Kill or Be Killed - the fifth Gabby Lane Spy novel

KILL OR BE KILLED

A BLACKHAWK NOVEL

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Copyright © M.F. Kelleher 2025

First Edition

The right of M.F.Kelleher to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by means without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any authorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN 9798315355168

Cover artwork by Claire Meczes

CHAPTER ONE

The sun moves out from behind the clouds and its intensity dazzles Gabby Lane for a second, before the Gulfstream G700 climbs to 42,000 feet and turns further south on its journey to Palermo.

From the cabin window she can see the hazy coast of France stretching out into the distance and silver aircraft peppering the horizon.

Her eyes flick to Kate, Agent Coniston, as she passes by. The woman’s blonde hair is tied back and she carries two gin and tonics on a tray. Kate is dressed in the pale blue uniform of the private charter company Air Nouveau that MI6 stole last week from a warehouse just outside Cannes.

She makes the briefest smile at Gabby to indicate that the plan is on track.

There are only three other passengers on the aircraft, all important men in the people smuggling and prostitution networks across Europe. Gabby thinks back over the last four months in deep cover as she has built up the trust of these men. Her cover identity has been Erika Müller, one that she used two years ago to trap and turn a key gang leader in Belgrade.

As Erika, she is planning to open a string of brothels in Frankfurt, Brussels and Paris and ship young women in from Russia and the Balkans. That makes her a key client for the men in this Gulfstream and the reason she’s on this aircraft at all, at their invitation.

The trip to Palermo had been suggested by Antoine Lambert, a French national, and the one man of the three who MI6 Research Branch rate as extremely dangerous.

He is the wealthiest of all of these men too and, if this operation had been planned differently, she would be sleeping with Lambert tonight when they reach their destination.

But, that’s not the plan.

She pushes her dark hair away from her brown eyes as Kate returns down the aisle and leans across to her in the pretence of taking a drinks order.

“We ready?” says Gabby and Kate nods. “The sixty second countdown starts…” She raises her wrist and holds her finger over the stopwatch alarm. “Now.”

Gabby presses the button and delves her hand into the Hermes Birkin handbag that sits beside her. She unzips a hidden pocket inside the bag and pulls out a gas canister. She breaks the end seal, arms the device and bowls the cylinder down the length of the aircraft. It stops near Lambert but no one notices it on the floor as they’re engrossed in conversation.

The deafening boom cracks through the peace of the luxury aeroplane and the void is filled with white gas within a few seconds. Immediately, Lambert and the others start to shout. The gas is harmless but they don’t know that.

Kate is in the crew area and moves a catering trolley to block the door to the cockpit, then drops her hand to a drawer in the kitchen area and pulls out a silenced Beretta M9 handgun. She runs towards Lambert. The men are standing and still shouting in their panic.

Lambert doesn’t register Kate walking towards him out of the haze. With a single movement, she puts the Beretta up to his temple and delivers a single shot into his head.

Red splatter spews out against the side of the aircraft.

She turns and heads back towards the front of the Gulfstream. One of the other men steps out into her path and she swings the gun at him, gouging a slice of skin from his face as she scrapes the muzzle downwards, drawing blood. Kate swings with her free hand and lands a blow to his head with enough force that he falls back into his white leather seat.

Gabby delves into her Birkin again and pulls out two cubic black boxes. She slams one against the exit door and the magnetics stick it to the bulkhead. The second device, she places on her seat.

“Five seconds!” she shouts to Kate and they both take cover behind chairs. The explosion of the first cube rips through the air as the charge blows the door off and sends the metal falling to earth. The cabin instantaneously de-pressurises and the men feel the force of the air, drawing them closer to the gaping wound in the side of the plane.

The third man, who is stronger than the others from his years of street violence, manages to fight the suction and get a hand on Gabby. He grabs for her head and pulls it hard to one side then the other. She manages to reach out to his face and her fingers push into his left eye until she feels the softness of his eyeball and he cries out. Kate joins the brawl and uses the Beretta as a battering ram, repeatedly bringing it down against his skull until the man writhes away in agony.

Gabby kicks at a wall panel near the broken exit and reveals two backpacks that were stowed out of sight by MI6 field agents last night as the aircraft was being prepared. She throws one backpack to Kate and they both slide their arms under the straps.

“Go, go, go!” she shouts and the women run for the exit, then throw themselves out into the sky above the sea.

There are ten seconds of freefall then Gabby pulls the ripcord and her parachute opens. She looks up at Kate who is twenty metres above her. But Kate’s chute hasn’t opened and she is plummeting fast downward.

Second by second, Kate is dropping through the air.

Gabby flicks her legs around to rotate her position and manoeuvre to be directly under the other woman’s descent. When the collision happens, Gabby draws a clip from her chute and rams it hard to latch with a buckle on Kate’s backpack. Their combined weight doubles their speed as they drop earthward.

Gabby pulls hard on the control lines as the ground approaches. The chute slows their descent but the landing is a messy affair and both hit the ground hard and cry out. They try to roll out of the worst of the impact but their bodies are still brought to a jarring halt too quickly.

Then, silence.

They lie on the ground where they fell and don’t move.

Seconds tick by.

Gabby opens her eyes. She raises her head off the sand and looks into the sky. She can see the Gulfstream, now pouring out smoke and following an arc towards the water.

At a hundred metres above the Mediterranean, the second black cube detonates and an orange ball of flame curls out from the plane before it hits the water and the fuel tank ignites, pushing seawater up and out before the fuselage starts to drop below the surface.

She breathes out.

“You alright?” she says to Kate.

There’s no answer.

“Kate?”

There’s a second of time. Then Kate says. “My arm took the brunt. Where are we?”

“Corsica, Ile Rousse.”

Gabby sits up and rubs her cheek where the man grabbed her in the plane, then she stands.

“We can relax for the rest of the day,” she says. “I fly to London tomorrow for a briefing on a new operation but before that, there’s a beach bar over there and I’m buying.”

She offers her hand and pulls Kate to her feet. Gabby releases the harness from the backpack and they gather up the white parachute fabric, then start to walk through the breaking clear water on the shoreline.

*

The next evening, at just before 8pm, outside the Five Fields restaurant on Blacklands Terrace in London’s Chelsea, an armoured black Range Rover SV pulls up to the kerb and stops.

