‘Martin says you have amnesia,’ he says.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘But you remember me, right?’

  ‘I’m sorry, no.’

  He frowns. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Everything about me before the car crash is a blank. I don’t remember working for the NCA and I’m afraid that means I don’t remember you either.’

  ‘That’s mind-blowing,’ he says. ‘But you know who you are?’

  ‘I know that I’m Phil Dodds and that I was playing the part of Rob Johnston, but that’s only because that’s what I’ve been told. Those names aren’t in my long term memory.’

  ‘Why don’t I take you along to your office? See if that brings anything back.’

  ‘Worth a try,’ you say, but you figure that if McMullen’s face hasn’t triggered anything then your desk probably won’t do anything either.

  He takes you and Waller up to the third floor where a long corridor stretched ahead, broken by reinforced doors with card readers. Every thirty feet a camera tracked the corridor. Even the lighting was clinical, bright with no shadows. He leads us through a sequence of access points. Each door requires a tap of his badge and sometimes a code. Some areas have double-door airlocks - one door closes before the next opens. The deeper you go, the fewer windows there are. You pass open-plan office space where analysts work in near-silence at banks of dual monitors. World maps and organisational charts cover the walls. Every desk has a privacy screen. Conversations are low and focused. There’s no laughter, no phones ringing. People glance up just long enough to assess you, then go back to work. Farther in, the décor shifts. There are meeting rooms with frosted glass, secure rooms with solid walls and no windows, a TECHNICAL OPERATIONS sign beside a door that requires biometric access. Another room is labelled SENSITIVE SOURCE UNIT with an armed officer standing outside. He’s in plain clothes, but the bulge under his jacket is obvious.

  You turn into a corridor with thicker doors, each with a number instead of a name. ‘This is the operation room,’ says McMullen, swiping you in. It is set up like a command centre. A long table occupies the centre, surrounded by rolling chairs. A wall of screens displays live data feeds - maps, surveillance stills, scrolling case updates. A digital clock shows UTC and local time. There are more than a dozen people working and they all look over at you. You don’t recognise anybody but most of them are nodding, smiling and even waving. They know you.

  McMullen takes you to a windowless office with a desk, a computer terminal and a filing cabinets. There’s a notice board facing the desk peppered with photographs, printouts and post-it notes. You recognise Dmitri Karpov and Svetlana Sokolova immediately but the other faces on the board mean nothing to you. ‘This is your domain,’ says McMullen. ‘But you were hardly here once MI5 got their claws into you.’ He smiles at Waller. ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ says Waller. He nods at you. ‘Does this bring anything back?’

  ‘Nothing,’ you say. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No need to apologise,’ says Waller. ‘It was always a long shot.’

  McMullen closes the door and stands with his back to it. ‘So we are no closer to knowing where the money is?’ he asks.

  ‘Phil moved it out of the holding accounts but his amnesia means we’ve now lost track of it.’

  ‘All of it?’

  Waller nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘But this is a temporary glitch, right? Phil’s memory will come back?’

  You nod. ‘They say so, yes.’

  ‘So we wait. We can’t get the cash but they can’t either. Eventually your memory will return and we’ll get their ill-gotten gains. And we’re still on the case, obviously. We’re hoovering up millions every week, closing down their accounts and seizing assets. The operation is very much an ongoing one.’

  ‘The issue is that the Russians know that Phil, AKA Rob Johnston, has taken their money and obviously they want it back,’ says Waller. ‘They grabbed him once and while he managed to get away they’re clearly not going to stop.’

  ‘Did you hear what happened to Peter Wilkinson AKA Thornton?’

  Waller frowns. ‘No, what?’

  ‘He died in hospital early this morning.’

  ‘I didn’t think his injuries were life threatening,’ said Waller.

  ‘They weren’t,’ says McMullen. ‘It looks as if something was injected into his IV. An air bubble or something toxic. We won’t know for sure until the postmortem this afternoon. We’re checking CCTV around the hospital, as soon as we know for sure what happened we’ll let you know. In the meantime, Phil can lie low here. We have custody suites and you saw how security conscious we are. Phil will be perfectly safe here.’

