Project Icarus

by R D Shah

  Peter offered a humorous shrug and his shoulders slouched. “Yeah, that’s the problem.”

  All the guests, including Peter, now descended into a final chorus of laughter, and as it began to die out it was Trevor who stood up and raised his own glass of bubbling champagne, signalling quiet.

  “Before we settle down and get to catching up, there is something else I want to say. I know I ain’t been to one of these dinners in a few years now, and I’ve not spoken to any of you since then… much to the betterment of my mental health.”

  Around the table eyes rolled in their sockets as Trevor comically shrugged it off, enjoying his joke. He then gazed down at the attractive brunette sat next to him, dripping in Cartier jewellery, from the emerald-encrusted necklace hanging around her neck to the oversized diamond ring on her index finger. “I wanna say thank you for allowing me to bring my wife, Debbie. I know these events are usually just us, but it shows a lot of respect, you know.”

  Abi, among others, was already shaking her head at Trevor’s arrogant tone, but the synchronised gesture was ignored and he carried on regardless.

  “I know you all think I can be a bit aloof at times, but just to prove I still think about you all I wanna say congratulations.” Trevor now turned his attention to the man sitting opposite, the only person whose demeanour had been subdued throughout the short speeches.

  “I wanna propose a toast to Ethan. You may ’ave forgotten but I ’aven’t. Today is his birthday, and even though we’re on opposite sides, I just wanna offer him congratulations on this special day. I don’t know if the world is a better place with him in it, but like Peter said, we all share the same spirit.”

  At thirty-three years old Ethan Munroe didn’t have exactly what you’d call an intimidating presence, but his piercing dark brown eyes alone expressed more menace than any physical presence could. He wasn’t thickset, although his slim, athletic build and wide shoulders bolstered his five-foot-ten frame with the density of a boxer: solid yet flexible. He stared over at his toastmaster and offered a forced smile.

  Munroe, like all the others sat at the table, with the exception of Trevor’s wife Debbie, had grown up together at Strawberry Field children’s home in the suburbs of Woolton in Liverpool. By the time he arrived, at the age of four, the children’s home had already become somewhat famous by association to John Lennon, who had grown up nearby and whose famous Beatles track ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ had put the place on the map. Like many of the kids Munroe had no recollection of his own parents, having been abandoned before his long-term memory had really formed, and with only snippets of recall from times past he had, over the years, formed a bond with the others, but none more than Peter Devon. As the overseer of the home, they had many names for Devon, but the one which had stuck was ‘the mole’, for the man’s uncanny ability to pop up just as they were in the middle of doing something they shouldn’t have been doing. At sixteen Munroe had, as he saw it, made the great escape to join the army. He left the graffitied gates of Strawberry Field, thanks to the numerous Beatles fans who continually sought to show their loyalty through artwork, and began a regimented life in the military.

  There he stayed, working his way up through the ranks before, after thirteen years of service, he got out. He had his reasons, none that he cared to dwell upon, and he quickly integrated back into civilian life and undertook a course in criminal justice at Oxford University. Within a year he had graduated with an MSc in Criminal Justice and immediately entered the Metropolitan Police. Within two years, and thanks mainly to the Direct Entry Initiative, he had made superintendent, and given his past military experience had taken the track towards crisis negotiation, which he discovered was where his real talents lay. Three years in and his experience was vast, having been involved with incidents from domestic situations to a terrorist negotiation a year earlier where a young man had taken a family hostage and threatened to blow himself up. As it turned out the only weapon the desperate man had on him was a large carving knife, and the bomb vest was nothing more than silver-painted carboard toilet rolls sellotaped together with coiled piano wire. Regardless, he had negotiated the release of the hostages – unharmed, although understandably terrified by the ordeal – along with the perpetrator himself. Mental illness and Jihad websites did not mix well.

  There were many of his Strawberry Field ‘alumni’, as Peter put it, that were curious about how he had climbed the Met ranks so quickly, but that was another story entirely, and one for his consumption only. Besides, they probably wouldn’t have believed him anyway.

