Guy Fawkes Day

by KJ Griffin

  ***

  London, District Line Eastbound: 10:00 a.m.

  Normally Darren Chapman hated the tube journey from his Fulham home to the Docklands offices; this morning he was glad of the time to think. He had worked till the early hours of the morning, piecing together stories that were streaming into the newsroom about the volatile Asian stock markets. In all the furore, there had been little time to check out Al-Ajnabi, and the few calls he had been able to make had led nowhere.

  But Chapman was not upset; on the contrary, he enjoyed the challenge, and his pride was flattered that such a rich and important man had chosen to set him a trail of riddles to follow. Even better, Sophie had suddenly changed her mood. She had called him at the newsroom the night before to apologize for her frostiness; she would see him at the Folly Bridge mansion for Al-Ajnabi’s dinner soirée on Wednesday evening.

  Victoria. The train filled up. Chapman avoided the fidgety eyes around him by staring at the journey planner just above his gaze. Absent-mindedly, he began to read the names: Plaistow, West Ham, Upton Park, East Ham—Easterby! The connection jogged his mind. Suddenly, the link between Easterby, British Defence Systems and Ramliyya hit him hard. Christ, how could he have missed something so obvious? Ramliyya was one of BDS’s biggest clients. He had tried unsuccessfully three times yesterday to contact Easterby by phone, focusing, as he had been doing, on the chairman’s army days, but the association between BDS and Ramliyya had completely passed him by. There could be no doubt about it now—he knew that Al-Ajnabi had something on Easterby’s past, something the special envoy wanted him to check out for himself. The question was, what?

  Flushed with the first taste of success, Chapman re-evaluated the other leads he had followed yesterday while Circle Line passengers squashed him ever further down the carriage. Enquiring after O’Shea, he had also called the Home Office and the Guardian’s Irish office. But there hadn’t been much to find out. O’Shea was very nearly at the end of his sentence but still serving his lifer in Long Kesh for the murder of Private Mitchell. At least that seemed to prove one thing: O’Shea counted for nothing in Al-Ajnabi’s games.

  Max Clayton was the last name he had investigated. The old NCO from the army information office had been helpful at first on the phone. Yes, they had a file on Second Lieutenant Max Clayton, or Captain Clayton, to use the officer’s proper rank on leaving the army. Clayton was an Oxford Mathematics graduate—the coincidence had aroused Chapman’s curiosity. Clayton served nine months in Northern Ireland, the rest of his time in Cyprus. He completed his three-year commission in May 19…. and….

  The jolly NCO’s voice on the other end of the line stopped at that point. Chapman asked for clarification.

  ‘Fraid I don’t have anything more I can tell you after that, sir.’ The voice became more wary. ‘Information’s restricted access only. That’s it as far as Captain Clayton goes, I’m afraid.’

  At Monument Chapman got off and started walking towards Bank. As he scuttled along the windswept, underground passageways, he thought about Clayton again. Restricted access? Why would Captain Clayton’s record be restricted access? Only a couple of answers sprang to mind: Either Clayton had done something sensitive, something that was still covered by the Official Secrets Act, or the then Captain Clayton now belonged to a more secretive organization: SAS? MI5? MI6?

  By his journey’s end, Chapman was feeling a lot happier. At least he could show Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi that he had done his homework. And presumably, there would be more clues at supper on Wednesday, as a reward for his diligence.