Percy, the driver, steps out and opens the rear door for his boss, Sir Bernard Macintosh, Head of MI6 Global Operations. The older man’s greying hair is worn short over his black pin-striped three-piece suit, and his glasses are perched on the end of his slightly bulbous nose that sits between kind, blue eyes.

He walks to the unassuming entrance of one of the most exquisite places to eat in this city. The maître d’hôtel greets him personally and shows him up to the first floor where the private room has been booked for tonight.

He orders Chablis and sits in one of the armchairs near the Georgian windows.

Somewhere in the distance, Sir Bernard can hear a church bell striking the hour.

Time ticks by in the room and he thinks as he waits.

Eventually, he hears footsteps on the stairs and the door opens.

“Hello, Sir Bernard.”

“Agent Blackhawk, how was the journey?”

“Good.”

“Chablis?”

“Thank you.”

Gabby sits in the chair next to him and Sir Bernard turns to her. “An update on the crash, Research Branch tell me that four bodies were dragged from the Mediterranean yesterday.”

He pauses.

“Not five though. Two pilots and two others.”

Gabby drinks and turns her eyes to him. “One unaccounted for?”

He nods slowly.

“Do we know who?”

“The faces were disfigured but the lab has done DNA checks. They think it’s Lambert’s body that was missing.”

She screws up her features. “He can’t be alive. Agent Coniston shot him at close range. Are we sure it’s Lambert’s?” she says.

“Research Branch are usually accurate.”

“He saw us, Coniston and me. I’ve been schmoozing him for four months: lunches, dinners, parties. He trusted me, or trusted Erika. If he’s alive that’s all blown.”

Sir Bernard watches his best European field officer think through the consequences.

“We don’t know, Gabrielle.”

“I’ve never known a man to survive that sort of injury, sir. Of course someone could have taken the body, but why remove only one?” she says.

“If he’s alive, he’ll want you dead,” says Sir Bernard.

“Aware, sir.”

“We’ll put tracers out to find him, but you need to tread carefully.”

“Will do.”

“Moving on,” he says and smiles at her. “I want to tell you about this new mission that I mentioned to you – Operation Oakhill.”

He stands and picks up a remote control from the table, then points it across the room. The door lock clicks shut and a section of the wall slides back to reveal five video screens. Images of four men start to play out, but the final screen remains black.

“You probably don’t know these people. Some are high net worth individuals whilst others are involved in the finance industry in some way,” he begins. “From left to right they are Louis Jacobs, Salvatore Albano, Oliver Bailey and Rafael Villanova.”

Gabby nods when he looks at her.

“Historically, a couple of them were known to the police for minor offences, but now they’ve banded together into a European-wide organisation which they’ve called Nox Ventura. I’m sure you know that means the coming night in Latin.” Sir Bernard looks over his glasses at her.

“They’ve only been operating for seven months, but they’ve already made significant inroads into the money-laundering traffic around Frankfurt and London.”

He stops and takes a mouthful of wine.

“Jacobs is in Brussels, Albano in Rome, Bailey is in London and Villanova works in Madrid. The leader of Nox Ventura is, though, someone who you’re familiar with from an operation last year.”

Sir Bernard points the remote to the last screen and the video of a dark-haired woman appears.

“Rosaline Frossard. You’ll remember she joined what was left of the Leo Haas’ gang after we terminated him, but she only stayed for a few months and left to set up Nox Ventura. She runs the organisation from Chateau Frossard, her family estate in France near Grenoble. It’s isolated, vast and well-protected.”

“We aren’t the best people to look into money laundering, sir,” says Gabby. “Isn’t Interpol the better resource?”

“All of this could have been addressed with local law enforcement and Interpol, true,” says Sir Bernard. “It would be none of our business if they hadn’t started to make plans to trade in secret information as well.”

“In the last three months, they’ve started to plan the trading of stolen commercial documentation and selling it on to industrial competitors. But last week we got wind of the fact that Nox Ventura are upping their game further and now plan to focus on military and sensitive government information as their next step.”

Her gaze is locked on to Sir Bernard.

“Your new operation, Gabrielle, is to break Nox Ventura before they get their hands on intelligence that could undermine the UK and other governments across Europe.”

“OK,” she says.

“There’s something else too,” he continues. “We had a field resource collecting information on Nox Ventura, Agent Woodville. He went missing last week. All his comms are dead. Woodville was somewhere near Chateau Frossard, the last we know. He may be perfectly fine, or his cover may have been blown.”

“Does our op include the extraction of Woodville?”

Sir Bernard shakes his head. “He can look after himself.”

“And the London end of all this will be covered by MI5?”

“I’ve already spoken to Connie Barratt, MI5 Head of Ops. She’s allocating someone for the London elements of the work, but you’ll lead the rest.”

“Has Research Branch built up profiles on these five people?” she says and waves her hand to the video screens.

“Yes, as of a minute ago, all the information is on your profile in Oberon.” He refers to the MI6 operations system.

Sir Bernard continues. “We’ve created a cover life for you to infiltrate Nox Ventura.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and hands Gabby a folded sheet of paper.

Gabby opens it. “Lady Imogen Harwood,” she says, reading from the sheet. “Heiress to the Harwood diamond business.” She looks up at him and opens her eyes wider.

“Your background story has been manifest online in various ways over the last weeks. You run a cleaning service for high-end criminals. You mop up their dirty laundry, remove the bodies or whatever they need. We’ve seeded your name into the crime syndicates across Europe, so people will have heard of Imogen Harwood by now.”

He pauses. “We can talk more over dinner. I ordered the tasting menu for us both.”

Sir Bernard unlocks the door and the wall closes back over the video screens as they sit at the table.

Above them, the moon is full over London and tiny droplets of rain start to fall on the water of the River Thames.

CHAPTER TWO

As he crosses over the Rue du Luxembourg in central Brussels, Mikkel Norgaard has to dodge the traffic. He can see one of the drivers shouting something at him, but he ignores it. His long legs stride out as he walks and the wind catches his dark hair which he pushes away from his blue eyes. Inside his head, he considers what he’s achieved in his first year as one of the fourteen MEPs representing Denmark in the European Parliament.

It’d taken him six months to get used to the job at all, and to understand how he could deliver initiatives to help his Danish voters.

