The Division Collection Page 40

  ‘Didn’t you see enough before?’ she enquired with a cheeky grin.

  Moore pushed up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet touched the worn carpet.

  ‘I saw plenty,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t mean it’s enough.’

  She finished drying herself and applied deodorant and perfume from her handbag. She stepped back into the room and found her knickers on the armchair by the window. They were flimsy pale blue satin.

  The woman’s name was Michelle McGregor, and she was thirty eight years old. She was also Alan McGregor’s wife, which for Moore added a thrilling extra dimension to their affair. Any chance to get one over that brown-nosing prick was an opportunity that had to be taken. He knew the consequences of being caught would probably derail his career, but at the moment he really didn’t care.

  Moore watched her get dressed before standing himself, naked before her. He was an even six feet with a thick dark rug on his strong chest. He was greying at the temples, his dark hair cut short. His torso was lean and hard.

  Michelle secured her gold necklace and tossed her hair. She straightened her red sundress before grabbing her handbag.

  ‘Best I get a move on, lover,’ she smiled, and kissed him hard on the lips.

  Moore kissed her back, touching her hips and pulling her to him. She pulled back momentarily before he felt her relent. His tongue found hers and he pressed harder against her, hoping she would respond, eager for more. He started to ease backwards towards the rumpled bed, but she put a hand firmly on his chest and pushed away.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I can’t. I need to go.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, trying his best boyish smile. ‘You don’t need to go just yet…’

  ‘I do.’ She was definite now, and he knew there would be no changing her mind.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed anyway, watching as she checked she had everything. He wanted to say something but didn’t know what. He wanted her to stay but knew she wouldn’t, and couldn’t.

  ‘Happy birthday, big boy,’ Michelle smiled, leaning down and giving him another quick kiss on the lips. ‘Hope you’re having a good day.’

  Moore gave a small smile in return. ‘So far, so great. Thank you.’

  She tapped his nose with a painted nail and moved to the door.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said as she opened the door. She checked the corridor outside before turning and blowing him a kiss. ‘See ya.’

  Moore nodded and watched the door close. The lock clicked into place and silence fell on the room.

  He was alone again.

  He hadn’t seen her for three weeks, what with her own commitments and him in Singapore for half that time. Far from being an R&R trip, it had been an annual exercise with other operators from The Division. It had been wet and exhausting, and had ended with an Anzac Day dawn service and too much rum.

  Now here he was in a budget London hotel, celebrating his birthday by screwing the wife of a colleague.

  Moore shook off the gloom that threatened to descend. It didn’t matter. She was someone else’s wife; no point mooching around like a love struck school kid.

  He checked the G-Shock on the bedside table. 11am. Time to get back to work.

  He headed for the shower.

  Chapter Two

  When Moore got back to Haymarket an hour later he parked the silver Mondeo in a public car parking building in a nearby street and walked the last distance to the office.

  The office was at New Zealand House, the High Commission that was home to various diplomats and Government departments including Immigration and Defence, and a number of private businesses.

  Tucked into a small office on the sixth floor of the tower was the resident Intelligence Officer, carrying the ostensible title of Staff Officer. In New Zealand House that role was held by Alan McGregor, an experienced Senior Intelligence Officer. He was also an eternal bore and an unabashed sycophant who was trying his best to work his way into the diplomatic ranks.

  Practically every embassy around the world had at least one such position, and everybody knew the real reason for their presence. McGregor had been perturbed to hear he was being joined by a second officer, and a former SF operator at that, and had gone out of his way to isolate and minimise Moore’s position as an Intelligence Officer.

  Moore responded by building his own contacts and networks, and most recently by screwing McGregor’s wife behind his back. A further point of resentment for McGregor was the fact that Moore was not just an IO and technically under his supervision, but he was also in the direct line of command of Division 5. The existence of this unit was ultra-secret, and McGregor only knew because he had to.

  Known as The Division, the small hand-picked team were all ex-Special Forces or counter terrorism operators. They reported straight to the Director of the SIS, and their brief was the black operations that were required from time to time by the Government.

  Moore took pleasure in the fact that he could blackball McGregor on any tasks he received from the Director. He just wished there was more demand for his special skills.

  The intelligence services of the host nation and other embassies all tried to keep tabs on each other, and Moore was confident that he was widely known within the circles. He made no secret of it within the Five Eyes group and had always found that approach useful, although the South African Resident always grated on him, but was far more reserved with other services.

  The Russian FSB had a strong presence in London – Moore was always careful not to meet contacts at a sushi bar after the Litvinenko assassination – and the Chinese and North Koreans always took an interest in the Kiwis.

  Some of the embassy staff themselves resented the intelligence presence and others were excited about having a real spy working amongst them.

  Shifting from being a Staff Sergeant in the SAS to a trainee intelligence officer in the Security Intelligence Service had been a huge jump, and he’d almost thrown it all in during his first year in Wellington. Crap pay, back at the bottom of the pole again, and he’d wondered what the hell he’d done. A phone call to his old Regimental Sergeant Major at Papakura had led to a conversation with the Deputy Director (Intelligence) of the SIS.

