“So, who’s the English guy?” Taylor eventually asked, sipping a glass of much-needed wine.
I explained. John Byfield was a senior official at Border Control, Heathrow airport, and I’d first met him nearly two years back when Special Branch was involved in an investigation into allegations about a pair of suspected corrupt Border Control officials who’d been paid to turn a blind eye to certain people when they passed through passport control. Fortunately, only diamonds and jewellery destined for bent Hatton Garden jewellers had been at issue, but our concern had been, in the current febrile state of high anxiety about terrorism, what if it had been ricin or anthrax or materials for making dirty bombs being smuggled in? We’d nailed the two officials involved, both of whom’d gone down for several years, and Byfield and I had kept in touch, meeting up occasionally to share a beer and harangue each other about our respective football teams. He had a reputation as a joker and, had I known he was in Boston, I might have guessed our reception was a ruse. In a way, I was impressed with the stunt he’d pulled. It’d certainly made me squirm, though I was never going to admit to it.
After a couple of drinks, we were both feeling much more relaxed. Taylor was now looking as serene and as gorgeous as only she can. It was 1.09 am in London but only 8.09 pm here, and neither of us felt tired. Adrenaline was still pumping. I moved closer to her.
“Do you know,” I said softly, smiling at her, “I’ve never had sex in a Boston hotel room with a married woman before?”
“Does this mean you’ve had sex in a Boston hotel room with an unmarried woman?” She feigned righteous indignation. “I’m shocked.”
“How tired are you?”
“I’m not.”
“Good. Finish your wine. We’re on honeymoon.”
T H R E E
Thursday
We’d spent the last three days being tourists and had had a wonderful time. We’d forgotten everything about our respective jobs and our focus had been purely on enjoying golden time together. We’d done a lot of walking around the city centre, taking in all the sights, and there were plenty of them. Boston’s a city which has remained true to its historic heritage, successfully preserving its impressive history whilst merging it with contemporary developments. So, for example, in Downtown Boston, the small State Street Church stands proudly amongst skyscrapers and fits right in, and the site of the 1770 Boston massacre stands right at the entrance to the financial district. We’d toured Faneuil Hall, which had links to the American War of Independence in the late eighteenth century. We’d walked the trail Paul Revere had ridden to warn of the British coming and also visited the Oyster House, where the famous Tea Party protesters had started out from. We’d enjoyed walking around Harvard Square in Massachusetts’ Cambridge, looking around its many bookshops, plus strolling along the banks of the Charles River watching the rowers. We’d toured the campus of historic Harvard University and had been open-mouthed looking at the scroll of Harvard’s alumni. We’d taken a Tuesday night cruise from the harbour and had enjoyed looking at the lights of the city skyline whilst bobbing on the dark waters. Yesterday, we’d taken the train an hour up the coast to Rockport and strolled around Bearskin Neck. One of the curious points about Rockport was that, up to as recently as 2005, it had been a ‘dry’ town, no alcohol served or sold anywhere inside the town limits. Even now, very few restaurants served alcohol.
For Taylor, one of the highlights was discovering the Copley Plaza, a glitzy mall containing several high-end shops and boutiques, where her credit card experienced some degree of grievous bodily harm, and also Newbury Street, Boston’s equivalent to Oxford Street, with its diverse range of shops and cafés.
What we particularly enjoyed, though, was the North End, the Italian section of the city, and having some of the finest Italian food we’d ever tasted. The smells of pastries, freshly baked breads and spices assaulted our senses as we strolled along Hanover Street. We both lamented the fact there was no similar Italian section in London. The way history blended with the new made me think, in many ways, Boston was reminiscent of London, though without London’s increasingly ugly glass and stainless steel skyline.
Today, we were taking things easy. Late morning we’d taken a slow stroll around Boston Common and watched the duck boats on the lake, and then had coffee in the famous Cheers bar, on the edge of the common, which unfortunately looked nothing like it does on TV. I’d long nursed an image of hearing the assembled drinkers shouting out “ROB” as I entered and seeing Sam Malone and either Diane or Rebecca behind the counter, but I’d been sadly disillusioned.
