British Security Minister. There was no sound, so he had no idea what she was saying. The chyron now specified she was at a United Nations counter-terrorism conference. She stood in bright sunlight outside the same building as the American politician.

Again, it was none of his concern. He felt another pang of loss. He had read about her promotion in Italy, with Connie. The night before SC9 found them. A frown. For the first time in his life, he had been truly happy. And then . . .

It was all gone.

Two more people entered the bar. This time, he knew instantly they were the men he was waiting for. The way they carried themselves told him they were former military. Both had seen trouble in the past, and also knew how to cause it. The man leading was in his mid-thirties, bleach-blond hair cropped short. Slightly behind was a taller, older man, thin-faced with receding black hair. Bags under his eyes gave him the look of a sad dog. Neither was dressed for sunbathing, wearing cargo trousers and open casual shirts over t-shirts. Lots of pockets for equipment, the shirts providing concealment for anything underneath. Reeve wore much the same.

He didn’t react to their arrival, sipping his drink. Both men looked around as if expecting someone to signal. When no one did, the blond man scowled, then headed for the bar. His companion ambled after him.

The pair took seats at the bar and ordered drinks. The older, like Reeve, got water. The other man received a glass of some spirit, with Coke. He took a swig, chewing on an ice cube, then turned to watch the doors.

Reeve maintained observation for a few minutes. Conversation between the two was limited. The older man appeared sanguine about the wait. His companion, though, displayed edgy impatience. Not a good trait in Reeve’s present – or former – trade. He would give them another minute, then go over—

The black woman returned – and sat facing him across the booth. ‘Hi.’

Reeve tensed. He was unarmed, and she appeared to be, but he was instantly ready for action. Kiersch had said there would be three others on his team. Was she the third – or could she be an Operative? ‘Hi,’ was his cautious reply.

She smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. ‘So you didn’t like the smell from room five-seventeen either?’ Her accent was French. That meant nothing. Language training for Operatives included specific accents, both national and local.

‘I don’t like the smell of smoke,’ he said – in French.

‘Nor do I,’ she replied in kind. She had a look of playful amusement, as if starting some game with him. It wasn’t an attitude he associated with SC9. ‘If you’re in a job where you might have to run, why slow yourself down?’

‘What kind of job are you in?’

‘The same as you.’ She extended a hand across the table. ‘I’ve been watching those two as well. I was in the booth behind you.’

Reeve cautiously leaned out for a wider view of the room. The people the woman had entered with were at a table in the corner. The booth’s partition had blocked them from his sight. He looked back at his new companion. He had deliberately given her an opening for any hostile action. She hadn’t taken it. She probably was his third teammate, then, but he remained wary. ‘Won’t your friends miss you?’

‘I can always make new ones.’ A small but emphatic thrust of her hand. ‘I’m Roulette.’

He shook it. ‘Roulette? Is that your real name?’

‘It’s the one I use. What’s yours?’

‘Gant. Daniel Gant.’ It was the name on the German passport he had obtained four months earlier.

Her smile returned. ‘Is that your real name?’

‘It’s the one I use.’

She laughed. ‘I suppose I asked for that, Gant Daniel Gant.’ The joke finally prompted a small smile from him. Her own widened in response. ‘Ah! You can smile. I was wondering. It suits you.’

‘Thanks.’ He took in her appearance, on a personal rather than professional level. Her skin was coffee-brown, her long black curly hair highlighted in blonde. Attractive, as he’d thought earlier, but closer inspection revealed a damaging past. Her nose was crooked from being broken and reset. A small scar sat below one eye, a larger one running down her neck. Reeve could tell the latter marked a knife wound. Like himself, she had seen action up close.

He realised she was giving him the same kind of assessment. A crooked grin, then she stood. ‘Shall we meet our friends from room five-seventeen?’

‘Probably a good idea,’ he replied, also rising. ‘I think they’re getting annoyed.’ They both headed for the bar.

Only one of the two waiting men was annoyed, as it turned out. The older reacted to their approach with a small about time shrug. His eyes went approvingly to Roulette – specifically her midriff beneath her cut-off orange top. The blond man, though, was on the verge of actual anger. ‘Did Kiersch send you?’ he snapped, in English. Reeve guessed he was from a Scandinavian country, but couldn’t pin down the specific accent. ‘You were supposed to come to my room. Why did you tell him you wanted to meet here?’

‘I don’t like rooms with only one exit,’ Reeve replied laconically. ‘Especially when I don’t know who’s in them.’

‘And, you smoke,’ Roulette added with a wry smile. The older man gestured slightly with his thumb at his companion: Not me, him.