  He wasn’t like the other trainees, he explained. He wasn’t a spotty computer nerd, he wasn’t a razor-sharp lawyer and he was certainly no Walter Mitty. He’d been around. He’d been at the coalface using the intelligence supplied by the spooks; he knew the value of getting it right.

  It transpired that the Deputy completely agreed and had moved him six months later to a posting in the Philippines, then to Singapore and ultimately to the plum job in London. His role was 95% standard intelligence officer, 5% fixer. It meant he got the occasional opportunity to utilise his old skills, so he didn’t feel completely removed from that world.

  Moore took the lift to the sixth floor with a foot long sub in his hand and best intentions of catching up on some work for the afternoon. Although he’d heard there was a new girl downstairs in Immigration who was both a gymnast and a stunner, so he may need to pop down there later on to say hello.

  Moore sidled past McGregor’s office, seeing he was on the phone with his head down, and ducked through the next doorway into his own broom cupboard office without being spotted.

  He shut the door, opened his lunch and tucked in ravenously. Chicken teriyaki on wheat with sweet onion and everything but olives, washed down with water.

  As he got older Moore was conscious of his sugar intake, so the water was his concession. He ate half the sub before quickly scanning the BBC news online then opening up his emails to catch up on new intel reports. He was still working through the list when his door opened and McGregor appeared. He paused in the doorway and looked down his nose at Moore.

  ‘Hard at work, I see,’ he said, sneering at the half eaten sub on Moore’s desk. ‘No surprise there.’

  Moore ignored the jibe and took a sip of water.

  ‘So where’ve you been
swanning around all morning, Robert?’ McGregor rocked on his heels and lifted his nose even further in the air. He knew it irritated Moore to be called by his full first name.

  ‘I’m working on something for the Director,’ Moore said easily, picking up his sub. It was a complete lie, of course, but McGregor could never prove it – he didn’t have the balls to check with the Director himself.

  Moore took a bite and chewed slowly as he looked steadily at the man before him. He could tell it annoyed McGregor, so as soon as he finished he took another bite. The sweet onion sauce really made it.

  ‘Well?’ McGregor prompted, rolling his hand as if to hurry him up.

  Moore shrugged and pointed at his mouth while he took his time. He washed the mouthful down with a draft of water and licked his lips.

  ‘Well what?’ he said.

  McGregor’s lips pursed. ‘Well what are you working on? “Something for the Director” tells me nothing.’

  Moore shrugged and allowed himself a small smile. ‘Well I guess that’s what I’m telling you, then. It’s a job that the Director has given me. I don’t think I have authority to disclose the details to you at this stage.’ He gave McGregor a smug look. ‘Sorry, I guess you don’t have the clearance.’

  McGregor’s face went paler than normal, and his eyes became pinpricks. ‘Don’t try and play bloody games with me, Robert. You can sit there as smug as you like, but let’s not forget who pulls the strings around here.’ He looked Moore up and down with disdain. ‘And it’s not some washed up grunt masquerading as James fucking Bond.’

  With that he turned and stalked out.

  Moore picked up his sub and lined up the next bite. ‘Say hi to your wife for me,’ he muttered. The sub was still good but somehow the interaction with McGregor had left a sour taste in his mouth. Everything about the man irritated him, but he couldn’t pretend to himself it was just that.

  In truth he was more irritated with himself than the man whose wife he was bedding. He’d tipped over into his forties and it didn’t please him. He liked his job and he loved London, but in the last couple of months he’d slipped into a funk that he neither recognised or liked, or could see a way out of. With it had come a growing pattern of risky behaviour.

  He was rarely home with deliberately working longer hours, he was pushing himself harder in his physical training, and he was drinking more. There’d been a fight outside a pub a few weeks back, something he never normally did – a lippy young lager lout had exchanged words with him and it ended up with blood on the footpath and Moore’s semi-conscious opponent being dragged away by his mates.

  Moore had gone before the Police arrived and nothing further had come of it, but he was acutely aware that he had been acting out of character.

  The affair with Michelle was something else. It had started two months ago after a function at the High Commission, a drunken screw in an empty office that he had immediately regretted, but it had quickly became a regular occurrence with clandestine meetings in cheap motels and B&Bs.

  Never the same place twice and always paid in cash under an assumed name.

  He even used an untraceable burn phone to keep in contact with her, and never text her. But no matter how careful he was, the spectre of exposure loomed over him like an impending storm.

  He was still brooding when his landline buzzed.

  The voice at the other end was blunt and familiar. Jed Ingoe, the Operations Officer for The Division and a former Regimental Sergeant Major of the SAS. Widely known as Jedi, he had lost a leg in an IED explosion in Afghanistan and took medical retirement, immediately being recruited to help run The Division.

  ‘I suppose it’s lunchtime in London town,’ Jedi said without preamble. ‘I’m surprised you’re not down the pub with a curry and a pint, networking.’

  Moore chuckled. ‘Things’ve changed since your heyday, Jedi,’ he said, ‘it’s all lunchtime runs and motivational books now.’

  Jedi made a scoffing sound. ‘Sounds inspiring,’ he said. ‘I know you’ve got nothing major on at the moment Rob, which is good; I’ve got a job for you.’

