Chapter 1996: Chapter 830: Poisonous Insects Everywhere_6
"If what he asks you to do conflicts with the interests of the English people?"
Allen didn’t avoid the question.
"I’ll resign," he said, "Then I’ll find other ways to continue supporting her."
Sara looked at Allen, unsurprised.
She had known for a long time.
Or rather, when she received the first "anonymous donation" in the Liverpool basement, she knew there was no such thing as free ammunition in this world.
The only difference is, some people sell you ammunition hoping you’ll perish.
While Allen—at least so far—was helping her stay alive.
"The transaction continues," McTavish said, "People will arrive in Liverpool in a week. The exchange condition is only one."
He looked at Sara.
"When the England Parliament reviews the Scottish currency independence issue in the future, all of your people—no matter how many—must vote in favor."
Sara extended her hand.
"Deal."
October 25, 1997, South Bank, London.
Graham stood at the window of the MI6 headquarters, watching the construction site of the Shard Building across the river.
A red light blinked at the top of the crane, like the sleepless eye of some giant beast in the fog.
The door opened.
The person who entered didn’t knock. It was Ellis, the former Middle East station chief he had pulled back from retirement.
"Found it." Ellis placed a brown paper bag on the table, "That ’Allen’ in Liverpool, real name Allen McKenzie, graduated from the London School of Economics in 1989, entered the Foreign Ministry in 1991, recruited by MI6 in 1993, and was stationed in Belgrade. He resigned in 1995, and has no formal employment records for four years since."
Graham didn’t open the paper bag.
"Who is he working for?"
Ellis paused for a moment.
"In 1996, his Swiss account received a transfer of four hundred thousand British Pounds, from a shell company in the Cayman Islands. The shell company’s upper-level shareholder is registered in Delaware. The Delaware company’s legal advisor—is a Washington law firm specializing in CIA outsourcing contracts."
Graham’s fingers paused at the edge of the paper bag.
"The Americans have planted someone under our noses, in the ’English Congress’."
"Yes," Ellis said, "And they’ve been there for two years already."
Graham didn’t feel anger. Anger required energy, and all his energy was used to keep this building from collapsing.
"Why wasn’t this reported earlier?"
"I just found out as well." Ellis’s tone was calm, "The archives of those who resigned in 1995 were marked ’sensitive,’ and regular access couldn’t open them. I needed to apply for special authorization, which took three weeks."
Graham closed his eyes.
"There’s something worse," Ellis said, "Allen McKenzie uses an encrypted satellite phone every Wednesday night to dial out. The signal jumps seven times, the final destination—Mexico City."
The room was silent for a long time.
"Does he know we’ve discovered him?" Graham asked.
"Probably not. But with his training background, he couldn’t have not left a backdoor."
Graham walked to the window.
The tower crane’s red light was still blinking.
He wondered, how many Allen McKenzies this city’s night concealed.
And how many were "sensitive files" even he, the Director of MI6, had no authority to open.
"Continue surveillance," he finally said, "No arrests, no alarms. Every word he transmits should be backed up."
"And then?"
Graham didn’t answer.
And then? What qualification does the British government have to say "and then"?
Scotland was already lost, Mexicans were setting up listening stations in the North Sea, Americans were embedding spies in England’s domestic political movements, and his intelligence agency needed three weeks’ special authorization just to query a four-year-old archive.
"Then, wait for the new Prime Minister to take office," he said, "Let these matters be his headache."
October 26, 1997, Marseille, Warehouse No. 17.
Costa’s body was discovered the next morning.
He sat in his office, the posture the same in life, back to the door, facing the small window overlooking the dock area. The bullet entered from the back of the head, without an exit wound.
The killer used subsonic rounds, no one in the warehouse heard a thing.
Samir stood at the door, watching the blackened hole on the old man’s graying hair, not going in.
He knew who did it.
He also knew why Costa hadn’t accepted "Scorpion’s" terms last night.
The old man said, the underground order in Marseille must be maintained by the people of Marseille.
This sentence is worth five hundred thousand Francs—no, worth one life.
Samir turned, speaking to the few confidants behind him with iron-blue faces:
"Send Mr. Costa to the morgue. Notify his family."
"What about the Albanians? Should we—"
"No." Samir interrupted him, "It wasn’t the Albanians."
He paused.
"Contact that African. Tell him, starting today, I’ll take Marseille’s goods. The proportioning, as he suggested."
The confidants exchanged glances.
Samir didn’t explain.
He didn’t need to explain. Costa guarded the bottom line all his life, and fell dead on it. Samir didn’t want to die.
As for the underground order of Marseille—let it rot to the core.