He’d met Sabina Bosko at a reception for new MEPs in his first week. She’d joined the parliament as a new Polish MEPs on the same day he had. They’d started their affair in a cheap hotel on a wet Thursday night in Koekelberg, a suburb of Brussels far enough out to be discrete but close enough in to be convenient.

The thought of her makes him smile as he turns into the Maison du Luxembourg restaurant on the corner of Rue Marie de Bourgogne. This place is a square, white building on the outside, and a subtle mix of dark tan and chocolate on the inside.

A waiter shows him to one of the tables for two that are set evenly along the side wall. A woman in her forties with blonde hair worn up is already at the table. Her hazel oval eyes explore him from behind clear-framed glasses. As he approaches, she stands and extends her hand to him.

“Thank you for coming, Herr Norgaard.”

“My pleasure, Miss Royce, I’m always interested to hear about initiatives that can help the Danish public.”

They sit and he puts his laptop case on the floor near his feet. A waitress brings bread and water, then takes their order before dissolving away into the background.

“I particularly wanted to meet you,” she says. “As many people have told me about the strong tech start-ups in Copenhagen and I know your background is in that sector.”

“We’re world class, Miss Royce.”

“Please call me Eleanor, as I hope this is the start of a long and fruitful relationship between us.”

“Tell me what you do,” he says.

“My organisation supports industrial development, we have a network of financiers who are keen to invest. Where they decide to put their money is critical of course and I hope that we can benefit you too in those investments.”

“How?” He looks at her face.

“Prioritising companies that fit with your needs, where you want to support Danish business.”

A waiter delivers a bottle of wine to their table. Royce indicates that Mikkel will taste the wine. “This is Danish and from Dyrehøj Vingaard, near where you grew up in Kalundborg.”

Norgaard may be a relatively new MEP, but he’s not stupid and he’s starting to dislike this woman’s pushiness.

“Tell me exactly how your organisation works, Miss Royce. From your accent, you’re based in London, are you?”

“We take advantage of the healthy attitude to investment in the City of London and we’re very straightforward in the way we work. You identify target companies that need investment, we research them and put forward a funding offer.”

“And that’s it?” says Mikkel.

“We’ll pay you a finder’s fee too, naturally.”

Norgaard drinks from his wine glass, keeping his eyes on her but remaining silent.

“Or the equivalent value in intangibles if that’s easier.”

Royce smiles in the way that rich women do - with confidence on her permanently tanned face.

“What sort of equivalent value are we talking?” Mikkel can feel his heart increase its rhythm.

“It depends on the investment. Typically ten percent of our capital goes to finders,” says Eleanor as their starters arrive of crème brûlée de foie gras.

They talk on in opaque terms as they eat, and only say words that could easily be translated as innocent if overheard.

After starters and main courses, they both reject the idea of desert but do have coffee. Mikkel stirs sugar into his espresso and watches the liquid turning around inside the porcelain cup.

“What do you think of the potential for this idea in Denmark?” she says.

Mikkel raises his eyes to her.

“I think there’s good potential, Eleanor.” She smiles at his use of her first name, and he smiles too.

“We like to have a good sense of the target organisations and their operating environment before we consider investing,” she says. “So, as well as an arrangement between you and I, there are other aspects that interest us.”

Mikkel drinks. “Such as?”

“Legislation that’s going to affect the business, for instance. We have many military clients and, in Denmark, the government has a new military procurement strategy that’s being developed.”

“That’s not something that I am familiar with. It would only be known about in the corridors of power in Copenhagen.”

“I’m merely flagging another opportunity, Mikkel. If you can get that sort of more challenging information then again, we’d provide you with a return. As I said, we’re a straightforward business.”

“That would be highly sensitive, Eleanor, and bound by state security laws.”

“I understand,” she says. “Let’s talk of other things, but I would say that the more sensitive and secret the information, the bigger the value and the greater the finder’s fee.”

Eleanor picks up her glass and empties the last of her wine.

“How is Sabina Bosko?” she says, her eyes showing no emotion. “I suppose you bonded over both being new MEPs?”

Mikkel pauses, not sure of how to respond. After a moment he says. “All of the new MEPs are learning the ropes, as you say in English.”

“My organisation is good at keeping confidences, Mikkel, because private matters are far better left in the shadows.”

His heart has quickened further in the last few seconds and he is conscious of his eyes blinking too much.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says, trying to keep his voice as an accurate imitation of how he sounded a few minutes ago, but he fails to hide his nerves.

“This lunch is on me,” she says. “As a recognition of our new found friendship.” Eleanor stands, then also gets up and shakes her hand.

He leaves her at the table and walks back out to the street. Mikkel turns sharp left, away from the European Parliament building.

*

Gabby drops the clutch of her black BMW Z4 and turns off Route de Lennik in the suburb of Brussels called Anderlecht to the south west of the city. She drives up to a set of gates outside a wide and long grey warehouse with an illuminated corporate logo bolted to the side that reads Drecker Logistics. She shows her ID badge and the guard presses a button in his cabin before the steel gates swing slowly open and she drives through.

She walks to a side entrance where another security guard checks her badge and directs Gabby to step into a body scanner before allowing her to go further into the bowels of the place.

She walks along a broad and well-lit corridor, then turns a corner and passes a large sign that reveals the true purpose of this building, as it reads: Welcome to One-Zero Control: the European Hub for the British Secret Intelligence Service.

She reaches a pair of double doors, they slide open and Gabby walks out onto the wide top landing of a metal staircase. In front of her, the warehouse floor stretches for seventy yards away into the distance, split with partitions and rooms in various arrangements. She drops down the stairs to the ground level and starts the long walk passed the various departments who work here. Their names are displayed on metal flags at each section: European Research, Gamma Six AI Team, Armaments Despatch and MI6 Comms Branch.

Half way down the main corridor, she turns into a block of bookable conference rooms. The network of passages leads her to Room 7. As she opens the door, she sees two people who she knows at a coffee machine on a side table.

In real life, Agent Hans is Gordon Rathbone, ex-army, now a field agent with a cover life as the barman of the Mett Bar in central Berlin. His face is battle-hardened and his brown eyes are kind. He has the demeanour of a soldier. Agent Laravelle was born Jenny Maxwell in Liverpool. She is the newest of this team of people who have worked with Gabby on missions over the last few years.

The three of them make drinks and sit around a long table in the centre of the room before Gabby stands to brief them on their new mission.

