by Tony Moyle
“How did you sleep?” asked Herb between gulps of Guinness.
“OK, I felt a bit strange when I woke up, though.”
“Well, that’s because you had an early night,” Herb reminded him, “I did try to get a session going but you sent yourself to bed.”
“That’s why I felt strange. Good strange. My face didn’t feel like I’d had it in a bowl of sewage all night. Did you manage to set up the interview with Foster?” said Nash, chewing on a spoonful of out-of-date dry cornflakes.
“Sort of.”
It hadn’t been easy for Herb to organise the interview. After all, he was now aiding and abetting a known suspect. Through various contacts he’d managed to source Fiona’s number without raising too much suspicion. It was fair to say that Fiona had not initially been enthusiastic about doing it: from her reaction she had her own problems.
“She wants to meet you in Trafalgar Square at noon. She was very insistent about meeting somewhere crowded. According to my contacts she’s hardly been in touch with anyone since the article you mentioned came out in the press,” added Herb.
“We were trying to be inconspicuous. Why don’t we get a banner made up just in case we’re not spotted and a full-page spread in The Times for good measure?” thought John to Nash.
Herb downed the remaining half of his Guinness and collected up the dry bowls and inedible breakfast sacrifices.
“We need to talk about how to play this,” John thought to Nash. “Whatever happens, don’t mention me at any point, it might scare her off. What we need to do is find out who her source is. She’s going to find it strange that we want to talk about Tavistock. There’s absolutely no connection between you and it. So we need to invent one. Tell her you know Sandy and Ian. Tell her you want to find out more about how they died. Only give her a sniff of your story: we might not have too much time if you’re identified in the crowd.”
*****
“Sir, she’s on the move. Over,” came the message on Agent 15’s radio from the operative stationed outside Fiona Foster’s flat in Brick Lane.
“Where’s she going? Over,” came Agent 15’s underwhelmed response.
“We picked up a mobile phone conversation this morning with an unknown caller who set up a meeting with a Nash Stevens at noon in Trafalgar Square. Over.”
There was a long silence.
“Come again. Over,” replied Agent 15.
“She’s meeting a Nash Stevens in Trafalgar Square at noon. Over.”
Agent 15 had been an undercover agent for a very long time and prided himself on his uncanny intuition to second-guess what people were going to do, often before they knew it themselves. This reliability had given him a reputation that meant failure just wasn’t on the menu. As the most revered and trusted of MI5’s agents, and the closest to the Prime Minister, he worked tirelessly for it to stay that way. In Agent 15’s occupation it was unacceptable to receive news that made no sense like this.
How on earth did Nash Stevens connect to Fiona Foster? He’d done the homework. He knew every possible turn that she might make based on meticulous research of her friends, her political views and everywhere she went. He even knew what bands she liked, and ‘The Wind-up Merchants’ weren’t one of them. There must be something he’d missed, and he wasn’t going to miss it again.
“Okay, this is a level one surveillance operation. I want Trafalgar Square surrounded by agents. I want microphones in every nook and teams on every exit. I want it all and I want it yesterday. Do you understand me? OVER!” shouted Agent 15 across all frequencies.
“Understood. Over,” came several replies all at once.
Agent 15 jumped out of his seat, eager to be there to ensure that nothing was left to chance. Speed was of the essence. By the time he’d started the engine on his blacked-out Land Rover Discovery, he’d opened and closed eight doors, three times each, at world record pace.
*****
“I’ll drop you off here and keep circling,” said Herb. “Here’s your mobile phone. I found it at the hotel before you left for your jaunt in Geneva. If you need to get out quickly, call me.”
Nash jumped nimbly out of the Porsche before it pulled away.
Trafalgar Square was teeming. As one of the most popular London landmarks, it was crowded almost twenty-four hours a day. In the daytime it was the art galleries and statues that drew the crowds and by the evening its rowdy bars and nightclubs made up the entertainment. It was the heart of a vibrant and exciting city, and Saturday afternoon was when visitor numbers were at their peak. Whatever reasons Fiona had for choosing it, solitude was not one of them.
Nash walked through the crowd, hoping that his dark glasses and hood would avert the gaze of any devoted fans. In London, people would barely notice another human being if they were painted fluorescent orange, naked and running through the fountains of the Square pretending to be a horse. But they were able to pick out a minor celebrity at five hundred yards in the dead of night.
Nash took up position on a bench next to one of the stone lions that stood in each corner of the Square around Nelson’s Column. Trying to balance being unremarkable and inquisitive at the same time, he tried to pinpoint his interviewer. John noticed an old man selling bird food to the public at the other end of the Square. All around him a throng of pigeons were jockeying for position, each eyeing up the potential for a free meal or possibly, for some, an unfortunately discarded cigarette butt. This must be the centre of the Universe for pigeons and he considered the possibility that in their search for Sandy, he just might be sitting on top of this stone lion, watching them. John moved Nash’s head around in search of any unusually big specimens.
“Can you stop moving my head around like that, it makes me look like the girl from The Exorcist,” barked Nash nervously, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed him.