The blond man ignored her, his attention entirely on Reeve. ‘I don’t like being fucked about. We’re here to do a job. This spy shit? Wastes my time. I’ve done the reconnaissance. Now we need to go through the plan. We’re on the clock. Let’s go.’ He finished his drink and clapped the glass down on the bar before standing.

The older man rose more patiently. ‘I’m Leon,’ he said in a soft baritone. ‘Leon Vincent.’ He held out his hand to the newcomers.

Roulette took it first. ‘Roulette. And this is Gant. Daniel Gant.’ She copied Reeve’s cadence, hiding a smile.

Vincent nodded. ‘Gant?’ he said as he moved to shake Reeve’s hand. ‘I know some Gants. You German?’ Reeve nodded. ‘From anywhere near Stuttgart?’

‘No,’ Reeve told him.

‘Ah. You’re probably not related, then.’ Interest in the Englishman already waning, he turned his attention back to Roulette.

‘I’m Spens,’ said the blond man curtly. ‘Bengt Spens. Now, let’s get on with it.’ He stalked away, signalling for the others to come with him. Vincent let out a small sigh, then followed. Reeve and Roulette exchanged faintly amused looks, then went after them.

Room 517 did indeed smell strongly of cigarette smoke, Reeve found when he entered. Not even the fresh sea air blowing in from the balcony could clear it. The room was all but identical to his, one floor below: basic but comfortable. He went onto the balcony, finding two chairs and a table. A saucer had been used as an ashtray. The stubbed-out cigarette butts were all on one side. A box of Winstons revealed Spens’s preferred brand.

‘Bring the chairs inside,’ Spens said impatiently from the room. Reeve carried them in. The blond man had opened a laptop on a desk, taking the seat at it. Vincent perched on the foot of the bed as Reeve and Roulette sat on the chairs. ‘Okay. I want to make sure we all know what we are doing. Did Kiersch tell everyone the objective?’

‘Get something back from the man who stole it before he sells it,’ Vincent offered. That was what Reeve had been told, though in more detail. Roulette made a sound of agreement.

‘A photolithography plate for a microchip design,’ said Spens, nodding. ‘Worth millions of dollars to the right people. The client wants it back, obviously – before the buyer arrives.’

‘Tomorrow afternoon, Otmar told me,’ Roulette said.

Another nod. ‘So we need to move fast. I was already here after another job, so Kiersch asked me to do the recon. I took photos yesterday and this morning.’ He brought up a folder of images on the laptop. ‘The seller is at this villa in the mountains above Ayaguares. He has bodyguards.’

‘How many?’ Reeve asked, leaning forward to examine the first picture. A large white bungalow with a swimming pool stood in a walled compound.

‘Two.’

‘You’re sure?’

Spens glared at him. ‘Of course I’m fucking sure.’ He stabbed at the laptop, bringing up another picture. This was taken with a zoom lens. A man wearing shorts and sunglasses lay on a lounger by the pool. Two large men in short-sleeved shirts were nearby. One stood in the shade of a porch, the other looking intently off to one side. ‘See? I know what I’m doing.’

‘They look Russian,’ remarked Vincent lugubriously.

‘They could be from anywhere. But it doesn’t matter. Four of us should easily be able to take them and recover the merchandise.’

‘Show us the location,’ said Roulette. Like Reeve she had leaned forward, absorbing the information with professional intensity.

Spens complied, bringing up more pictures. Most had been taken from a position overlooking the villa. ‘Two doors,’ he said. ‘One by the pool, the other facing the main gate.’ He showed a shot taken from a road of the compound’s entrance. A large SUV was partially visible over the wall.

A rocky cliff was visible in the background, beyond the house. Reeve guessed that had been Spens’s vantage point. He formed a mental map of the area. ‘How steep is that slope? Climbable?’

‘Yes,’ Spens replied. ‘I went part of the way down it.’ He went to one of the shots taken from higher up. ‘These trees,’ he indicated a stand of palms, ‘will give us cover. Nobody in the house will be able to see us.’

Reeve had reached the same conclusion. ‘Not until we get to the lawn, anyway.’

‘We go in tonight,’ suggested Vincent. ‘Catch them unawares.’

‘I don’t think it’ll be that easy. Zoom in on the house.’ Spens did so. ‘There are CCTV cameras there, and there.’ Reeve indicated white-shelled devices mounted on the villa’s walls. ‘Can you go closer?’ Another zoom. The image began to pixelate, but it told him enough. ‘I recognise the make. They’ve got night vision and motion sensors. Probably rigged to set off an alarm if anything moves.’

Roulette bit her lower lip. ‘If the doors and shutters are locked, they’ll be awake and armed before we’re inside.’

‘So how do we get close to the house?’ asked Vincent.

Spens flicked through more photos. The three men in the villa came and went from the pool area. ‘The alarms must be turned off during the day. See? They went inside and out a lot while I was watching. If the alarms were on, they would keep sounding.’