  ‘In a cell?’ you say. ‘You want me to stay in a cell?’

  ‘Well it’s not The Ritz, I’ll give you that. But the canteen is pretty good and there’s decent Wi-Fi.’

  ‘The problem is that we don’t know when his memory will return,’ says Waller. ‘That would be a decent solution if we knew for sure that he’ll have his memory back in a day or two. But what if it’s weeks? Or months? He can’t stay in a custody cell for ever.’

  ‘So what’s your plan?’ asks McMullen.

  ‘We’re going pro-active, we’re sending him to Dubai to meet with Karpov and Sokolova. He’s going to explain that he’s lost his memory but that he wants to help them get their money back.’

  ‘Ballsy,’ says McMullen. ‘Do you think they’ll buy it?’

  ‘If we move quickly, sure. Would a guilty man willingly put his life on the line? It wouldn’t make any sense. But if they don’t buy it, we’ll pull him out immediately.’

  ‘We can help, manpower-wise,’ says McMullen. ‘We’ve got some very good people in Dubai.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer but we’ll be taking the SAS with us,’ says Waller. ‘He’ll be in good hands.’

  CHAPTER 36

  The BMW takes you back to Thames House. You sit in silence, your mind working on overtime. Who killed Peter? It had to be the Russians, obviously? But why kill him? He was just a thief who had been paid to get Fish into the house. He didn’t know where the money was, only you know that, even though the memory is currently out of reach. Killing him didn’t serve any purpose, not that you can comprehend. Revenge, perhaps? Do the Russians just want to kill everyone involved to leave a message - steal from us at your peril.

  Waller escorts you into the building and up to Amar’s room. He has taken off his lab coat and loosened his tie. He picks up your phone off his desk and hands it to you. ‘Okay, so your phone is up and running,’ he says. ‘Every call and message you make will be monitored and recorded. It will also pick up any conversation within about six feet, depending on the ambient noise. So you can fix up an extraction code with Martin and once we hear it, you’ll be pulled out.’

  ‘You say “we” but it wont be you listening in, will it?’

  ‘Slip of the tongue,’ says Amar. ‘In fact because it’s an overseas job we’ll be running it through GCHQ. They’ll be on you twenty-four-seven and in constant touch with our surveillance people here in Thames House. The reaction will be as close to instantaneous as makes no difference.’

  He passes an Apple Watch to you. ‘This is linked to the phone but it also acts independently, as a transmitter and as a GPS locator. There is every chance that they will take the phone off you, but you might get lucky and get to keep the watch.’

  You look over at Waller. ‘Have I used an Apple Watch before?’

  He nods. ‘All the time. It’s never been an issue in the past.’

  ‘Yeah, well I’ve never stolen three billion dollars from them before.’ You examine the watch carefully.

  ‘Our modifications are undetectable,’ says Amar.

  ‘Yes, well they said the Titanic was unsinkable, didn’t they,’ you say.

  ‘If I’d been involved in the building of the Titanic, it would have been,’ he says. ‘The bulkheads didn’t go up all the way to the main deck, which was a major design flaw. I would have extended the watertight bulkheads higher which would have contained flooding to the forward sections, keeping the ship afloat even after the iceberg strike. Also I would have instituted a double hull with steel rivets instead of the iron ones that they used.’

  You laugh. ‘You’ve clearly given it a lot of thought.’

  ‘I’m a problem solver,’ he says with a smile. ‘It’s what I do.’ He goes over to his desk and opens a drawer, then takes out a plastic bag containing several fifty pence pieces. He opens the bag and gives you a coin.

  You examine it - there’s nothing unusual about it, it seems to be a regular fifty pence coin.

  You look at him quizzically and he grins. ‘My own design,’ he says. ‘You can activate it by squeezing the two faces with your finger and thumb. You won’t hear anything but you will feel a click to let you know that it’s working. For the next forty-eight hours it will transmit your GPS position and we’ll know exactly where you are.’

