You Think You Know Someone

by J B Holman

  ‘Of course they’re in league,’ confirmed Tenby. ‘This Stone guy and Foxx, in it together. No doubt.’

  ‘There’s no evidence to confirm that yet,’ reasoned Hoy.

  ‘Sometimes you don’t need evidence, take it from me!’ retorted Tenby, demonstrating his greater experience in matters of this kind. The debate rolled on until Storrington lost patience with conjecture. He cut to the chase.

  ‘What’s the nearest town to their last sighting?’

  ‘Cheltenham,’ confirmed Hoy.

  ‘I can get an extraction team on standby, if you don’t want to use the police,’ offered Brekkenfield over the speaker-phone.

  ‘We’ve got that covered,’ said Storrington, unintentionally marginalising his ailing colleague whose role it was to recruit, train and deploy teams for exactly this purpose. ‘As soon as we find him, he’s finished.’ That conversation was finished. He opened another file and continued. ‘Now, onto Tactical Scenario Planning. Is the PM still vulnerable? Have we got Oxford sown up? We need the Bodleian to be tied down tighter than a barrel. I want to review the plans.’

  ‘Up to you, sir, but . . .’ The voice on the phone tailed off.

  ‘But what?’ demanded Storrington.

  ‘We’ve got that covered.’

  An hour later, Storrington started to believe him.

  The DPM was home. The phone rang. It was Bettie.

  ‘We need to meet. This evening at my place.’

  ‘No can do,’ said the DPM. ‘I’m entertaining guests tonight.’

  ‘Anyone interesting?’

  ‘No one that concerns you.’

  ‘Monday then.’

  ‘Maybe. Tomorrow is better for me. Sunday, in my office. What’s it about?’

  ‘Your future.’

  ‘I think my future is quite secure, thank you. I’m definitely the man everyone needs to know right now. I’ve had the PM tell me I’m indispensable, every Cabinet Minster sidling up to help me, more Civil Service mandarins than I can count wanting to do beauty parades and the PM-SSS all over me seeking my favour: Storrington, Hoy, Parker and Tenby all baying for my time. I seem to be the man of the moment.’

  ‘Exactly. The man, but only of the moment. You need to turn opportunity into actuality.’

  ‘So, what do you want to see me about?’

  ‘The big reveal. I have all the numbers back. On Monday, I’ll tell you how we will change history.’

  ‘OK. Monday. I’ll send a car.’

  The conversation in the Five o’Clock had become heated in the Spectre Room, as senior meetings often did.

  ‘Of course he’ll make an attempt at the Bodleian. He was seen at Upper Slaughter. That’s no more than 30 miles away. He left the South Coast not because he was running, but because he was heading for the PM’s next public engagement,’ reasoned Brekkenfield with all the passion his flagging body could muster.

  ‘No way. He’s on the run,’ said Tenby, like it was a statement of the obvious. ‘He failed, he fouled up and now he’s trying to get away. It was last night the car was spotted. They could be in Scotland by now.’

  ‘This is not some terrorist cell that took a pop and then decided to lay low; this is a hit man on a mission. A hit man trained by us. He has some reason for wanting the PM dead and that reason still stands. I fear he’ll go ahead with his mission,’ asserted Hoy, frustrated at the seeming naivety of his colleague.

  ‘Then cancel it; cancel the Bodleian appearance,’ said Brekkenfield, more through frustration than tactical necessity.

  ‘Can’t do that,’ said Storrington.

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  ‘I can, but I won’t. Our job is to protect the PM as he goes about his business - and that is what we will do.’

  ‘Well, don’t blame me if he’s dead by tea time,’ said Brekkenfield, as a parting salvo.

  ‘Actually, I will.’

  10

  Saturday Night

  ‘The Prime Minister is going to die tomorrow, unless we’re there to stop it,’ said Foxx.

  ‘That’s a little hard to believe,’ replied Julie. ‘Half the army and all of the Secret Service will be there. He’ll be untouchable; no one will get close.’