‘The alarms might be off, but the motion sensors could still be on,’ Reeve noted. ‘They can send an alert to someone’s phone. If all three guys are in the house, they’ll know they have visitors.’

‘I thought of that,’ said Spens, with a peevish edge. ‘Look at this.’ He went back to one particular image. ‘Camera here, pointing this way to cover the pool. Another one covering the north side of the house. This one aimed at the lawn. But, you see the angle?’ He traced a line down the screen with his forefinger. ‘It’s pointing here, straight along the garden. There’s a gap, here.’ He indicated an imaginary wedge at one side of the lawn. ‘We come down the cliff and climb the wall behind the trees. Then we move around and use this gap to reach the corner of the house. They won’t see us, even in daytime.’

‘Unless someone looks out of a window,’ was Roulette’s acerbic comment.

‘The shutters on these rooms were closed both times I was there.’ He pointed out the sealed windows along both walls by the corner. ‘It’s a big house. I guess nobody is using them.’

Vincent surveyed the picture thoughtfully. ‘If we get to that corner, we can sneak around to the doors.’

‘I thought so too. It’s the best way in. If we split into two teams, one can take each door. We go in at the same time. Catch them by surprise – take them down.’

‘What, kill them?’ said Reeve, frowning. A couple of his jobs for Kiersch had required the threat of force. Actual use of it – deadly, at that – was new.

‘If we have to,’ was the dismissive reply. ‘But if they are smart, they’ll surrender. If they don’t? Their fault. Tough break, hey? Here.’ He opened a desk drawer, revealing several weapons. ‘A gun for each of us, and two stun-guns. Anyone gives us shit, we zap them.’ He tapped a plastic box. ‘Headsets and mics too. We can coordinate the attack.’

Vincent nodded. ‘You are very well prepared. Nice. Good to see a professional at work.’

‘Yeah,’ said Reeve. ‘Very well prepared.’ He regarded Spens probingly. ‘What did you do before you went freelance?’

The look Spens gave in return was not friendly. ‘Are you giving me a fucking background check?’

Reeve’s response was neutral, casual. ‘Just curious.’

‘I was in MUST, if you have to know.’ Swedish foreign intelligence, Reeve knew, its equivalent to MI6. ‘You want me to tell you my dick size too?’

‘I think we can guess,’ said Roulette with a smirk. Vincent chuckled.

The Swede’s face flashed with anger, but he quickly controlled it. ‘All right. Enough fucking around. We are here to do a job. Let’s go through the plan. Two teams. Me and you in one,’ he indicated Reeve, ‘and you two together.’ Roulette and Vincent nodded. ‘There is an entrance to a track fifty metres below the house. We drive up, leave the car there, out of sight. The road is a zig-zag; we walk up the hill to the cliff. Then we wait for everyone to be inside before climbing down . . .’

Reeve listened as Spens outlined the operation, he and the others occasionally questioning or commenting. The plan of action was much as he would have devised, given the same intel.

But again, a twinge of concern rose in the back of his mind. And he still couldn’t pin down why.

By the time everyone had agreed on the plan, evening was approaching. The group left Spens’s room to find food. Reeve had no interest in being sociable, opting to eat in his room. He took advantage of room service; Kiersch was paying for it.

He hadn’t planned to leave the room until the next morning. For some reason, though, even with the balcony door open it felt claustrophobic. The sky was darkening, but the room faced northeast; he couldn’t see the sunset. The urge to do so rose. It had been a shared pleasure when he and Connie lived in the Italian countryside. A void of loneliness welling within him, he headed for the hotel’s rooftop terrace.

It had a small bar, twenty or so people enjoying the view. Roulette was one. She leaned against the railing, holding a drink and gazing towards the setting sun. He looked around, but saw neither Vincent nor Spens. The latter was a relief. Hesitation – he wasn’t in the mood for conversation – but then he joined her. ‘Hi.’

She seemed slightly surprised to see him. ‘Hi. Did you eat?’ she asked in French.

‘Yes. I just fancied seeing the sunset.’

‘So did I.’ The resort town of Maspalomas at Gran Canaria’s southern tip spread out below. Everything was a vivid orange, the sun already halfway below the horizon. ‘It reminds me of home.’

‘France?’

‘Martinique, originally. Which is part of France, even though it’s on the other side of the Atlantic. The sunsets are beautiful there.’

‘I lived in southern France for a little while,’ said Reeve. ‘I liked it. But we moved on to Italy.’

Her look suggested she had questions about his use of ‘we’, but they remained unasked. Instead, she said, ‘So you’ve lived in France and Italy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘England too.’

A cautious glance. ‘How do you know?’

