CHAPTER 37
Knox should have spent the two-hour flight from London to Stockholm deciding if he believed Bennett really was who she said she was. He knew the CIA had a handful of female agents in the field, but for one to show up in London without any word making its way to Leconfield House via the inter-agency grapevine was very odd.
However, two more immediate issues stopped him from focusing his attention on the woman sitting next to him. The first was that he was not a very good flyer, especially when hungover. For too many of Knox’s formative years planes had been omens of death, their presence a sign to run, hide, and hope for the best. And once he’d signed up to the army, he never felt more vulnerable than when he was airborne. While other soldiers would relish the momentary reprieve from action, Knox spent every minute in the air on edge, knowing all it would take was one well-aimed rocket or engine malfunction to kill him instantly or send him falling thousands of feet to his death.
He’d only crossed the Atlantic twice after the war. Both trips had been to make nice with counterparts in American intelligence, and neither had gone particularly well.
The most recent trip had been for a joint conference with MI6 and the CIA and FBI eighteen months ago. Washington was in the grip of a long, hard winter, and after almost ten hours in the air Knox’s BOAC Comet was forced to spend another one circling Washington airport in a blizzard before air traffic control let the plane land. Knox had spent ten hours flying backwards in one of the rear-facing seats in the plane’s first-class compartment and avoiding making polite conversation with his fellow passengers, and the whole time circling Washington staring unblinkingly at the bright silver engine tucked under the wing that was barely five feet from him.
The conference was equally unpleasant. In fact, Knox was convinced the two American agencies were running a double act designed to discourage further visits from their British cousins. His meetings with the CIA were short and curt, and his round-tables and seminars with the FBI were interminably long and dull. His evenings were swallowed up with dinners and receptions full of people telling him how great a town Washington was.
Two days later, he was back at the airport for his overnight flight to London. The blizzard had lasted the whole time he’d been in Washington. He’d been on the last flight in, and he was getting the first flight out. As he sat in the departure lounge, watching the crew board the plane that would take him back to London – another Comet, painted white and silver, with a black slash reaching back from the cockpit along its sides, as if pointing the way home – his only hope was that the in-flight meal would be served early so he could get some sleep and start to forget the whole trip as quickly as possible.
The second thing that kept running through his head was where Bennett’s fear of discoveries like Bianchi and Moretti’s – and inventions like Pipistrelle – could lead.
The world of science fiction was full of societies where malignant forces watched over downtrodden populations, eternally hunting for traitors and the not quite loyal enough. But not the real world.
Spying, like war, had strict rules of engagement, and they were followed by most sides, most of the time. People were regularly trailed or tapped by intelligence agents, but only when necessary, not simply out of interest. Neither America, who probably had the money to attempt some kind of mass surveillance programme, nor Russia, who probably had the manpower, had ever tried something so ambitious. Even the deep, penetrating reach of the Stasi, Europe’s most invasive intelligence operation, was achieved more through myth and rumour than actual, active surveillance.
Would real science change those rules?
Knox instinctively wanted to dismiss Bennett’s worries. But he knew that he couldn’t. He knew deep down that in the wrong hands something like Pipistrelle could give someone the power to create the world that scared Bennett so much. A world where every act, thought, or statement was recorded and scrutinised. He’d almost said as much to White and Holland himself, back when they first discussed using Atlas, and it was only Holland’s reassurances that had calmed his concerns. But Holland was no longer in charge of MI5 or its technology.
Knox had spent the last fifteen years peeking through proverbial keyholes and curtains in the name of national security. But when he wasn’t, he had no interest in the private lives of others. Everyone carried secrets with them, hiding their true selves or things too personal or difficult to explain to others. Knox’s own life was full of secrets. He’d been expertly trained to hide them. But what if he couldn’t?
As the plane started to descend over what seemed like a thousand tiny islands towards Stockholm, he wondered who would want to find out every little detail about him if they had the chance.
CHAPTER 38
Knox and Bennett’s flight landed at Bromma airport shortly after two o’clock, and by three they were in Stockholm. They took a car from the airport, and Knox spent the whole journey into the city craning his neck to check the driver’s rear-view mirrors. It was highly unlikely they’d been followed from London, but he wanted to be sure.
Stockholm looked to Knox like what would have happened if one of Britain’s ancient capitals like York or Winchester had managed to hold on to their title a few hundred years longer. The narrow streets, looming spires, and stone arches felt familiar, but he was keenly aware that he was in foreign territory, and that he was being guided through it by someone he knew almost nothing about.
In his younger years, Knox had hated the Swedish. Or, more precisely, he’d hated anyone who had remained neutral during the war. As far as he was concerned, being neutral was the same as collaborating. If people like the Swedes weren’t on the Allies’ side, then they were on the Nazis’. One of the first lessons Holland taught him was to let go of such hard and fast views of the world. He’d reminded Knox that Britain had avoided its fair share of fights it probably shouldn’t have – self-preservation may not always seem noble, but it’s a feature of life. Holland also told him that Sweden had secretly provided vast amounts of intelligence to the Allies throughout the war, which, given the country was surrounded on all sides by Nazi-controlled territories, was an incredibly brave thing to do.
Knox and Bennett made their way straight to the Hotel Reisen, where they spent the last hour nursing cups of dark, strong coffee in its salon. Knox also spent the time gently testing Bennett. He had to admit he was impressed by her.
When they arrived, he let the waiter guide them to a small, private booth in the corner of the salon, which Bennett turned down in favour of a table next to the bar that gave them a clear view of both the salon’s side door and the hotel foyer. After half an hour, he’d suggested taking turns to stretch their legs. She told him he could take a walk if he wanted, but she was going to stay where she was. And, when he asked her why she was so sure this was where they’d find Valera, she’d explained that the Swedish security service was closer to the KGB than to MI5 or the CIA. It was a super-agency that covered every aspect of the nation’s security, from espionage and counter-espionage to basic policing and dignitary protection. Like any other major organisation, a combination of inertia and efficiency had caused it to fall into certain habits. And one of those habits was accommodating international guests at the Hotel Reisen.
Knox finished his third cup of coffee and was about to ask Bennett if she wanted another when a flicker in her eyes stopped him. He glanced down the length of the salon into the hotel foyer and saw what had caught Bennett’s attention. Irina Valera was being escorted across the lobby by a tall, blond man.