  ‘They don’t have to. Tomorrow the Prime Minister will end his own life.’ Julie sighed in disbelief. ‘He will. Poison,’ asserted Foxx.

  ‘What? You mean everyone at the lunch will be poisoned?’

  ‘No, just him.’

  ‘Just him? Really? No-one else? The assassin will pose as one of the highly vetted kitchen staff and lace the PM’s antipasto with arsenic, with no one noticing and no chance of the wrong person getting the wrong plate? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘No. The assassin will be miles away. The trap is set. It’s already done.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You need four pieces of information. One: When the Koreans wanted to be rid of the leader’s troublesome cousin, they persuaded some innocent girls to spray what was supposedly harmless water in his face as he approached the check-in desks at Singapore Airport. They were told it was for a reality prankster show and that his wife had set it all up. They were innocent, but it was deadly poison and he died. That’s not what’s going to happen here, not exactly. But they are using a patsy in the same way.

  Two: The Bodleian is also hosting an international table-tennis tournament. The PM is a fanatical table-tennis player and won’t miss the opportunity to show off his skills, especially against the French.

  Three: The top table at lunch, the one that the PM and other special dignitaries are on, will have special champagne, a gift from the French Government. Only the top table have it and everyone sitting at the top table will drink it.

  Finally: Watch these YouTube clips of the PM at public occasions.’

  He showed her random news clips of the Prime Minister at public functions. In one, the PM put his hand in his pocket, then raised his hand to his mouth and coughed; then another of him putting his hand in his pocket, raising it up again and laughing; then at a speech with his hand casually in his pocket, then his hand in front of his mouth; another of him hand in pocket and then drinking from a bottle of water.

  ‘You see?’

  She didn’t. ‘Well, and this is a real secret - this is the most secret thing I will tell you. The reason he does that is because he’s taking drugs; beta blockers to be precise.’

  ‘So what’s such a big deal about that? It’s heart medicine, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes and no. It’s anti-anxiety medication, which in turn helps the heart. The PM gets so nervous at public occasions that he has to take beta blockers to calm his nerves. They are very small tablets, ten milligrams each, he has a special dispenser in his pocket. That’s his secret. I mean, taking anti-anxiety meds, it’s not the trait of a strong, forthright and gallant leader, is it? If the Press ever got hold of that, they would crucify him. It’s a secret between him and his doctor.’

  ‘How do you know then?’

  ‘Research. I’m very thorough.’

  ‘So? I still don’t get how he’s going to die.’

  ‘Simple. He will play table-tennis. To give him maximum reach, he will remove his jacket, which will be eagerly grabbed by a civil servant, who is the patsy and will have been told, apparently by his wife through her supposedly high-ranking Civil Service messenger, that the PM has put the wrong dispenser in his pocket and it needs to be switched. They won’t say what it’s for, only that the PM needs it. The PM will then take the new artificial beta blockers, but they won’t kill him. He’ll go in to dinner and drink champagne with his colleagues at the top table. When the false beta blockers mix with the elements found only in champagne, they will react with each other and boom, his stomach will literally explode and Goodnight PM.’

  ‘How do you know he’ll take beta blockers?’

  ‘First public appearance after being shot at, TV cameras everywhere and a big speech after the lunch? He’ll need them for sure.’

  ‘
So, how do you know he will drink the champagne?’

  ‘It would be a slight to the French Government if he didn’t. They already don’t like us and the PM is not going to want to inflame a diplomatic incident. Anyway, he likes champagne.’

  ‘So tell him not to, or tell the police to tell him not to.’

  ‘I will, as a last resort. But I want to intercept the dispenser switch first. And find out who set it up. That will give us a lead. If I can’t do that, I will phone with an anonymous tip off and just hope they take it seriously. But I really don’t want to publicise his need to take drugs. Not helpful right now.’ Julie thought for a while, balanced it all up in her mind and spoke.