‘You have an accent when you talk in English. From the north, I think.’

‘I suppose I have.’

She gave him a sly grin. ‘Ich habe dich aber noch nichts auf Deutsch sagen hören.’

Reeve’s breath caught. German was not a language he spoke. He recognised a few words: I have, something, of German? All he could manage was a dismissive shrug and, ‘Yeah.’

It didn’t fool her. ‘Interesting,’ said Roulette, smile not diminishing. ‘A German who doesn’t understand German, but has a British accent. And your French accent is distinctly Parisian. I know Otmar’s people like to be mysterious about their pasts, but this?’

‘Probably best that it stays a mystery,’ said Reeve.

‘Oh, I understand. I agree! There aren’t many people I’ve told about my own past. But,’ she became more serious, ‘I’m not sure what to make of you. Leon: I’m going to guess military, then a spook. Probably VSSE.’ Belgian state security, Reeve recalled. ‘Spens? Well, we know he’s ex-MUST, and an arsehole.’

‘I can’t argue with that,’ he said, smiling slightly.

‘But you?’ She looked him up and down. ‘I would say military, special forces. You have the . . . air. But there’s something else. You don’t seem like a spook, though. And the way you didn’t like the idea of killing anyone? It makes me wonder if you don’t want to be in this line of work. Either you do it because it’s the only thing you’re good at, or . . .’

‘Or?’ prompted Reeve.

‘Or, you’re doing it because you have to. There’s something you need. Maybe from Otmar specifically, or one of his clients. It can’t just be money, because, well.’ It was her turn to shrug. ‘There are many ways to get money if you really need it. I think we both know this.’

He wasn’t sure how to take that. ‘Maybe it’s both,’ he said instead. ‘I’m good at it, and I have to.’

‘So you do have to, then. Why?’

Her questioning was making him increasingly uncomfortable. But she didn’t seem to be probing for weaknesses, or leverage. It felt as if she was genuinely trying to find a connection. He had no intention of giving her any identifying details about himself. But still . . .

Reluctance for a moment, then: ‘For someone I care about.’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘Huh. Me too.’ Neither spoke for several seconds. ‘Someone you love?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Me too.’ She appeared sincere, a look of longing on her face. He knew it from seeing himself in the mirror. Then she gave a humourless little laugh, shaking her head. ‘Well, aren’t we a couple of romantics.’

‘Romantics with guns,’ Reeve pointed out.

Her smile returned, if only faintly. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of Bonnie and Clyde?’

‘Yes. They both died.’

‘They lived first. To the full. That’s what counts, I think. Oh, look.’ She turned towards the sun, now almost disappeared. They both watched as it slipped below the horizon. A final shimmer of red, and it was gone. She sighed. ‘Ah, it didn’t happen.’

‘What didn’t happen?’

‘The green flash.’ On his puzzled look, she explained, ‘Sometimes as the sun sets, there’s a green flash. It’s very rare. The conditions have to be exactly right. But I saw it once. We made a wish upon it . . .’

‘Did it come true?’

‘If I tell anyone, it will spoil it.’ That wasn’t said with humour, but pensively, almost sadly. Then she straightened, turning away from the horizon. ‘Anyway. Do you want a drink?’ She gestured towards the bar.

‘No, thanks,’ said Reeve. ‘I just came up here to see the sunset.’ She seemed almost disappointed. ‘I’m here for the job, that’s all,’ he went on. ‘Not to make friends.’

‘That’s a shame. I find you can never have too many friends. Or . . .’ She cocked her head, her expression of prodding humour returning. ‘Or is it that there is only one woman for you?’

‘Yes,’ he said at once.

‘Funny. Me too.’

She was perhaps expecting more of a reaction than Reeve gave her. ‘We’ve got something in common, then,’ he said with a brief but genuine smile. ‘But I should get moving. We need to be up early tomorrow.’

‘I suppose we do.’ She finished her drink. ‘Well, Mister German-with-an-English-accent, I will see you in the morning. And I’ll see if you’re as good as I suspect you are.’

‘Hopefully we won’t need to find out,’ Reeve said as he departed.

Reeve woke to the sound of a mobile phone trilling. He didn’t recognise it at first; the burner had never received an incoming call. He fumbled for it in the half-light. ‘Yes?’

‘I have good news.’ Otmar Kiersch. Reeve’s employer knew not to use his alias on an open line. Both knew all too well who was listening. Britain’s GCHQ, and others besides. ‘The friend you are looking for is in Rome.’

Reeve sat upright with a bolt of excitement. ‘You found her?’

‘One of my contacts did. I do not have the exact address yet. He has to be careful about accessing official information. If he is caught he will lose his job – or go to prison. But he is sure he will have it soon. A week, maybe two.’

‘Tha. . .