“Operation Oakhill,” she begins. “The destruction of Nox Ventura.”

Gabby continues to go through the detail of what they need to do and how. As she finishes, she adds. “We’ve all got cover lives that Comms Branch have created. I’m Lady Imogen Harwood and you, Gordon, are my boyfriend Clive Freemont. You’re a financier.”

“Jenny, your cover character lives in a van in the woods and it will give you the opportunity to infiltrate the chateau where Rose Frossard lives. You’ll need to plant listening devices in the main rooms, plus you’ll be carrying our arsenal of handguns, explosives and drones in your transport which is a VW Camper Van that Tech Branch have modified.”

Laravelle nods.

“What’s our ultimate outcome, Gab?” says Hans.

“Destroy Nox Ventura.”

“And kill these five partners?”

“We need to stop them operating and remove their ability to access the state secrets. If we can do that and keep them alive then that’s Plan A. But, we have kill order pre-authorisations for all five of them if needed.”

“Do we know the details of how they operate?” It’s Laravelle, her dark eyes narrow for a second.

“That’s one of our first objectives, Jenny. Research Branch have been working on this, but the organisation keeps its cards close to its chest. The assumption is that the whole thing is controlled by Rose Frossard using command and control, it’s not a dispersed decision-making operation like ISIS.”

“Who Rose gives the orders to, and who carries out the actual work is not known yet,” she continues. “I’ve got other questions in my head too. If their data is stored on dark servers somewhere, can we hack them? How do they recruit new targets? What sort of financial sources have they got access to?”

Laravelle is making notes on her MI6 phone.

“Our first phase will be down in the Chateau Frossard near Grenoble. It’s Rose’s father’s 70th birthday at the weekend in the chateau. Comms Branch faked some phone calls and emails, and you and I, Hans, have an invitation. We’re staying in one of the forty bedrooms in the chateau. You, Jenny, will need to do some night ops from your campervan in the woods to get our surveillance network in place.”

There’s a knock on the door and it opens.

“Major Lane?” It’s a man in a white lab coat.

“That’s me.”

“I’ve got three suitcases from Comms Branch, will you sign for them?”

Gabby signs and the man pushes a metal trolley into the room with two suitcases and a large canvas bag piled up on it. “Our cover lives,” says Gabby. They stand around the conference table with their bags to find out who they’ll be for the next days and weeks.

“Clive went to Eton,” says Hans as he flicks through a background document headed Top Secret that is in his case.

“I’m called Duelle and I’m an expert on Zen!” says Laravelle. “And I have an unhealthy interest in the occult.”

After an hour of reading and memorising the background briefing documents, Gabby shreds the papers before they make their way out via the garage at the far end of One-Zero. Tech Branch officers go through the camper van upgrades with Laravelle, including that it has a V8 engine and an advanced, hidden communications console. There are cars too to fit in with Gabby’s and Hans’ cover lives. A dark blue Maserati GranTurismo for him and a red Aston Martin Vanquish for her.

As the sun starts to sink into the horizon to the west of Brussels, the three vehicles emerge from the Drecker Logistics warehouse and take the E19 highway to Nivelle then drive on passed Charleroi, Dijon and Lyon before crossing the Romanche River to reach the town of Frossard and its enormous chateau that dominates the skyline.

Laravelle turns off towards the surrounding woodland and Gabby and Hans continue in through the large grey gates to the grounds.

The chateau sits next to a rock face, hewn out to provide a site for this grand house. The driveway has lights up its entire length and the spies are met by staff who take their cars to park them out of sight in a set of garages behind an avenue of ash trees.

Lady Imogen Harwood and her boyfriend are taken into a vast hallway of the house which has an enormous staircase leading to the upper floor and walls of dark panelling.

As this is the day before the party, only half a dozen guests have arrived already and Gabby and Hans play their deep cover parts as they recall personal details that had been manufactured by MI6 Comms Branch.

At 8pm, a dark-haired woman with piercing green eyes enters wearing a mint green sequined bias cut evening dress. She circulates in the room and eventually reaches Gabby and Hans.

She extends a long arm to Gabby and her eyes flash. “Lady Harwood,” she says. “Welcome to Chateau Frossard.”

“Thank you, mademoiselle. Let me introduce Clive Freemont.” They shake hands.

“Your father has been unwell for some time, I hear?” says Rose.

“Sadly, a chronic illness,” says Gabby. “He rarely leaves his estate in the Surrey Hills these days.”

Gabby drinks champagne.

“What are your plans for the Harwood estate in the future, Lady Imogen?” says Rose.

“To continue my life in the way I’ve designed it, mademoiselle. My father is old school, I prefer to look at the world in a different way.”

“I’m familiar with what you do. We may be able to talk more on that,” says Rose. “And what about you, Mr Freemont?”

“Banking, mademoiselle. Constantly on the lookout for good investments.”

“Aren’t we all?” She moves her mouth so slightly that you wouldn’t notice from more than ten feet away. Rose keeps her eyes on him for half a second then smiles and moves on to the next group of guests.

“She’s like a cat with the cream, Gab,” he whispers.

“I’m Imogen, Clive,” she corrects him.

“There’s something weird about her.”

“We know she’s dangerous, she’s killed many people and she’s ruthless, but we need to keep her on side.”

The guests are herded into dinner and neither Gabby nor Hans sit near Rose. As this is the first night in the chateau, most people go to their rooms by 11pm.

The spies have been given the Voltaire Room. It overlooks the formal gardens which spread out from the house in geometric patterns for a hundred yards before grassland leads to forest which runs away towards the distant horizon.

“You’re on the sofa, Clive,” whispers Gabby as they approach their room.

Before he can reply, a voice rolls along the corridor behind them. “Lady Imogen!” Rose’s voice is unmistakable. “May I talk to you alone?”

“Now, mademoiselle?” She turns back to the other woman.

“If it’s not too inconvenient,” says Rose.

Hans goes inside the bedroom and Gabby is led to a room at the front of the house. As they enter, Gabby sees a face she recognises from his MI6 personal file.

Tied up and bloodied on the floor is the corpse of Agent Woodville.

CHAPTER THREE

Rose watches Gabby’s face as she looks over the bruised face of Agent Woodville.

“We found him outside,” says Rose. “Snooping around.”

