Rat Trap by Felicity Radcliffe

 Journalism is in Benedict’s blood. His father and grandfather were Fleet Street hacks, but the similarity ends there. Benedict doesn’t chase bylines. His name never appears in print. He’s a freelance investigator who dwells in the shadows. Editors commission him to cover stories deemed too risky for their own reporters, and Benedict sells them secrets from the new Axis of Evil, confident they won’t disclose their source.

Benedict runs at dawn on Hampstead Heath. He’s fast, so is surprised when someone gains on him. As the man draws level, he slows his pace to match Benedict’s. He breathes evenly and talks easily.

‘Listen carefully, Benedict. I have a proposition for you.’

‘How d’you know my name?’

‘I know everything about you. You own a flat on Merton Lane and a house in Mojácar, Spain. Both inherited. You have girlfriends in England and Spain. Both married. You hate your name being shortened to ‘Ben.’ Shall I continue?’

‘No. What d’you want?’

‘To gift you a valuable information source inside Russia. Codename – The Newcomer. She seeks to bring down those who destroy her country, so will share information you could never obtain elsewhere. Your job is to disclose it.’

 

 

Benedict never sees the man again, but the encrypted information starts flowing through the agreed channels. At first it’s fairly innocuous stuff he could have got from others. He realises The Newcomer is testing him, and vice versa. He triple checks, then sells. Gradually the material becomes more sensitive. Editors start taking notice. Benedict hikes his prices.

Months later, there’s a new development. Apparently Benedict has proved his worth. It’s time for the big reveal; information too sensitive to share via the normal channels. Benedict must fly to Spain, visit the Oficina de Correos in Mojácar at the appointed time and open PO Box 53, where he will find a mobile phone, which will ring. The Newcomer will be on the line.

Benedict drives from Almería airport to the Parque Comercial in Mojácar. The key is in its designated place, among the tourist trinkets. Benedict pockets it, walks the short distance to the Correos and opens the PO Box on schedule. The mobile phone rings, and he answers.

‘Hello? Is this…?’

‘The Newcomer. Of course. Do you speak Russian, Benedict?’

‘No. Sorry.’

‘That’s a pity. If you did, you would know the word for “Newcomer”.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Soon, you will. The Russian word for Newcomer is “Novichok”.’

Agony ignites his skull. His stomach convulses in response. Vomit surges down his chin, soaking his shirt. The phone drops from his hand. He pitches forward, already unconscious. His skull hits the tiled floor with a nauseating crack.

The Newcomer listens to the customers scream and scuffle as they rush to help the doomed journalist. She imagines some might perish too, as they try in vain to save him. As she hangs up and redials, this thought makes her smile.

‘It’s done. Game over.’

‘Good. These vermin must be eliminated.’













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