  Moore gripped the phone tighter and leaned forward in his chair. Jedi usually tasked him via email, only ever ringing if it was a sensitive job. ‘We’re encrypted, then?’

  ‘We are,’ Jedi replied. ‘Don’t worry, this won’t take long.’

  Moore’s heart sank; he’d been hoping for something juicy, something to get his teeth into and drag himself out of this funk.

  ‘The Minister of Foreign Affairs is currently over there, as you know. He’s doing some networking before heading over to Greece for the Battle of Crete commemorations in a week or so. His daughter Natalie lives in Surrey, and he’s supposed to be catching up with her while he’s there. It appears she has gone missing in Turkey while on a trip there.’

  Moore raised an eyebrow to himself. Turkey was a hotbed right now, with the Russians bombing neighbouring Syria, the resulting refugee crisis and increased political and radical unrest in Turkey itself. Intelligence reports were coming in thick and fast and Kiwi travellers had been warned to steer clear for the time being. It surprised him that a Cabinet Minister’s daughter had been silly enough to travel there.

  ‘So it’s a lost and found mission,’ he said with more of an edge than he’d intended.

  ‘More or less,’ Jedi said. ‘It’s not your normal job, I grant you that, but he’s a pretty influential figure and the request has come from the top, so that’s what we’ll do.’

  By “from the top” Moore wasn’t sure whether Jedi was referring to the Director of the Security Intelligence Service or the Prime Minister. Ultimately it didn’t matter, given their respective positions, but he always liked to know who he was actually working for.

  Jedi gave him an address, a country hotel in the Guildford borough down in Surrey. Moore noted it down and listened while Jedi gave him some brief instructions. Apparently the Minister would make time to see him tomorrow at 10am, which suited Moore. It amused him, though, that he was expected to be available at that time. The Minister wanted, so the Minister got. Paul Oldham was a mover and shaker in politics, with clear aspirations of getting the top job. As far as Moore could recall, he was about number three or four in Cabinet.

  ‘No problem, Sarn’t Major,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there.’

  Jedi chuckled down the line. ‘Good man. I suppose you’ll be ditching the company car and taking that little rocket of yours for a spin?’

  Moore smiled to himself. He had taken Ingoe for a spin in his Jag last time the boss had been over, and the old warrior had vowed to never drive with him again.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be sure to claim for my miles, don’t worry.’

  ‘Just be aware too, that our friends at Millbank are aware.’

  He was referring to the Security Service, known as MI5.

  ‘How?’

  ‘We briefed them. The Minister’s on their patch, and it could be relevant. They’re keeping an ear out for us, and I’ve asked them for papers for you. You’ll be going to Istanbul, and I’d rather you travelled as a Brit than a Kiwi.’

  Moore raised an eyebrow to himself. ‘Something I’m missing, Jedi?’

  ‘Not at all. Just being cautious is all. Slowly slowly, catchy monkey. One of theirs will be in touch, I expect.’

  Moore said nothing. It was unusual that they would ask for assistance from another service like that, when he had multiple identities himself under various nationalities. He trusted Jedi’s judgement though, so said nothing.

  ‘Haven’t heard from Archer for a while,’ he said, referring to one of the other members of The Division, ‘is he on anything good at the moment?’

  ‘He’s still around town,’ Jedi answered vaguely. ‘Anyway, I don’t have time to chat. Things to do.’

  ‘Same,’ Moore grinned, ‘I’m flat out.’

  Jedi snorted again, bade him farewell and rang off.

  Moore sat back and made a steeple of
his fingers as he considered the information he’d just been given. It wasn’t the most exciting job, but at least it would get him out of the office. Any chance to travel was good.

  He glanced out the window at the city beyond. It was constantly moving, a real living and breathing beast, and every time he looked out that window he still got a buzz. So much happening, so many opportunities.

  He tore himself away and turned back to his computer. He decided he better do some background work on the Minister’s daughter.

  At least his lie to McGregor was now covered.

  Chapter Three

  After work Moore had skipped a trip to the pub and instead walked to Leicester Square.

  He jumped the Northern Line to Camden Town and walked from the tube station into the less developed area of Camden, to a small but busy gym in a back alley.

  It was run by a bald headed guy called Wizzle who, in his youth, was a renowned East End leg breaker for hire. He eventually got sent down for a long lag and came out nearing forty and with a renewed view of life. That wasn’t to say he had entirely left his former life behind him, but he now ran a very successful gym with an emphasis on boxing.

  The members were a rough bunch, with tattoos and scars the normal uniform. There was not a speck of Lycra in sight, and even the women who attended were harder than most female squaddies Moore had known. Wizzle had three rules in his gym; no crime, no black music and no ‘roids. Any breaches of these rules led to immediate expulsion and sometimes a beating, depending on the breach.

  Moore changed quickly into shorts, T shirt and sneakers and left his bag in an open locker, knowing it would be safe. He warmed up on a bike, skipped for ten minutes then hit the speed bag for another five before moving to the heavy bag for twenty. Soaked in sweat, he did a short but intense set of free weights – there were no machines, of course – and finished up with a series of stretches to cool down.