“Who was he?”

Rose shrugs. “He has no wallet or identification on him. He wouldn’t say who he was either.”

“You tortured him then killed him?” says Gabby.

“He’s no use to me.” Rose shows no emotion as she talks about death. “I’m showing you because it’s what you do, isn’t it? Clean up?”

Gabby considers the best approach to this conversation as this all seems too quick to be natural. She can smell a trap, but she’s not sure what it is yet. After a moment, she says. “I only have a very small number of high-end clients, mademoiselle.”

“And I can’t be one of them?”

“There’s an assessment to go through before we take anyone on.”

“What’s in your assessment? If it’s money, I have four hundred million. Is that high-end enough for you?”

“We don’t assess financial standing. We’re more concerned with reputation and risk. We like to know we can trust our clients so that no one talks about our services. It’s the only way it can work.”

Rose waits, feeling there’s more.

“I can offer a proposal to help you with your current predicament,” says Gabby. “We can remove this man from the chateau as a show of good faith, but I want to meet your partners. You have an investment company, I believe? I’d want to know that you and your business are significant enough for us.”

Rose smiles naturally for the first time. “You can meet my partners tomorrow, they’re all invited to the party.”

“Then, if you would like to retire for the night, mademoiselle,” says Gabby. “We’ll clean this up for you.”

The Frenchwoman turns the door handle and disappears into the house. Gabby returns to her bedroom where Hans is lying on the floor with a blanket over him.

“There’s a sofa there,” she says pointing.

“I’d rather go on the floor, we used to sleep on the ground in Basra. I got used to it.”

“I found Woodville,” she says.

“Great.”

“Not so much, he’s dead. Rose had him killed. He didn’t blow his cover though. He’s in a room along the corridor. I said we’d get rid of him. Can you call Catharsis?”

Hans rolls over and makes an encrypted call to the MI6 Catharsis Control that provides MI6 field agents with a range of services at short notice including emergency transport, body disposal and suspect tailing.

“Catharsis?” he says and adds a passcode. “One parcel for collection, UK postmark. You need to be Sigma Two.” Hans uses a code for the service being in an ambulance and the personnel dressed as paramedics. He adds an MI6 encoded grid reference for the collection of Agent Woodville.

The Catharsis operator confirms the details back to Hans. “We acknowledge your location. Sigma Two will be twenty minutes.”

The blue flashing lights of an ambulance splatter against the high walls of Chateau Frossard as the crew arrives and Hans meets them at the doors. Ten minutes later, they stretcher Agent Woodville out across the gravel to the waiting ambulance and it hurries away down the driveway until the lights are lost in the night and the darkness creeps back around the trees and shrubbery of the chateau.

*

Whenever Oliver Bailey leaves his office in London’s Gherkin, it usually takes him forty-five minutes of driving too fast in his Porsche 911 to reach his penthouse apartment within the Montevetro Building in Battersea.

But tonight, it being almost midnight, he does the journey in just over half an hour. As he waits to turn into the parking under his block of flats, headlights from a car coming the other way pick out his blue eyes and fair hair in the night, before moving passed him.

The lift accelerates him skyward after Oliver scans his key card across the sensor that allows access beyond the normal eighteen floors of the building.

He walks into the flat with the confidence of a financier. Olivier goes straight to a bar at the back of the lounge and pours himself more than a double whiskey. The ice cracks as it drops into the alcohol and he pulls the sliding door to the rooftop balcony aside to stand and watch the lights scattered across the roads and parks of London before him. The Thames, the star of the show and black as the night, slides through the buildings on its way to the sea.

Her Soleil Brûlant perfume rolls out ahead of her, he can smell it before he feels her skin. Elodie’s arm appears around his waist and she presses her body against his back. The slightest breeze plays with her blonde hair this high up along the river

With her height she is as tall as he is. “I thought you weren’t coming.” Her American vowels are more anglicised than when she came to London six years ago.

He doesn’t say anything, but raises his glass to his lips.

“Come to bed.”

She slinks away, her green eyes catlike. Oliver pulls his phone from his inner jacket pocket. After a moment, the ringing tone beats out its regular rhythm in his ear for a minute before someone answers.

“Oliver?” says the voice at the other end of the line. “You know it’s past one in the morning?”

“Not here it’s not.”

“What do you want?”

“Your contact in New York is playing silly buggers. They haven’t transferred the capital into the account. What’s going on?”

“They will,” says the man.

“Call them.”

“I’m not your bloody servant.”

“I wouldn’t employ you as a servant, no work ethic. Call them, mate, tonight,” says Oliver. “We need that capital or they can shove it. I’m not dealing with unreliable suppliers. It’s my whole bloody reputation they’re pissing about with.”

“I’ll call them,” says the man, failing to hide his reluctance.

Oliver ends the call without any more words and swears under his breath. He walks inside and takes off his clothes before sliding in beside Elodie’s warmth.

He touches her breast. “In the morning, Ollie,” she murmurs softly and turns her back into him.

Oliver lays awake, his eyes wide in the night. His mind won’t shut down. He’s always been like this since he started work ten years ago. His father, Terry Bailey, had been the same. Terry had made his money in car parts. What had started as a small shop on the outskirts of Birmingham had turned into a multi-million pound business by the time Terry sold Bailey & Son to a French corporate buyer. Despite the company name, Oliver was only ten when his father had cashed in.

Up until that point in his life, Oliver had been just another boy at the local school, but within six months he had been sent away to board on the Sussex coast, then at thirteen he went to Eton, and Oxford five years later.

His parents had bought a twenty-one bedroom house in the Cotswolds while he was away and he came back at the end of the first term to a house he didn’t know and people who didn’t care. After that, he used to find any way he could to stay with his school friends for the holidays.

His parents had only lived another seven years to enjoy the money. In his last term at Eton, he had slipped home and taken the brake fluid from his father’s car, then pretended to cry when his House Master had told him of their deaths a week later.

The City of London was the only option for a job in his mind. At eighteen, he had over fifty million to his name but he wanted more and working in finance was his chosen route to keep doubling his cash pile.

His acceptance of crime as a way of life was rooted in his father too. Terry had been open with his son about the short-cuts and tricks he used to grow his business. Ignoring the rules just seems normal for the Baileys.

