Counterfeit Conscience Read online

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  Counterfeit Conscience

  ISBN # 978-1-78430-960-2

  ©Copyright Helena Maeve 2016

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright January 2016

  Edited by Sue Meadows

  Pride Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2016 by Pride Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Pride Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  Shadow Play

  COUNTERFEIT CONSCIENCE

  Helena Maeve

  Book five in the Shadow Play series

  On the brink of retirement, a spy will risk all.

  The writing’s on the wall. Will Rowe has no illusions about retaining his post as the head of the largest Section field office in South America. Private contractors, some more lawful than others, already see to most of their interests. It’s only a matter of time before Will himself is made redundant. He’d like to think he’s made peace with the inevitable, but when a figure from his past offers one last chance to make a difference, Will can’t resist.

  Caught between his duty to the agency and his commitment to protect his operatives, Will must persuade the man who nearly wrecked his career to give up the one and only constant in his world—revenge.

  Ignacio was a low-grade runner for the infamous Macias cartel the last time he and Will spoke. Now he is the head of the family and a direct beneficiary of MI6 cost-cutting measures. Will knows that approaching such a man without his superiors’ knowledge or approval is a perilous undertaking, but he doesn’t expect his body and heart to become forfeit. As events spiral out of his control, Will finds himself at the mercy of an old lover intent on awakening desires he long thought suppressed.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  IKEA: Stitchting Ingka Foundation

  The Magus: John Fowles

  Sharpie: Newell Rubbermaid

  Malboro Golds: Philip Morris USA

  Bentley: Bentley Motors Limited

  Glenlivet French Oak: Pernod Ricard

  James Bond: Eon Productions

  The Daily Mail: Daily Mail and General Trust

  Skype: Microsoft Corporation

  Blackberry: Blackberry Ltd.

  Twitter: Twitter Inc.

  Needful Things: Stephen King

  Converse: Nike, Inc.

  Rolex: Rolex SA

  Peter Pan: J.M. Barrie

  Beretta: Beretta Holding

  Rambo: Orion Pictures

  Michelin Guide: Michelin

  Chapter One

  Mistakes littered the apartment. They sat in ashtrays and swam in the amber dregs of red-rimmed glasses. They smelled of stale cigarettes and liquor sweat, hanging in the shut-in air like reproving ghosts of last night’s indulgences.

  The wine bottle Will had peeled off before passing out in the small hours cracked underfoot as soon as he made to stand from the bed. Jagged shards sprayed the hardwood floors. He swore a string of long, polyglottal profanity and clutched the injured limb. The mattress dipped and sighed beneath him. Curses did no good. Taking time to pry out the splinters from his soles was a delay he could ill afford.

  Naturally, he missed his train. And the next two after that.

  Running up the stairs at the metro station two blocks from the office was out of the question with bandaged toes and a pounding hangover. Will settled for an awkward saunter, squinting behind dark shades at the silver ribbon of the road.

  Squat villas flanked the two-lane route, parked cars choking traffic to a surgically narrow stream of billowing exhaust fumes and sizzling chassis.

  Sao Paolo was too damn bright in the morning. Worse, the ocean breeze had dispelled the cloud cover during the night, doing away with all hope of much-needed rainfall.

  “Good morning, sir.” Luis, the night watchman, buzzed Will through the metal gate. “Looks like we’re in for another scorcher.” He was a reedy figure, in his twenties, and cleared for only the most basic tasks.

  So far he’d been spared by the cuts that had befallen the rest of the office.

  It might have been his wide, indefatigable grins. They seem to burn brightest in the early hours.

  Will made a noncommittal sound. “Here I thought marveling at perfectly ordinary weather was a British pastime…”

  “You’re rubbing off on us, sir,” Luis teased gamely. “Oh, your eight o’clock is here.”

  “My what?” Will straightened with the news, aching shoulders drawing back of their own accord.

  Luis nodded to the black sedan parked under the fig tree at the rear of the yard. It was a nondescript car with local plates. It didn’t even come with tinted windows. The interior probably smelled pine fresh, unused.

  Right. His eight o’clock.

  Will’s stomach sank. He trudged slowly up the crumbling stone steps, the echo of his footfalls ringing out against barren white-washed walls. On the first floor, Cleo was already clacking away at her desk. She had pinned up her hair today, but corkscrew curls still escaped the bun to dangle over the ruffled collar of a demure navy dress.

  She looked up when he lingered on the threshold, but her gaze softened as she took in the shades. “You look terrible. Another bender?”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Cleo pursed her lips. “He’s already in.”

  “Jennings?”

  She nodded.

  Will wrested off his jacket and tossed it to the empty desk opposite Cleo’s.