It was now two forty in the afternoon and Taylor had signed up for a relaxing session of female pampering. She was going to be spending some time in the sauna, then she was going to be massaged, manicured, pedicured, groomed and generally treated like Cleopatra, so I decided to go for a long walk around the city.
I walked back across the common, through the crowded Downtown Crossing area, past Faneuil Hall and across to the harbour, where I spent a while mooching around the tourist trap shops, feeling pleased I’d resisted the temptation to splurge. I was trying to decide between a coffee and a beer (I mean, it was now long past five back in England) when I looked across the harbour towards Charlestown, and then I remembered reading in the hotel tourist guide about a pub called the Warren Tavern which, it was claimed, was the oldest in the country, right by the harbour and said to have been frequented by George Washington and Paul Revere. I thought it’d be a tragedy to be so near to such a historic bar and not pay at least one visit, so I caught the harbour ferry, landed close to Old Ironsides, and walked along to the tavern.
There was a lively atmosphere inside. The tavern was filled with late afternoon drinkers and people just finishing work and having a quick drink before going home. I could see a young couple over in the corner playing acoustic guitars, trying to make themselves heard over the lively and congenial atmosphere.
I bought a Sam Adams lager and sat at the bar sipping it whilst watching Serie A Italian football, Juventus versus AC Milan, on the large-screen television. Eventually I drained my beer, which, for an American ale, was rather good, and asked for another.
Looking around, my police antennae told me a drug deal was going down at the table by the fruit machine, as I’d spotted furtive glances, paper money and two small packets of white powder hastily changing hands when the two men’d thought no one was looking. I’d clocked it, but I was off duty, and this wasn’t my jurisdiction, so I ignored it.
As the game reached half time I decided to return to the hotel. I walked across the bar to the toilet. As I did, I glanced into the adjoining bar and instantly saw something which jolted my eyes wide open and made me draw a deep breath. Jesus.
It felt like a mild electric shock. There was somebody I knew at a table by the window, eating dinner with a young woman. He was concentrating on his meal and didn’t see me looking at him for the split second it took me to clock who he was. I instantly stepped back and took another deep breath. I could feel my heart racing.
I took a very sly glance into the bar, just in case I’d made a mistake. I looked closely for a few seconds, but there was no mistake. It was him.
John McGreely.
*
John McGreely was the son of Cormac McGreely, a celebrated IRA bomber. Up to several weeks ago, it’d been widely believed both Cormac and John, plus Cormac’s wife Sinead, had perished in a car crash fifteen years ago. But it’d been established none of the McGreelys had died in that car. Exhumation and DNA evidence had told us the victims had been a young couple who’d been shot and killed before the crash, which had also taken the lives of a Welsh couple travelling in the opposite direction. Police still didn’t know who’d been the driver of the car which had instigated the accident.
My investigations had eventually led me to discover Harry Ferguson, an ex-MI5 agent and someone who I’d thought at one time was a friend, had also been involved in ensuring the McGreelys had remained out
of sight for fifteen years. After I’d come to this realisation, I’d gone to Ferguson’s flat to bring him in for questioning and found him preparing to leave for a trip to France. John McGreely and his mother had been waiting in Dover for him.
Inside Ferguson’s flat I’d come upon Cormac McGreely. Anti-terrorist police arriving outside had spooked McGreely and I’d jumped him whilst he was distracted. In the ensuing struggle with McGreely, Ferguson had laid me out, hitting me hard across the back of my head with the butt of my own gun, though not before I’d fortuitously broken Cormac McGreely’s nose.
John McGreely had been taken into custody four days earlier, after being found by a lock-up garage he was renting, where I’d located three bags containing several key ingredients used for making bombs, including Semtex. But he’d had to be released after an eyewitness refused to make a statement implicating him. By the time the witness had recanted, John McGreely and his family had disappeared, tipped off, I now believe, by Ferguson.