  ‘Is it a bug as well?’ You ask.

  Amar shakes his head. ‘Unfortunately not. But it’s a useful fallback distress beacon.’

  ‘Do you have any preferences for an extraction code?’ Waller asks.

  ‘Have I used one before?’

  ‘Several times,’ says Waller. ‘whenever you were worried that your cover might be close to being blown.’

  ‘What did I normally use?’

  ‘You were most comfortable with “I need to be going now” because that’s something you would say. It’s only valid when you say “now” at the end.’

  You nod. ‘Well that’s easy enough to remember,’ you say.

  ‘And it’s a perfectly natural thing to say,’ says Amar. ‘On the off-chance that you find yourself saying it by mistake you leave off the “now” and you’re all good.’

  Waller flashes me a reassuring smile. ‘All good?’ he asks.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Any questions?’

  Actually you have dozens of questions, possibly hundreds, but you appreciate that now is probably not the time to be asking them so you shake your head. ‘I’m good.’

  Waller pats you on the shoulder. ‘Right, let’s get you on the road then.’

  CHAPTER 37

  You use your phone and a Rob Johnston credit card to book your flight and a room on the QE2 under Waller’s guidance, then his car drops you in Vauxhall Bridge Road, close to Victoria Station. You flag down a black cab and climb in. You have a small backpack which has a change of clothes, a washbag and a charger for your phone.

  The cab whisks you to Heathrow, where check-in and security is just as smooth as the ride. Less than ninety minutes after getting into the cab you are in the Emirates Lounge. Inside, the noise of the terminal vanishes. The space smells faintly of espresso and warm pastries. There are soft chairs, low lighting, the slow drift of piano music. A bartender polishes glasses behind a marble counter, offering champagne or something stronger if you want it. You don’t, the last thing you want is alcohol in your system so you ask for a soda water with ice and lemon. You find a seat by the window, watch a rain-shower drift over the runways, and sip your soda water.

  You look around you. Waller says you’ve made this trip dozens of times but you have no memory of the lounge. You wonder if Waller has people there to keep an eye on you but you don’t see anyone who looks as if they work for MI5. You smile to yourself at the thought that, of course, they wouldn’t look as if they were on surveillance, the whole point is that people who do that job never stick out. They blend into the background.

  When the announcement comes for boarding, it’s not shouted, just spoken quietly over the intercom. You gather your bag and head down to the gate, where business passengers are ushered into a separate lane that feels more like a private entrance than a queue.

  The cabin smells of new leather and cold air. Your seat is more like a self-contained pod - wide, reclining, with polished wood panels and a touchscreen that glows softly. A flute of champagne appears before you’ve fastened your belt, followed by a warm towel and a menu that reads more like a restaurant list than an in-flight service. You take the menu but pass on the champagne. Outside the window, Heathrow glitters under the wing lights, raindrops streaking the glass.

  Take-off is smooth, almost silent. The city falls away beneath the cloud, and the cabin lights dim to a soft amber. Dinner arrives on white porcelain: lamb with saffron rice, served with silver cutlery. You eat slowly, half watching the flight map on the screen - a glowing line arcing over Europe, across the Black Sea, then down towards the Gulf.

  Your seat is a flat-bed which means you can get a half decent sleep if you want to, but there’s no way you can lie down and close your eyes. Your mind is in a whirl. You are literally flying into the lion’s den and you’re still not sure how Waller managed to talk you into it. You personally have nothing to gain by putting your life on the line. Literally nothing. It’s all right for Waller, if it comes off he’ll get the credit for a job well done and the British Government gets to keep billions of dollars, if it ends in tears Waller can just shrug and say that maybe you weren’t up to it.

  The cabin slowly goes dark and most of the passengers stretch out and fall asleep but you just stare ahead of you, trying to find some sense in what you are setting yourself up for.