Oliver has only slept for a few hours when he wakes Elodie so they can have sex before the dawn light edges up over the water outside. He leaves her in bed, showers and drives back to the Gherkin by eight in the morning to talk to his contacts in Hong Kong before they end their working day.

His phone starts to ring as soon as he ends another call.

“Yup?”

“Oliver.” He knows her voice.

“Rose, how are you?” He is suddenly more conciliatory compared to everyone else he has dealt with today including Elodie.

“I need you to be at the Chateau tonight.”

“I can’t.”

“We’ll all be there, it’s my father’s birthday.”

His temper flares slightly. “Look, I’ve got a life. I can’t just…” There’s an uncomfortable silence down the line and he doesn’t finish the sentence.

“I’d be grateful, Oliver,” she says quietly. “Do your best.”

She hangs up and he slams the phone down onto his desk.

*

This coffee shop on the Hackney Road has become the place where Agent Loxby goes every week at some stage. Her shared flat on Maple Street is a ten minute walk from here through the back streets of London’s East End.

There’s a suitcase next to her as she’s catching a train back to Cambridge this afternoon to see her parents for the weekend. Two weeks ago she’d celebrated her one year anniversary as a junior field officer for MI5 but without any of her family present. The only people who could be there were from work as only they know what her real job is. Her parents and flat mates think she’s a project manager in the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs inside the British Government.

Loxby’s pale green eyes always look inquisitive and her dyed dark blonde hair is loose around her face. She’s scrolling through her TikTok with the sound muted when she hears her real name being spoken.

“Emma.” She looks up.

“Rob.” She smiles. “Long time.” He has a tough-looking face with nearly black eyes that are at odds with his short, blond hair.

He sits down opposite her at the small wooden table.

“You want another coffee?” She shakes her head and he orders one for himself.

“Were you just passing?”

“I’ve come to brief you. Looks like we’re working together again.” She smiles at him again.

Robert Marsh is Agent Riverside, a senior field agent in MI6, the agency that deals with spying challenges outside of the UK. The two of them worked together on a joint “five-six” operation last year to trap a government leaker. Now, Riverside has been asked to help his MI5 colleagues again.

“You going away?” he says, nodding down to the suitcase.

“Rents weekend.” She uses the slang for parents.

Riverside talks about Operation Oakhill and particularly about Oliver Bailey, the London leg of Nox Ventura.

“I’m the honey trap again, am I?”

“Your MI5 line management were clear that you are central to the London bit of this op. I’m just helping. You decide on how to achieve the aims.”

“What are the aims?” she says.

“Remove Bailey’s ability to trade in government information, or make it more beneficial for him to stay well away from anything secret.”

She screws up her features. “So, after we finish, he still continues to trade in stolen business documents? That’s illegal.”

“And not our concern, Emma. I’ve said before to you, we’re not the police. They stop crime, we stop leaks but keep the bad apples in place in case they’re useful in the future. If we need someone arrested, we’ll call the cops.”

She drinks a mouthful of her mocha and looks serious.

“I know you want it all to be morally clean,” says Riverside. “That’s not what we do. We’re pragmatic, there aren't rules to espionage.”

“There are, though. I’ve read the IPA 2016 from front to back.” Loxby refers to the Investigatory Powers Act, the last British law that defines what His Majesty’s security services can, and cannot do. “It says it all in there.”

“And we are always seen to comply with it,” he says.

“I’m not breaking the law.” Her voice rises but not so other customers can hear it.

He holds his palms up towards her. “I know, chill out.”

“No one says that anymore, Rob.” They both smile. “Tell me about this bloke,” she says. “Bailey?”

“New money, his Dad made it all. He thinks he’s God by the look of the background that GCHQ put together. He’s done some online articles about how good he is at his job. He’s a futures broker.”

“What do they actually do?” she says.

“They guess how the price of currencies will change and use other people’s money to buy or sell them based on those guesses.”

“He likes risk, then?”

“He’d probably say it’s a science.”

Loxby continues with her questions. “What are his weaknesses?” she says.

“Money and women.”

“Single?”

“He’s got a girlfriend, Elodie Baxter. Grew up on New York’s Upper East Side in a well-connected family,” he says. “I thought you didn’t want to be a honey trap?”

“I didn’t say that, this is just background, anyway.”

Riverside drinks, leaving a space of time to let her brain roll on.

“So,” she says. “We need to deter him from getting hold of Government secrets for onward sale?” He nods and she keeps looking at him as she thinks. “How does he get hold of them?”

“There are only three ways to get Government information,” says Riverside. “You pay, you bribe or you threaten.”

“Which one is Bailey going to do?”

“Like anyone just starting out you do it in that order: pay, bribe and then threaten. So, he’ll be paying initially, if that doesn’t work he’ll move on to bribery.”

“We need a plan, then?” she says.

“Go and have your weekend and we’ll start on Monday.”

They talk on until they’ve finished their drinks, then Loxby walks to the tube and Riverside returns to where he parked his car on a side street.

*

There’s no sound inside Sir Bernard’s office on the fifth floor of Vauxhall Cross, the MI6 headquarters.

He pushes his glasses up on his nose slightly and continues to read a report on the rise of new political parties in Bangladesh as the door opens that connects his office to that of Lawrence, his assistant.

“There’s an update from Blackhawk, sir, on Woodville.”

“Thank you, Lawrence.”

“I printed it out for you, sir, and Research Branch provided background on Woodville in case you’re unfamiliar.” The assistant hands Sir Bernard a manila folder. “Don’t forget your tea, sir.”

Lawrence silently moves back to his office as his boss stands up and walks to a pair of dark green sofas set under a double bay window that looks out to the churning dark water of the Thames outside.

He settles in the leather and pours tea from the pot on the table, then picks up the folder and reads Gabby’s daily report about her discovery of Agent Woodville’s dead body in the chateau and the admission by Rose Frossard that she, or someone who works for her, had killed him.

Sir Bernard sighs at the thought of losing people in the field. The number of deaths in the security service is thankfully much less nowadays compared to the past.

In the nineties, when the aftermath of the Cold War was playing out across Europe and Russia was finding its new place in the world, annual agent losses were much heavier.

He flicks over the page to read the background briefing on Agent Woodville and scans the man’s employment record which shows thirty years of steady progress up the ranks of MI6. One of Sir Bernard’s traditions is that he visits the family of fallen agents in the field as there are few people that the survivors can talk to about their partner’s secret job.