Ferguson had somehow managed to slip away and, despite an intensive search for him, had evaded capture. John McGreely had slipped out of the country and gone into hiding somewhere in France.
But here he was, sitting in a bar just outside Boston and calmly eating dinner with a friend, seemingly without a care in the world.
*
I returned to the bar, finished my drink, left money to cover the tab and went outside to phone John Byfield at Homeland Security. I explained where I was, whom I’d seen and why he was wanted in the UK, describing him as a credible threat to US national security.
“Oh, wow, thanks for this. We’ve an office nearby; I’ll get a couple of operatives to meet you outside the pub. They’ll be there soon.”
I explained, if McGreely left, I’d follow at a discreet distance and get back to him.
Four minutes later, a car pulled up and two Homeland Security operatives emerged. I made myself known to them and described who was inside, explaining again why he was wanted in the UK. One of the operatives went inside and walked through the bar to confirm the person I’d described was still there. He was. McGreely would have no reason to guess he’d just been made by a US government official.
Homeland Security said they’d take it from here and follow him when he left, back to wherever he was staying. I’d be contacted so I could go along and make a formal, positive identification of John McGreely, as he was certain to be travelling under a false identity, then he’d be arrested and extradited back to England.
*
I arrived back at the hotel just after seven, excited at the events I’d set in motion. Taylor’s pampering had finished, and she looked like a goddess. For obvious reasons I couldn’t tell her too much, but I told her not to be surprised if I got called away sometime soon. She asked why.
“Put it like this. If something I think’s likely to happen comes off, you’ll have an eyewitness account of quite a story for the Evening Standard next week.”
Her eyes lit up, but she didn’t pursue the line of questioning.
We went to a nearby seafood restaurant for dinner. I’d no idea what they’d done to Taylor’s hair, but it was even more flowing and lively. We’d just finished eating and were discussing where to go on Friday when my phone sounded. It was Byfield.
“You know the Four Seasons hotel?” he asked. “Meet me there.”
I agreed I would. I told Taylor to go back to the hotel and stay there, as it was possible I’d be out some while.
*
The Four Seasons hotel was a few blocks away, opposite Boston Common. I walked fast and arrived at 10.20 pm.
I entered the hotel and, in the lobby, I saw Byfield sitting by a coffee table against the wall, glancing at the New York Times. There were three other Homeland Security operatives in attendance, including the two I’d met outside the Warren Tavern. Byfield introduced me to James O’Dell, who was in charge of the team.
“Dion and Carey tailed him to here,” O’Dell told me. “He entered about thirty minutes ago, on his own, and went up to his room. I waited for you because we’ll need you to positively identify him for the record when we pull him in, if he’s who you say he is.”
“Oh, it’s him, alright. You know what name he’s using?”
“I don’t. Let’s find out, shall we?”
We crossed the hotel lobby, which was high-ceilinged, spacious and floored in marble, recently polished. It was very tastefully lit and decorated, with strategically placed expensive antique chaise longues, portraits on the walls and bright glistening chandeliers. It would take serious money, hundreds of dollars a night, to stay here. The hotel receptionist, a smiling Asian woman dressed in the hotel uniform of dark blue skirt and jacket, with a gleaming white silk cravat tucked inside her blouse, smiled as we approached. She asked if she could help us.
O’Dell showed ID. “Homeland Security.”
I took out my Special Branch ID, purely for effect, but she didn’t look at it.
“Man who just entered about thirty minutes back?” He described John McGreely.
The receptionist nodded.
“I wanna know what name he’s registered under.”
She pressed a few buttons on her console and scrolled down. “Peter Redlands, visiting from the United Kingdom.”
I smiled. Redlands was one of the aliases his father had used.
“How long’s he been staying here at this hotel?”
“Two weeks and one day,” she said after looking at her screen for a moment.