  Just seven hours after you boarded the plane, the pilot announces that he is about to start the descent into Dubai. You look out the window: a blur of gold sand, then glass towers rising from the haze. The aircraft banks gently, the sea flashes silver, and the runway stretches out ahead. The wheels touch down with barely a bump. Some passengers at the back of the plane applaud.

  You don’t have any luggage other than your backpack and immigration is quick and efficient, and within forty-five minutes you are outside the airport in the heavy, shimmering Dubai heat that seems to wrap itself around you. Everything gleams. Polished marble floors, glass walls, spotless signage in Arabic and English. The sun is blinding, bouncing off every chrome surface and pane of glass. Taxis wait in a long line, each car as spotless as the next. You climb into the back of a Lexus and tell the driver, “QE2 Hotel, Mina Rashid.” He nods once and pulls away. The air-conditioning blasts cold air, and for a few moments you just watch the city slide by - highways as wide as runways, skyscrapers with impossible angles, and the desert visible at the edges of it all like an old memory.

  The Burj Khalifa dominates the skyline, impossibly tall and sharp, pointing up like a knife. You know that at 828 metres it is the tallest building in the world, but you have no memory of ever having seen it before.

  You pass the Dubai Frame, a massive architectural structure shaped like a giant picture frame, the World Trade Centre, endless malls and towers with names that sound like brands rather than buildings. It’s all new, all polished, all relentless. Then the landscape begins to shift - fewer towers, more signs for the port. The sea comes into view, glinting in the heat haze. And then you see her - the QE2. Even surrounded by container ships and cranes, she stands apart. The black hull, the white superstructure, the Cunard red funnel - an echo of the past in a city obsessed with the future.

  At the port gate, security is precise but courteous. You hand over your passport, answer a few polite questions, and a guard waves you through. The car circles the dock and stops at the foot of a covered gangway. A concierge in a navy blazer and peaked cap greets you with a practised smile. ‘Welcome aboard the QE2, sir. You’ll be checking in at the main lobby.’

  You pay off your taxi and follow the concierge inside. The air becomes cooler and quieter, somehow more dignified. The reception desk sits where the purser’s office once was, flanked by brass railings and framed maritime prints. A woman behind the counter hands you a keycard embossed with the QE2 crest, the edges of her accent polished by years of international service. A steward appears to guide you through the narrow, carpeted corridors. His shoes make no sound. The walls are lined with photographs of the ship’s glory days - Southampton in the sixties, New York harbour, Hong Kong, Sydney. The lighting is soft and warm, a deliberate contrast to the harsh sun outside. You can almost hear the echoes of passengers past, laughter and clinking glasses, the rustle of evening wear on polished decks.

  Your cabin is halfway along the starboard corridor. The steward opens the door, steps aside, and lets you in. The room is small but perfectly appointed - wood panelling with a rich, honeyed finish, heavy curtains framing a circular porthole, a bed turned down with crisp white linen. There’s a faint vibration through the deck, though the ship hasn’t moved in years. The steward wishes you a pleasant stay and closes the door behind him. You stand there for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of the ship but then flinch when the phone rings. You pick up the receiver and you know who it is before they speak. Only one person knows where you are.

  ‘How was your flight?’ asks Waller.

  ‘It was fine.’

  ‘And your room?’

  You are slightly reassured by the fact that Waller clearly has eyes on you. But only slightly. ‘It’s good.’

  ‘Look out of the window. Though I suppose I should call it a porthole.’

  You step to the porthole and look through it. You can see the marina, hundreds of small craft dominated by half a dozen massive superyachts.

  ‘Can you see the two big boats that are moored together, off to your left? One is steel and it has a sharp bow that looks as if it could cut through concrete. The other is ivory and gold.’

  ‘I see them,’ you say. They’re impossible to miss.

  ‘So the grey steel one is Volchok. It means Little Wolf. It’s owned by Dmitri Karpov. He measures everything in tonnage and firepower and he wanted his boat to have the feel of a warship. The decks are all brushed titanium and smoked glass.’ There was a black helicopter crouched on the aft pad, and beyond it, a swimming pool the size of a small lake, the water so clear it looked digital.

 

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