He reads that Woodville leaves a wife, Valerie, and two daughters in their twenties. He sees something he didn’t know. The eldest daughter, Emma, works in the security services.

He looks across at her details. She’s been in MI5 for a year, it says in the report, and her operational field name is Agent Loxby.

CHAPTER FOUR

Darkness washes across the countryside of south-eastern France, but Chateau Frossard is bursting with light.

Inside the grand house, the ground floor is alive with bustle and activity. In the gardens, flaming torches mark out the paths that stretch for fifty yards across the lawns. Guests talk and drink and laugh in celebration of the birthday of Rose’s father, Alain Frossard.

When Gabby and Hans arrive in the ballroom, they scan the mass of people before them, all wearing Dior, Prada and Gucci. The spies circulate and most of the attendees seem to be from Europe’s old money families. Many of them have known the Frossard family for decades and are in awe of their standing and connections.

One of the guests, who has studied the family’s history, is keen to share her views with Gabby.

“Alain is the only surviving member of the once extensive Frossard dynasty. Apart from his daughter Rose of course,” she says.

“Rose’s grandfather, Joseph, had been extremely concerned in his later years about the future of the family, as his siblings and their children had all died in tragic accidents or strange circumstances over a period of twenty years. Joseph had also never liked his only son, Alain, and thought him to be a slovenly waster. There were stories about Alain when he was in his twenties and a bit of a ladies’ man, but they’re not all true.”

The woman continues. “When it became clear that Alain would damage the family if he inherited, Joseph changed his will to put the whole Frossard Estate under the control of a trust until Rose’s fortieth birthday, which is in one year’s time. On that day, she will become Comtesse Frossard and the fourth richest woman in France.”

In the woodland that surrounds the chateau, Laravelle slips out of her campervan wearing all black. Her hair is pushed under a beanie. There are black gloves on her hands and a face-mask around her neck, ready to be pulled up if a disguise is needed.

She runs through the night and tree branches catch her face as she moves at speed. In her backpack are twenty CH45s, the standard MI6 listening device, and another ten Z-6 remote video cameras. She spent the afternoon pawing over the floor plans of the chateau and talking to the experts in GCHQ who specialise in monitoring devices. Her challenge is that the chateau is far too big to plant devices in every room, so she has identified the rooms most likely to be used by Rose for Nox Ventura discussions. Laravelle has also surveyed the security arrangements around the estate. The main gates are guarded, as are the gardens, and there are more guards tonight providing personal security for some of the more important guests.

She takes a wide path and climbs uphill to reach the higher ground at the top of the rock face above the chateau. The house sits below her in the night. There’s a fence twenty feet back from the sheer drop and she climbs over it. A slight breeze in the air pushes against her and towards the chasm. Laravelle removes her backpack and pulls out three anchors which she hammers into the ground at the top of the cliff. She laces a climbing rope through the anchors’ eyelets and ties it all off before curving the rope around her body and inching towards the edge. She turns her back and lets the rope take her weight.

She leans out on to the top edge of the rock face. The wind is stronger here and she can feel buffeting causing her to sway as she starts to drop downward. Step by step, Laravelle approaches the chateau’s outside wall.

When she is more than thirty feet down, one of the anchors rises out of the ground slightly and she can feel the rope drop an inch, before coming to rest again.

She pauses and breathes deeply, then continues her descent.

The rear of the chateau is only ten feet from the rock face when she reaches the roofline. The top of the cliff overhangs her position and this allows her to push out from the vertical and swing across towards the roof.

Her first attempt is short and the rope brings her hurtling back towards the rock again, but Laravelle gets her feet placed solidly to stop her momentum and her legs cushion her. She pushes out again over the void, harder this time. She can see a guard fifty feet below her as she swings above his head.

She extends her leg and her right foot just reaches a rise in the stone wall above the edge of the roof. She curves her foot around and gets a hold. The return pendulum force tries to pull her back off the roof and she can feel the tendons in her thigh stretch before she lunges and shifts her weight onto the chateau.

Her foot dislodges a loose piece of wall capping and it falls away to the ground, hitting the grass where the guard had been only a minute before.

There’s no access to the interior from the roof, so Laravelle attaches an L-27 automatic rope calliper to the top of the wall above a line of windows below. The calliper is remotely controlled by voice. It will lower and raise a nylon cord with a stirrup attached on her command. She pushes her foot in and steps off the edge.

“Descend,” she whispers and the calliper slowly lets out the chord so Laravelle is lowered down the outside wall of the chateau.

“Stop.” She is right outside a window towards the back of the mansion. It is ajar to let in fresh air. Laravelle pulls the frame and jumps inside.

Downstairs in the ballroom, Rose is making a beeline for Gabby who is momentarily alone.

“Lady Imogen, let us take this opportunity to introduce you to my business partners,” she says. “Come this way.”

They walk out of the ballroom and into the vast hallway, then across to another reception room on the opposite side. Rose leads them into a smaller but still grand dining room.

“Gentlemen!” she announces to three men who are talking and standing together in a group with drinks in their hands. “This is Lady Harwood.” She indicates Gabby. “These men are the core of our business: Salvatore, Louis and Rafael.” She indicates each of them in turn. Salvatore is tall and muscular, his dark hair has wisps of grey and his brown eyes are kind, whereas Louis is a slight man with glasses and an air of fragility. Of the three, Rafael is the most cautious in his demeanour and his blue eyes show doubt beneath his black hair.

They all shake hands and one of the men pours a glass of champagne for Gabby.

“No Oliver?” says Rose to the men and they have varying degrees of regret and contentment on their faces but don’t say any words.

“Lady Harwood is interested in working with us.”

“I’ve heard your name,” says Rafael. “You’re a cleaner.”

“You’re well informed, Señor.”

“Do we need cleaning services?” says Louis. “We’re not in the game of body disposal, are we?” He is more nervous than the others.

“As we move into more sensitive and profitable areas of business, Louis,” says Rose. “We will come up against more of this sort of thing.”

“We should avoid it. Violence is never the answer.”

“We won’t get our own hands dirty.” It’s Salvatore. “This is about reducing the risk to our business. If someone is going to squeal and you have to choose between removing them or ten years in prison, Louis, I’m sure you’d decide the same way as all of us.”