“What’s his room number?”
“Suite 221.” She also confirmed he was alone.
“Thanks.”
We walked back across the lobby to the three waiting operatives and Byfield. O’Dell addressed the three men.
“Okay, I want all the exits covered, and I want someone up on the second floor watching 221. I’m gonna get them” – he nodded towards reception – “to ask this guy to come down to the lobby. We’ll get him” – he jerked his head towards me – “to make a positive ID, so there’s no doubt, then we arrest him. All clear?”
Everyone nodded. O’Dell exuded authority and operational efficiency when he spoke.
He then told Byfield to check with the INS, the Immigration and Naturalisation Service, to ascertain when a Peter Redlands had arrived in America and where from, and to request his passport details. Byfield nodded and wandered off.
“Okay, men, let’s get it done,” O’Dell ordered.
I was told to keep out of sight whilst the Homeland Security team went into action. After a brief confab, one man went towards the lift and the other two disappeared in opposite directions. O’Dell walked over to reception and spoke to the Asian woman again. After a few seconds, she made a phone call, and, soon after, the hotel’s night manager appeared. O’Dell showed ID to him and then the man made a call of his own.
O’Dell came over to where Byfield and I were watching intently, Byfield having done what O’Dell had asked. “They’ve asked Redlands to come down to reception to sign for something. He said he’ll be right down.”
Thirty seconds later, O’Dell spoke into his handheld radio.
“Just left his room, walking to the elevator.” He turned to Byfield and me. “You two, out of sight, now.”
Byfield and I crossed the lobby and were shown into an office just off the main lobby area. I realised I was excited. John McGreely had been involved in two bombings several weeks back, Semtex having been used in at least one of them, and it was believed the McGreelys had acquired it through Harry Ferguson. Getting John McGreely back to the UK to face trial would be a significant step towards closing the case. There would then be the delightful prospect of him joining his father in prison.
We watched the lobby via the hotel’s CCTV. A number of seconds later the lift doors opened and the same man I’d seen eating in the Warren Tavern, looking every inch the well-heeled man of the world in fawn-coloured slacks and an open-collared white polo shirt, strolled languidly across to the reception
desk, like he had nothing to hurry for. He spoke to the receptionist, who went to the room behind the desk and brought out the night manager.
At the same moment, the INS forwarded the passport details of Peter Redlands that Byfield had requested. He’d flown in from Charles de Gaulle airport, Paris, fifteen days ago. I looked at the passport picture. Despite different glasses, hair combed back and different-coloured eyes, probably by contact lenses, there was no doubt it was John McGreely.
Whilst Redlands and the manager were speaking, O’Dell approached the reception desk with the three Homeland Security operatives, showed ID to Redlands and told him he was being taken into custody on suspicion of entering the USA on a false passport. He started to protest his innocence, stating he was a British national and demanding to know what was happening. None of the Homeland Security team responded. Redlands pushed one of the men away and attempted to leave, but O’Dell and another man grabbed him by the arms, slammed him hard up against the reception counter, pinned his arms behind his back and led him away, still vehemently protesting.
We’d waited fifteen minutes when Byfield’s radio sounded. He listened.
“O’Dell wants you in the hotel manager’s office.”
I was led along a plush, garishly lit, beige-carpeted corridor towards a door marked Hotel Manager. There was a guard at the door who admitted me after being told who I was. I went through the outer office and into the exquisitely decorated main office, which was only just smaller than the lobby. Redlands was sitting with his back to me. Even from behind I had no doubt who it was.
I could see O’Dell sitting in the manager’s chair. There was an EU passport on the desk, probably Redlands’. He looked at Redlands when he saw me.
“Someone’s here to see you, Peter,” he said calmly.
“Really?”
He turned around and his eyes opened wide when he saw me. He quickly reverted to his blank expression, but, in that moment, there was no doubt that we’d clocked each other.
The Real World- the Point of Death Page 3