  ‘So, I’m going to need a very big bowl, a lot of water, a gallon of soap and a really big pig.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Hogwash. It’s all hogwash. The truth is, you want to go there to shoot him and you’re going to implicate me in some devilish and devious way I haven’t even thought of yet. I know I have to go along with it so you don’t decapitate my family, I don’t want to, but I can take all that. But you lying about it just pisses me off.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘it’s all in here.’ He threw the Risk Assessment document at her. She didn’t even read it.

  ‘Just because hogwash is written down, doesn’t make it any more likely that it is going to happen.’

  ‘You clearly don’t know how Government works!’ replied Foxx curtly.

  And the conversation was over.

  Darkness was falling. The Jag glistened under the carriage lights that hung strategically on the wall of the magnificently restored mews house. The policemen checked the credentials of Nickolas Morgan-Tenby and his wife. Moments later the DPM opened the door.

  ‘And you must be Charlie. What a pleasure! I’ve heard so much about you. Do come in. Can I take your coat?’ He was gracious and kind, in a well-rehearsed and over-polished manner. He ushered them both into his well-appointed living room and offered them drinks.

  ‘Gin and tonic for me,’ said Tenby with the confidence of an experienced bon viveur, ‘and a pina colada for the wife, if you have it; otherwise any fruit juice will do. She’s not a big drinker! More’s the shame.’ She smiled obediently.

  ‘How do you like your G&T?’

  ‘More G than T. It’s more of a G with a splash.’ This was the launch pad for an overlong diatribe on his wife’s G&T creating ability. ‘Every night I have a G&T, I mean every night for the last eight years. Nine times out of ten – perfect. But then, when you least expect it, bam - a concoction from hell. I’m sitting there in my study, I work every night, just checking emails, tidying up after the day . . . y’know how things are. And my little angel sits in the corner looking for all the world like a perfect pixie. I take a sip, and Jesus Christ! What is this?’ He re-enacted the scene to avoid any confusion. Charlie smiled. It wasn’t a great story; and she’d heard it before - many times - but she knew the pleasure it gave her husband to tell it and had practised her reaction to compliment his story perfectly.

  ‘So what do you do, pour them away?’

  ‘No, never. Waste good gin? Not likely! I repair it. Unless she puts . . . what was it you put in it the other day? . . . nutmeg wasn’t it? I don’t know where she gets these ideas, but it keeps romance alive doesn’t it, babe?’ She reached out and held his hand to show solidarity.

  The DPM was finding this conversation awkward and difficult. He looked for some interesting diverting question to ask Mrs Tenby, but women were still mostly a mystery to him. A suitable question did not find his lips before Nickolas took out his buzzing phone and read it.

  ‘Disaster!’

  ‘What?’ said the DPM, fearing for the life of the PM.

  ‘I have a perfect G&T in my hand and I have to go back to the office. Now that really is a tragedy!’

  ‘What?’ she said softly. ‘We have to leave now?’ Charlie was more than aware of how rude that would be.

  ‘No babes, only me.’ He turned to the DPM. ‘I have to head back to the office. It’s bedlam since last Thursday, I’m sure you can imagine. All hands on deck. I’m gonna be hours at the office, maybe all night. The PM has a big gig in the morning and we’re going over plans to keep him safe. He might still be under threat so we have to make sure he’s well protected.’ He took a gulp of well mixed G&T and put down the glass. ‘Would it be alright if Charlie stayed? She can get a cab home, but I’m going to have to take a rain check on this one.’

  No sooner had the DPM agreed, than the door shut and the Second-in-Command of the country’s most powerful security agency had left the building.

  Charlie and the DPM looked at each other, each feeling more embarrassed than the other and neither knowing what to say.

  The DPM was good with people, but not with women; and Charlie was a very attractive woman, and someone else’s wife, in his house and a stranger. He was not prepared for this. She sat there and looked awkward. She knew she should offer him some advice or talk about his fashion but didn’t know how to get into it. He looked for a safe place to begin, a question that would help the conversation flow, a simple, trouble-free question to get this already awkward evening started.

  ‘So Charlie,’ he asked, ‘which university did you go to?’