  Six months ago, the office had teemed with life. They’d thought themselves lucky when they only lost five people last December. The first round of pink slips had been a challenge to accommodate, but not a fatal blow. The department had swapped tasks around, adopted a creative approach to cost-cutting. They made use of local talent whenever possible.

  Then the second round came, guillotining what was left of their operation.

  Even spies had to keep to a budget. And when that budget became sheer pittance, the writing on the wall no longer seemed scribbled in lemon juice.

  Will tugged a hand through his hair, wishing he’d thought to comb it back before he left the house. Straw-pale strands drooped into his eyes despite his best efforts to look presentable.

  “I thought the meeting was set fo
r eight-thirty,” he complained to Cleo. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “I did.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Will to check his phone before he left. He made to do so now, patting the pockets of his jacket until he stumbled onto the device. The screen refused to light up.

  “Out of battery?” Cleo guessed. She sighed and held out her hand. “I’ll charge it. Fancy a cuppa?”

  The thought made Will grimace. “Don’t suppose you have any tequila in your desk?”

  “Only for emergencies.” And a visit from their superiors didn’t qualify.

  Cruel mistress or not, Cleo did fetch him out a folded tie. It was the same woven, pin-dot pattern Will had worn the last time top brass had decided to check in. He wasn’t entirely sure it belonged to him.

  Cleo caught him peering at it dubiously. “Need help putting it on?”

  Of course she would assume as much. Will shook his head. “I’m not entirely helpless.” The skinny strip of cotton-silk blend was slippery in his hands, but he’d been tying his neck since he was in public school. Windsor knots were second nature by now. “How do I look?” he asked, flipping down the collar of his shirt.

  Cleo pushed her cat-eye glasses up the bridge of her aquiline nose. “You’ll do.”

  It wasn’t the vote of confidence he’d been hoping for, but it would have to do. With a deep breath and a Geronimo attitude, Will seized the door handle and boldly marched into his office.

  He didn’t like anyone in his space when he wasn’t there to make sure they kept their hands to themselves. It was vital to his methods that the organized chaos remained undisturbed.

  Still, it might not have been entirely senseless to have Cleo tidy up a bit before his slovenly ways were exposed to the higher-ups. Too late now. Boxes of case files and tapes and sundry gadgetry lined the walls. Files crowded every flat surface.

  “Jennings! I could’ve sworn we scheduled you for nine,” Will started, affecting that overfamiliar cordiality bred into graduates of certain elite boarding schools back home. “Wretched of me to keep you waiting, I know…”

  He was halfway across the room when he saw his guest rise and perform an about-face.

  Though they both sported a long, aquiline nose and a portentous sense of gravitas, his guest was not Jennings. He stood in the yellowish shafts of daylight that slanted through the gaps in the venetian blinds like the Ghost of Christmas Past, at once real and imagined, present and recalled.

  It wasn’t until he spoke that Will allowed himself to acknowledge that he was well and truly there.

  “Hello, Will. It’s been a long time.”

  “Karim.”

  Two years back, the name would have been brimmed on his lips with genuine pleasure. No longer. Will swallowed in a dry throat, tasting last night’s cheap wine and this morning’s toothpaste. His stomach threatened to upend bile into the back of his mouth.

  “What are you…? How did you get in here?”

  “Your staff obliged me. Please. Do sit down.” Karim gestured to the high-backed chair on the other side of the desk as though they were in his office and not Will’s.

  As though Will were his guest.

  Will resisted the impulse to obey. It wasn’t so long ago that he would have thrown himself into whatever task Karim laid out before him on the sheer assumption that it was the right thing to do. Muscle memory was easy to fall back into, yet even hung over, Will was in no position to ignore recent events.

  “I thought you were on the lam,” he shot back, rooted to the spot.

  “And I thought you were sober these days. It seems we’re both to be disappointed.” Karim cocked a bristly black eyebrow. “You won’t sit? Suit yourself.” He didn’t wait for permission to resume his seat before the desk. Coffee steamed in a porcelain cup before him—Cleo’s doing, no doubt.

  Will spent a long beat staring at the back of Karim’s perfect skull, toying with the thought of putting him in a headlock and wrestling his former colleague to the floor. Wondering if he could summon reinforcements before Karim vanished into thin air as he had done before.

  Word had it he’d eluded Section for nearly a year now. However it was he’d managed that feat, he was obviously not working solo anymore.

  Reluctantly, Will forced his feet into motion. He ignored Karim’s sly smile as he reclined in his swivel chair. The necktie choked him. He dismissed the thought of pulling it off and wrapping it around Karim’s neck until his guest choked on his own breath.

  As satisfying as it might prove in the moment, murder would earn him no medals. It would be a waste of a perfectly good tie.