  And then there was Trevor Roper. The two had spent many years together at Strawberry, but each had taken very different paths. While Munroe was getting pummelled on an assault course by unyielding combat instructors Trevor was ingratiating himself into the criminal fraternity. Munroe chose not to know exactly what the man did for a ‘living’; he had always kept his distance and, so far, their paths had never crossed. He wanted to know as little about the life of his old acquaintance as possible, and given the idiotic smiling face of his, which was now staring at him, it was obvious Trevor felt likewise.

  “Happy birthday, mate.”

  Trevor’s eyes widened, waiting for a response, but there appeared little appetite for it among the other guests. In fact it wasn’t until Munroe raised his glass that the others followed suit.

  “Thanks, Trevor,” Munroe said as the others chimed in, all in a somewhat conciliatory tone, and once a sip was taken the rumble of independent conversation between guests began to flow again, leaving Trevor looking sour-faced. He sat down and then leant over to Devon. “Jesus… who died?”

  If anybody else heard the comment they certainly didn’t acknowledge it, and Peter replied in a hushed voice, “His wife and daughter.”

  The look of contempt on Trevor’s face disintegrated in an instant.

  “They got caught in a terrorist attack, car bomb… Five years ago today.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Trevor replied, now looking genuinely guilty.

  “Ethan walked away with barely a scratch. He got lucky, if you can call it that.”

  Trevor now glanced over to find Munroe staring at him, his face bearing no shred of malice.

  “It’s all right, you didn’t know,” Munroe said above everyone else’s chatter. They could of course all hear him in this small domed dining room but none, understandably, wanted to join in.

  Trevor gave a sorrowful look, or at least the best he was capable of. “I’m sorry, Ethan. They were lovely.”

  Trevor had barely known them, he’d only met them once, but Munroe nodded courteously and retreated back to his thoughts before Abi touched him on his forearm.

  “Forget him,” she said, moving closer. She, like almost everyone there, knew of the tragedy but unlike the others she was usually the one to bring it up. “How are you doing, Ethan?”

  Munroe shook his head wearily. “Sometimes it seems like a never-ending black hole and I’m scrambling to get out of it. Just can’t move on.”

  “Jesus, Ethan, you really are in a bad place, aren’t you?”

  Munroe necked the last of his champagne and nodded grimly. “I know it’s been a few years now, Abi, but every time I see light at the end of the tunnel it seems to crumble and close in on me.”

  Abi was now looking as depressed as he felt and without hesitation Munroe switched gear and returned to her question.

  “But, despite all my doom and gloom, I’m actually doing OK. Just not good when dwelling on it, you know.” Munroe reached over and squeezed her arm. “It’s really good to see you, though, and doing so well.”

  This attempt to change the subject was completely ignored by Abi. Instead she moved in closer and began to nibble at her bottom lip. “So, are you involved in any interesting cases at the moment?” she probed, allowing her morbid curiosity to get the better of her, as was usually the case.

  Abi was a decent sort, but she could be a dark one at the best of times, and her curiosi
ty for all things murder was legendary.

  “No, not really,” Munroe lied, “things have been pretty quiet recently.” He could see Abi was beginning to chew at the bit, and before long she’d be looking to extract every last foul detail of each case he’d worked on. The more gruesome the better. “If you don’t mind, Abi, I’m going to get a bit of fresh air. I’ll be back.”

  She gave his arm another squeeze. “If you want to talk, I’ll be right here,” she said as he got up from his seat. “And if you want to give me some of the grisly details of any of the investigations you’re involved in, then I’m here too.”

  Munroe shot her a knowing look, and with that her expression morphed into the look of an innocent angel. “Thanks, Abi,” he said, and with a glance at Devon he made his way out of the igloo’s curved doorway and into the cold night air outside. Usually when someone wants to leave the room for a breather, they can relax the moment the door closes behind them. But all the igloos were see-through, so Munroe calmly made his way to the railings, leant against them and looked out across the dark, rippling dark water.