  Tenby revved the engine, waited for it to settle and engaged drive. He slowly slipped the F Type along the cobbles of the mews, waiting for the phone to connect.

  ‘Hello darling,’ he said with boyish excitement. ‘I got away from Charlie and the DPM. I was going to stay longer but I thought, What the hell? I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.’

  She spoke. He laughed. She spoke again, he replied.

  ‘No, I can’t wait either. Oh, and I have a present for you. Well, more for me actually,’ he said with such lascivious intent he was almost dribbling. ‘We’re definitely going to ramp it up tonight. I have some new toys. If anyone calls, you’ll have to say you’re tied up! Prepare to be invaded. The PM is gonna have to look after himself tonight.’

  The evening wore on.

  The DPM found Charlie easier to be with than he thought. She found giving him advice was even more fun than she had anticipated.

  Nickolas Tenby found his mistress even more desirable when she was helplessly locked up in his new sex toy and he could haplessly display even more of his manly control - more fun than he could have imagined.

  Storrington was mission ready. He was not having fun. He was thinking and had no intention of sleeping.

  Hoy was studying countless files. The day was lengthening and showed no sign of ending. All he dreamed about as he worked, was sleeping.

  Brekkenfield was already asleep; and needed it.

  The Midnight News played to whoever listened.

  There are reports that the Prime Minister will cancel his public appearance later today. Opposition members said: We are not saying that would make him a coward, but it’s what we have come to expect from our invisible, insipid, indecisive leader. After what we’ve seen from him in the Brexit negotiations, running away seems to be what he is best at.

  The PM redrafted the redrafted speech he was giving tomorrow and popped two more little wonders to keep himself calm.

  Foxx tried to forget that he had just had two nights with negligible sleep, one in a club in Brighton and one in a cold Astra in a village square in the Cotswolds.

  Julie felt her eyes get heavy. The shock of the day now wore wearily on her eye-lids. She had spent the morning in fear and the afternoon with her new unwanted running mate making legal use of Google and illegal use of simple computer hacking. She had studied hard, ten hours at the screen, and together they had built a weighty dossier on the six suspects. The day had left her drained and exhausted - but she would not sleep; not with him in her flat. Never.

  She lay on the bed.

  He sat beside her.

  She was not going to sleep.

  He caressed her hair and gave her head a slow and soothing A
yurvedic massage. She was not going to sleep, definitely not . . . and that was final.

  She lay awake, eyes closed, thinking about how he had not raped her, not punched her, not stabbed her, and about how he’d brought her a blanket, Lindt chocolates, made her coffee, cooked her dinner and how his threats had turned effortlessly into affection. But she refused to sleep. Her mind slowed, her thoughts blurred, his gentle fingers soothed her scalp. Moments later her petulant resistance gave way to deep purring snores.

  Her mind was still; his raced.

  At four in the morning, Brekkenfield woke with a pain, took tablets and settled back down; Tenby finally let his willing and wicked victim go to sleep; Charlie got out of a cab and unlocked her front door knowing her husband would not be there; and Hoy rolled over and hugged his wife. Foxx waited until five, but could stay awake no longer.

  ‘Julie. Wake up. I’m sorry. I need to sleep, so I have to lock you in the bathroom. No monkey business or you know the consequences. We need to be up by 8.00. I’ll let you out then.’ He set the alarm on his phone and took a pillow into the bathroom to make his prisoner more comfortable, then locked her up, took her bed, felt the warmth she had left and in moments was deep in sleep.

  There was only one thing he’d missed.

  As he’d taken the pillow into the bathroom, the nimble fingers of Julie had cancelled the alarm on his phone.

  He slept.

  Eight o’clock, nine o’clock, ten o’clock and still he slept. Julie heard the local clock strike midday. Foxx didn’t. He slept on through.

  The PM arrived at the Bodleian right on time. At 12.05, he stood at the ping-pong table, TV cameras rolling. He took off his jacket and handed it to a willing and ready civil servant.

  The game was on.