“Sorry, just wondered if any of these are Sandy or Ian. Too much to hope, I guess.”
Neither of them noticed that a middle-aged blonde woman had taken the seat next to them and was sitting closer than any two strangers would naturally sit. The mild spring wind that was circling around them blew her long wavy hair into Nash’s face.
“Do you mind? There’s loads of space around here, love,” whispered Nash over his left shoulder.
“Do you want the interview or not?” the woman replied without making eye contact with her subject.
The woman was holding a dictaphone that she planted quickly into the pocket of her neat leather jacket. Tired and dishevelled, an uncharacteristic appearance for someone in Fiona Foster’s profession, she was also a lot older than Nash had imagined, the wrinkle lines on her face bringing undue attention to her years, something that a generous helping of foundation would no doubt have fixed.
“Yes,” said Nash apologetically in response to her question. “I’m sorry I didn’t know it was you. I didn’t know what you looked like.”
“No, nor do I anymore,” replied Fiona, who was peering around as much as Nash had been. “I don’t have long, it’s not safe here for either of us.”
“Either of us?”
“I’m being watched,” said Fiona, as her attention was drawn to a couple sitting on a bench nearby. The girl was wearing a puffer jacket, which seemed excessive given the relatively warm yet breezy day. On the top of the National Gallery her eyes were drawn to a shard of sunlight that momentarily reflected off a piece of glass.
“You’re being watched. I’m sorry I thought it was me that was in trouble. Are you telling me I’ve just walked out of the rain and into a storm?”
“It’s possible. Look, let’s get this done. Why did you choose me? I know you could have gone to a journalist with a much higher profile and a greater readership than my paper. This isn’t about you, is it?” asked Fiona, her journalistic instincts highly tuned to the possibility that all was not as it seemed.
This response didn’t come as a surprise to John. It was far too easy for an idiot like Herb to set up this liaison quit
e so quickly. Fiona clearly had put her life on the line to be here and she wouldn’t have done that for a scoop.
“Turn the microphone up, I can’t hear them clearly enough,” demanded Agent 15 from his hidden location somewhere around the Square, via radio to the woman in the puffer jacket.
“I need to know about Tavistock,” said Nash.
“Then buy my newspaper. I’m not here to enlighten you, Mr. Stevens, quite the opposite,” replied Fiona angrily, although her tone of voice remained level and low to avoid drawing any attention.
“What do I do?” Nash thought to John.
“Get to the point.”
“Sandy Logan and Ian Noble aren’t dead,” announced Nash, expecting her to make the universal sign language for madman before making a swift exit.
“Impossible,” said Fiona and Agent 15, both in unison from their positions hundreds of yards away from each other.
“Extremely unlikely yes, impossible no,” refuted Nash.
“They are dead, I’ve seen the DNA reports,” said Fiona.
“Me, too,” reiterated Agent 15.
“Whatever you do, don’t mention reincarnation,” thought John.
“You’re wasting my time. How could you possibly think they are still alive?”
“I didn’t say they were still alive. I said they weren’t dead. It’s a subtle difference. I don’t know about the DNA reports, but they didn’t recover their bodies, did they?”
“That’s because there was nothing left of them, you imbecile,” Agent 15 muttered to himself.
“That doesn’t mean they’re not dead, though, does it. What proof have you got?” said Fiona.
“A mutual friend, John Hewson, has seen them both, and I believe him implicitly,” replied Nash.
“Nice one, Nash. Which part of ‘don’t mention my name’ didn’t you understand?”
“I want everything we have on a John Hewson,” Agent 15 told the colleague sitting next to him. “Whilst you’re at it I want every possible test known to man done on the samples of Ian and Sandy’s DNA. Get the lab on it immediately.”
Fiona Foster sat in quiet contemplation. Her instincts told her that not only was this a lie, it was also a trap. A way of discrediting her or even exposing her to further dangers.
“Clearly you are a total madman. Thank you for putting me in even more danger than I think I’m currently in,” said Fiona, standing up to leave.
“What do I do now?” thought Nash.
“Stall her.”
In a panic, Nash grabbed Fiona by the hand spun her around and planted a lingering kiss on her lips.
“You can’t stop yourself, can you? Surely you must know other ways than that?”
“I panicked,” thought Nash in reply.
Considering the anger demonstrated by Fiona’s face and her clenched fist, John could see things were not improved. Fearing that this might be the end of their only lead, he took things into his own hands.
“I know what they were making in Tavistock. Sandy told me, I mean John told me. What they are developing there must be stopped,” said John taking control of the conversation through a quick and unauthorised mission to Nash’s vocal cords.
The sudden change to Nash’s accent and tone gave her further reason to flee. But she couldn’t help thinking that if this information was true it could only have come from someone entrenched in the government itself, or someone who’d been inside Tavistock.
“You could have got that from my article? What is it called, the thing you say they are making?”
John didn’t know, he’d bluffed and lost. There was no way of stalling her any longer. As she left, a London bus caught his eye as it passed the South African Embassy. The advert along its side, that until recently had been advertising a fast-food restaurant, now read EMORFED in bold, luminous two-foot-high letters. As quick as it had been there it was gone again.