  After losing his family he had thrown himself into the job, and that’s where he had stayed. Like an alcoholic into a whisky bottle he had sunk himself into his work, but having to meet up with his ‘old family’ and bring up the tragedy again was something he could have done without. Like ripping off a plaster for a wound that wouldn’t heal. Painful and unproductive.

  The deeper into his work he ground himself the less he’d think about that terrible night, and perhaps a few days would pass without him waking up from a nightmare, soaked in a cold sweat and crying like a baby.

  Pathetic.

  He had survived, and it was this fact that had dominated his dreams more than anything else. His yeaning to see his wife and daughter again was tearing him up, but the guilt that engulfed his waking moments was worse. To have survived with little more than a concussion and bruising, and the knowledge that he wasn’t able to protect the ones he loved when they needed him most – that was the bitterest pill to swallow.

  The sound of the igloo opening and closing behind him whisked him away from such thoughts, and Munroe turned to see Devon sauntering towards him. He was the closest thing to a father he had ever had, if you didn’t count the army, and it made him smile to see how agile the man still was, even at the age of sixty-five.

  “Yes, I know you’re fine, Ethan, but it’s getting a bit stuffy in there and I get the feeling Trevor and his wife are about to engage in a good old-fashioned family tiff.”

  Munroe looked over his friend’s shoulder to see the couple glaring at one another as Abi stared at them nosily with what could have been a smirk.

  “I think Debbie feels that her husband has embarrassed her with his birthday toast.”

  “Believe me,” Munroe said, turning back towards the waterline, “he doesn’t need me to embarrass himself.”

  “Quite the truth. Trevor says things that would make a chimpanzee blush at the best of times.”

  They both let out a laugh as Devon now joined him at the railings. “I can only imagine how tough a year it’s been for you Ethan… and I know you don’t want to talk about it, so I will say only this…”

  Munroe knew what was coming… the pep talk… but even though he could do without it right at this moment there was something about the very act that he found comforting, so he kept his mouth shut and allowed the older man to say his piece.

  “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you, but the first time I ever set eyes upon you, how old were you, four? I saw in your eyes a resilience that I’d not seen before, or since. You were small and fragile, yes, but there was a determination in your eyes that made me know that whatever life threw at you, you’d always come back stronger.” Devon double-tapped his finger on the metal railing like a judge preparing his final statement. “And over the years you’ve proved me right, time and time again.”

  The silence which ensued wasn’t uncomfortable, but rather one of apprehension for Munroe. He wasn’t a fan of the old man getting soppy, but he knew it was coming, as it always did, from a good place and he stayed silent.

  “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I am always here when you need me, and that, well, I’m very proud of you, boy.”

  “Oh God, Peter, you’re not going to cry, are you?”

  “Oh, shut up, Munroe,” he said with a smirk. “Always the smart arse.”

  Munroe was now grinning as well. Devon now raised his chin stoically, as he always did when he was about to recite a quote.

  “Always remember, as Sir Francis Drake once said, ‘Greatness from humble beginnings.’”

  “From small beginnings, not humble,” Munroe replied, shaking his head. “You’re memory’s going, old-timer.”

  Devon’s eyes widened and he raised his eyebrows. “Really! Well I’m not too old to take you out, boy.”

  They both laughed again and Devon punched Munroe gently on the shoulder as a voice called out from behind them.

  “Mr Ethan Munroe?”

  Munroe turned to see one of the waiters that had served them their drinks on arrival holding a cordless landline phone in his left hand.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a call for you, sir. Extremely important.”

  Munroe reached over and took the phone from the waiter’s outstretched hand. “Who is it?”

  “The police,” the waiter said with a blank expression.

  “Thank you,” Munroe replied, and then stared back with the same blank expression. After a few moments the waiter got the message and with a small bow he turned around and headed back in to the Coppa Club’s main building.