  Section wanted its traitors returned to its tender hands alive.

  “Rough night?” Karim guessed.

  Two years away from the daily grind of paperwork and constant stress had softened the sallow dent of his cheeks and eased the bags under his eyes. He didn’t look the part of a turncoat fugitive. He still wore his hair neatly cropped, his jaw smooth and clean-shaven. Even his white shirt was neatly pressed, collar stiff over the lapels of a beige summer suit.

  By contrast, Will looked like a pauper.

  He felt like one too. He sidestepped the question. “I thought you were out of the game. You left with such fanfare…”

  “An unfortunate spectacle. And an unnecessary one.” With his large, killer’s hands, Karim daintily picked up his cup. “If GCHQ hadn’t seen fit to—liquidate their investment, shall we say?—I wouldn’t be here. You could be sobering up for your meeting with Alistair, as scheduled.”

  The knowing curve of his smile pricked at Will’s patience.

  “Who told you about that, I wonder? Your new paramour?” Oh, yes. I heard all about you shacking up with an enemy defector. He told himself it wasn’t jealousy that kindled in his gut, but disappointment. They had worked together ten long years and never once had Karim done anything so blatantly thoughtless.

  Treason was one thing, but treason for the sake of some SVR turncoat?

  Karim smiled thinly. “I understand your circumstances are soon to be just as precarious.”

  There was no point in asking how he knew. Even now, even retired and repudiated by the higher-ups, and wanted by two international espionage agencies, Karim still had his sources. He’d been in too deep for too long not to weave his web through the tangled snares that riddled Section headquarters.

  And if that wasn’t the case, then one glance around the barren villa that once housed a vibrant center of operations—the hub of Section activity in South America—would be enough to tip him off. Stacks of documents had been pulled from their filing cabinets, to be shredded or black-penned for shipping to the motherland. Decades’ worth of tapes still had to be converted to digital or destroyed. Will had been working from the same rickety desk, propping up the broken leg with masking tape, for two years because they couldn’t afford anything better than IKEA.

  “It’s been a long time coming,” Will replied, nonchalance souring on his tongue. Leaving Sao Paolo at last should have come as a relief. He had given Section his best years. He’d paid his dues.

  He was ready for retirement.

  “Twenty-two years, wasn’t it?”

  “Twenty-five last week,” he corrected, mirroring Karim’s smile. “You missed the fiesta.”

  “I didn’t occur to me that I might be invited…on account of being persona non grata among our friends.”

  Will waved a hand. “Oh, we wouldn’t dream of letting that stop us here.”

  This wasn’t London. They still had some leeway in how they dealt with defectors.

  “I hope you’d at least buy me a drink before you turned me in.” Karim’s eyes gleamed, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners. The years had been kind to him, lightly silvering his hair and adding a faint, rheumy cast to his gaze. The allure of intellect, of unpretentious hard work still clung to him in spite of his crimes.

  But it was his crimes that had brought them to this moment—Karim, uninvited, in
Will’s office and Will wishing he’d loaded the revolver he still kept in his desk drawer. Beneath the fond memories and personal betrayals, there was no two ways about it.

  Karim was an old spy, inured to all the tricks in the spy handbook.

  And he had turned against his own.

  “Did you kill my agents?” Will wanted to know. The time for pleasantries was over.

  Karim swallowed down a sip of black coffee. “That’s what I’m here to discuss.”

  “Did you?” Will pressed. He’d heard that his office wasn’t the only one hit. He knew that Turkey and Europe had seen their fair share of losses. But he was the one who’d packed bodies into crates and shipped them home. He was the one who had to write the script for the families, to explain that their sons and daughters had been the victims of unfortunate roadside accidents.

  An absolute tragedy—all those young lives lost for the sake of teaching English abroad or providing medical care to those who could not afford it. Or simply for corporate development.

  Karim heaved a breath, a docent at the end of his tether. “Believe me, I didn’t retire from the game so I could contract with the enemy.”

  “You only did it to shag him?”

  Karim narrowed his eyes. Frost seeped into his voice when he spoke. “Section has pursued an aggressive policy of silencing former employees in recent years. It was their mistake to assume we would not retaliate. This should be a concern to you. It won’t be long before you are one of us.”

  You’re wrong. Something in Will rebelled at the sheer implication. He would retire—or be retired—and he would do so quietly. He’d find himself a quiet corner of English countryside somewhere and raise chickens and courgettes. He would read books.

  He’d never finished The Magus.

  “You’re too young to retire,” Karim went on pensively. “Don’t you wonder why they’re so eager to put you out to pasture?”

  “I don’t know that they are.” It was doubtful, but there could be another assignment waiting just around the corner. At the very least, a desk job back in London.