“It’s called Emorfed,” John called out to Fiona through the crowd.
“You couldn’t know that,” she said with her back to him.
“I need to know where your information is coming from,” asked John.
Fiona returned to the wooden bench and sat still for a moment. Should she tell him? He knew as much as her contact did, and that person had given more information on Tavistock than anyone. More than anything she wanted to uncover the secrets, to find out if the government was up to their necks in it as she suspected. The strange calls, suspicious noises and people following her was enough evidence to tell her that she was getting closer to the answer. Could she trust him? She took out her pad and pen from her handbag and quickly wrote something, folded the paper in two and passed it to John.
“If I give you this, I never want you to contact me again, understood?”
“That depends on what it says,” replied John as he opened it.
“I want to know what it says. Where’s the camera, why can’t I see this on-screen?” screamed Agent 15. The dense crowd was obscuring the dozen cameras and CCTV.
“Thank you. You have my word,” replied John.
“I want her picked up now. I need to know what was written on that piece of paper. Leave Nash, but have him followed,” shouted Agent 15, now more animated than his calm character would normally allow.
Nash and John watched as Fiona hurried away from the Square. As she reached the subway to the Tube station two men, who had been reading papers at the news-stand near the entrance, scooped her up by both arms and bundled her into a parked car. In a matter of seconds she and it were gone.
“Shit,” Nash whispered, having re-established control over his voice. “What should we do?”
“There’s nothing we can do for her at the moment. Call Herb, Let’s get out of here before it’s us as well.”
Nash dialled the number. “Herb, let’s go.”
“Did you see that, two blokes just bundled a woman into an unmarked Volvo?” replied Herb down the phone, as his Porsche came around the Square without delay. Herb hadn’t come to a stop before Nash was in the passenger seat.
“Get a shift on, Herb!” shouted Nash.
“Are we being followed?” thought John as he spun Nash’s head around once more.
“I can’t see anyone,” said Nash. “What did it say on the paper?”
“It suggested we’ve got one final visit to make,” replied John.
The black surveillance helicopter far above their heads locked onto their position and proceeded to follow the car through the city.
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN -
EMORFED
“Do you know how many meetings I still have today, Agent 15?” the Prime Minister said, leaning across the table towards the secret agent.
Agent 15 shrugged.
“Twenty-seven,” Byron stated. “It’s 9.24 in the morning and I have already had four meetings. So that’s thirty-one in total. As you can no doubt appreciate, that means time and speed are critical factors when you’re the Prime Minister.”
Agent 15’s gormless expression continued to lack understanding.
“What I’m saying to you is, I’m a very busy man, and for the last twelve minutes you have sat in my office staring vacantly at me, occasionally opening your mouth producing no audible sound.”
Agent 15 opened his mouth and his eyeballs scurried into the top left of his eye sockets in a vain attempt to make sense of his retained memories. His mouth shut in disgust, frustrated that his friend, the brain, was making him look stupid again.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Byron shouted, slamming his fists onto the table and dislodging a number of official documents to the floor.
The sudden impact shook Agent 15’s brain into life. His mouth smiled in victory.
“I think you need to cancel some of your meetings, sir,” said Agent 15, connecting his mouth and brain successfully for the first time since he’d entered the room.
“If this advice is based on your inability to talk at more than four words a minute, then I’m afraid that’ll be a no. Unless
you have something important to tell me?”
Over the last twenty-four hours Agent 15 had struggled to reconcile the pieces of the jigsaw that he’d uncovered. Explaining it to someone else would be the equivalent of trying to successfully explaining the offside rule to a two-year-old child. It was always more difficult to explain something when in your heart you didn’t truly understand it yourself. It was important he got it right: after all, he had a reputation to uphold. Blurting out an incoherent list of information was likely to get him demoted or, with this particular news, possibly sectioned. All night he’d spent trying to formulate how to do it, to communicate it so that he came out on the other side untarnished. Ready for the plunge, he drew a deep breath and crossed his fingers.
“Sandy Logan, Ian Noble not dead…um…Nash Stevens went to see Fiona Foster…er…mysterious man helping them…we think he’s meant to be dead, too…Emorfed…piece of paper, don’t know what’s on it…secret lab…um…DNA not right.”
It hadn’t gone the way he’d planned it.
Byron’s pupils expanded on every part of Agent 15’s garbled briefing. Still perplexed, he casually picked up his phone. Agent 15’s heart stopped, expecting the Prime Minister to have him carted off. He wouldn’t really blame him if he did.
“Alice, cancel all my morning meetings,” he said calmly before replacing the receiver. Agent 15 finally exhaled the deep breath that he’d taken moments earlier.
“Let’s start at the beginning. How on earth can Sandy and Ian be alive?” demanded Byron in a whisper, in case anyone else might hear such an absurd phrase and believe he, too, had gone barking mad.
“Not alive, sir. I said not dead, it’s a subtle but important difference apparently.”
“Sorry for being picky, but if someone isn’t dead how can they not be alive?” Byron replied sarcastically.
“Well, if part of them survived they could be neither dead nor alive, so I’m told.”