Louis is quiet but doesn’t look any happier.

Upstairs, Laravelle has her face mask pulled up as she tiptoes along the corridor on the second floor of the chateau. She memorised the floor layout and this door on the left hand side leads to the master bedroom suite.

There is no one around up here in the house, everyone’s attention being on the party downstairs. Her fingers grasp the handle and she twists her wrist. Laravelle leaves the lights off in the room and moves silently to the far side of the super king size bed. She attaches a listening bug to the lamp on the nightstand, then stands on the chair from the dressing table. She palms one of the miniature cameras from her backpack and positions it right up near where the wall and ceiling meet, partly hidden by the ancient and intricate mouldings.

She checks the video picture using the MI6 Theia app on her phone that manages the cameras. She adjusts the angle to give a broader view of the space then slips out into the corridor to plant more devices.

In the dining room, Gabby turns to Louis. “Cleaning isn’t just about dead bodies, monsieur,” she says. “It’s the forensic removal of any evidence that could be used against you, and these days the word forensic has come to mean data evidence as well as physical.”

“Who do you work for now?” says Rafael.

“My clients are confidential.”

“So, how do we know you can do what you say?”

“Rafael,” interjects Rose. “I can vouch for the veracity of Lady Harwood’s services. I had a call from a very good friend of mine, Florin Barbu in Belgrade. He reported to me that he has used Lady Harwood for some time with excellent results.”

Florin Barbu is a master criminal. He was turned by MI6 two years ago who retain him in power to provide intelligence on the Serbian Mafia. Barbu has one son and it’s only the hope that he may be allowed to see his son one day that keeps the man delivering information to support British intelligence in Europe.

“I propose we give her a trial,” says Salvatore. “A couple of jobs then make an assessment.”

Gabby looks dismissive. “Let me explain to you all, you don’t choose me, I choose you. It’s you who has to prove yourselves to me to get onto my exclusive list of clients.”

Salvatore and Rafael laugh and shake their heads, then both take swigs of alcohol.

“Then, no deal, Lady Harwood.” Rafael’s eyes are angry.

He and Salvatore move away and start their own conversation.

Rose turns to Gabby. “We’ll work on them over the weekend.” She touches Gabby’s hand and smiles dishonestly.

Laravelle has one more camera to place on the upper floor of the chateau then her tasks are complete for the night.

This final room is one that Gabby had added to the list at the last moment, as it’s the room where Woodville was killed. Laravelle takes a back staircase up to the fourth floor. The room is right at the front of the house. She walks in silence and goes inside.

There’s a single window with heavy curtains in the centre of one wall. Laravelle keeps the lights off and pulls the drapes open. The moonlight spreads across the room in front of her.

The only furniture, apart from a single wooden bed and an old table under the window, is a wooden upright chair that is placed centrally. This had contained Agent Woodville in the last hours of his life. There are red stains on the carpet around it from his injuries. Gabby had asked Laravelle to collect a blood sample from the red stain, so they have evidence to use against Rose for the man’s murder.

After stowing a clear tube with shards of dried blood in her backpack, Laravelle moves the chair and pulls out the final camera. The Z-6 devices have multiple ways to be attached: they are magnetic, have hooks on one side, and a sticky pad on the other. She pushes it home at the top of the wall to give a view of the room and adds an audio listening device in another corner.

As she finishes, she hears a voice outside in the corridor.

Laravelle waits in the darkness, hoping that the person outside will walk passed so she can make her getaway. But the voice grows louder and two seconds later the door starts to open.

As soon as she realised that they’re coming in, Laravelle had dropped to the floor. There’s just enough space under the bed for her to slide away out of sight.

At first, the stranger doesn’t speak or turn on the light.

Then she hears a man say. “I had no choice, she told me to come.”

There’s silence for a few moments as he listens on his phone.

“I don’t like it either.”

“Yes, there’s money in it.”

“I’ve only got so much patience. Once I build up contacts I can run it myself without her sticking her nose in.”

“Yeah, sure. Speak later.”

The words stop. Laravelle waits for him to leave the room but there are no further sounds.

She becomes conscious of her breathing.

The silence ticks by.

She can feel something on her face.

In the dimness of the moonlight, she can see something moving slowly near her.

The spider stops before raising one leg onto her cheek then continues its journey across her face. Time seems to stutter along, achingly slow as she feels the creature on her skin. Eventually, it moves on and over her hair.

She moves her leg and it makes a scraping noise on the floor. Fingers grab at her ankle and she is dragged out from under the bed. She springs up to her feet.

“Who the…,” he begins to say before she rams her fist into his stomach and he bends forwards. Laravelle raises her foot and kicks him on the side of the head. The man is sent into the wall. Laravelle isn’t finished yet and punches him in the face twice. He falls to the ground but starts to get up again.

She pulls the door handle and runs. The rope calliper that she came down on is over the third set of windows on the right hand side.

She counts the doors, then slams into the one she reckons is the correct one to meet the calliper. Her fingers fumble against the window frame as she tries to open it.

Descend!” she screams and the calliper reel starts to rotate and drop the nylon cord downwards.

The man is at the door now. He runs over and gets a hand on her arm. Laravelle turns and kicks at his groin until his grip loosens. It gives her the half second she needs to open the window and jump out.

The stirrup is there, in the air. She tries to get a foot in it but fails and her body continues its descent. At the last moment, she reaches her hand out and her fingers curl around the stirrup. The nylon takes her weight.

“Double speed descend!” she screams and the cord accelerates. She hits the ground and runs for the woodland, fifty yards away.

One guard sees her and gives chase. Laravelle reaches the woods and plunges into the greenery but doesn’t look back.

She can hear the guard behind her. Her legs are draining of energy.

She starts to turn her head to see where he is when a fist hits her on the cheek. She is pushed crashing into a tree trunk with her shoulder. The pain rises in her face and he comes for her again.

Laravelle reaches around her back and she feels the handle of her military knife. She swings it around as he runs at her with all of his force. He doesn’t stop as the blade slips silently into his stomach.

The two of them tumble into the undergrowth and hit the ground. All of his weight pushes down on her and his face comes up to hers until it is an inch away.

Then, stillness.

His eyes are open but she can see they’re not moving.

She hears the blood rise in his throat.

It trickles out of his mouth.

And she can feel it dripping down slowly onto her face in the darkness.