  Devon stayed where he was as Munroe placed the receiver to his ear. “Superintendent Munroe.”

  “Ethan, why aren’t you answering your mobile?”

  Munroe knew the voice instantly. It was the head of the Met’s hostage negotiation team and his superior. Mike Regis was a firm but fair man who valued competency above all else, and tonight he sounded really pissed off.

  “I’m at a dinner. I told you about it. My phone’s turned off,” Munroe said quickly. “What’s up?”

  As always Regis went straight to the point. “There’s a situation developing. Barricading of a house with two hostages, believed armed. I need you on this.”

  “Any information?”

  There was an unusual pause and then Regis came back on the line sounding almost flustered, again unusual.

  “A patrol saw a man dumping a body from the boot of his car underneath Blackfriars Bridge. The suspect drove off and they tailed him to a house in Kilburn. The suspect crashed his car and scooped two pedestrians off the street after he bailed. Mother and child. He dragged them inside at knife point. They’ve been holed up for the last fifteen minutes.”

  “Mike, it’ll take me over thirty minutes to get there, don’t we have someone closer?”

  If anyone had overheard the conversation they might have thought Munroe was trying to pass the buck, but when it came to this type of situation the sooner a negotiator was on site the better.

  “I’m on my way right now, but I’m in Brighton. It’ll take me at least forty-five to get there.”

  “Brighton? I thought you were at HQ tonight?”

  “You thought wrong, Ethan, and yes, I do have other people, but that’s not the issue.”

  “Then what is?” Munroe said, but even before Regis replied he knew what the answer would be. It didn’t make an ounce of sense and had never happened before but somehow, he just knew.

  “The hostage taker, Ethan. We’ve got a landline to him but he only answered once and says he won’t pick up the phone again until we do as he asks.”

  “What’s he asking?”

  “He’s not asking, he’s demanding.”

  They were going around in circles. “So what the hell is he demanding, Mike?”

  There was a slight pause, and then Regis came back on the line, and this time he shouted. “You! He�
�s demanding to see you… and only you.”

  Chapter 2

  A light fog had descended upon the small London cul-de-sac as Munroe approached the two uniformed policemen manning the residential entrance. He’d left his black BMW 330e on the kerb and had walked the last fifty metres deliberately. Keeping calm was of the essence in a situation of this type and pulling right up outside the house would do no good. Besides, if the suspect was expecting him to show up, he didn’t want to announce it until he had more information.

  “Sorry, sir, but you’re going to have to turn back,” one of the officers said with a raised hand, and Munroe retrieved his identification from his jacket pocket and hung it in front of him.

  “Superintendent Munroe. I’m expected.”

  The officer, a young man in his twenties, dutifully stood to one side. “Go on ahead, sir, they’re waiting for you.”

  “Cheers lads.” He proceeded calmly over to the two policemen waiting by the two Land Rover Discoveries whose flickering blue and red lights were illuminating the residence in question. The nearest policeman, an older-looking man with a greying moustache and ruddy complexion, heard the footsteps and turned around to face Munroe.

  “Sergeant Brian Howell,” the officer announced, introducing himself with a swift handshake. “You the negotiator?”

  “Superintendent Ethan Munroe.”

  Howell was already eyeing Munroe’s black, knee-length Roma overcoat, which covered a white-collared shirt along with a perfectly ironed red tie.

  “Catch you in the middle of something?”

  “Only my birthday dinner,” Munroe replied with a shrug.

  “Well, happy birthday, Superintendent.”

  “Thanks.” He turned his attention to the house with all its curtains drawn closed. “What’s the situation?”

  “We’ve got a middle-aged Caucasian holding a young girl hostage.”

  “How about the mother?”

  “The mother’s not in there, the suspect threw her out before he holed up. It’s just the girl.”

  Munroe’s eyes narrowed as he contemplated the act. Two hostages were always better than one, unless there was a reason for it.