David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good

by Andrew Grant

  “I agree,” Hardwicke said. “This has all the hallmarks of something spectacular. I’m determined that we stop it. But if we don’t, I’m not going to tell the PM we backed away from the Hydra that caused it after only cutting off a single one of its heads.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Naval Intelligence Division’s offices in their bleak, unmarked building in Tottenham Court Road were nowhere near as plush as the ones in MI5’s headquarters. The chairs were not as comfortable. The dull orange carpets were worn through in places. There was no restful view of the Thames from the unwashed windows. But they did have one advantage. There was a Caffe Nero almost next door. And the strong cappuccino they sell made recounting recent events for a second time that day much more palatable.

  “So what’s your next step?” my new controller said, when I finally wound up the summary.

  “Box want me to stay on at the hospital, and help them dig into the theft,” I said. “But I was thinking along different lines.”

  “Really? Such as what?”

  “I think we’ve reached the point where I’d be more useful on our side of the fence again.”

  The controller reached into his briefcase, took out a bottle of water, and drained the remaining two inches in a single swig.

  “Out of the question,” he said, tossing the empty bottle into an overflowing rubbish bin next to the door then turning back to me. “Your job with them isn’t close to being done.”

  “I don’t agree,” I said. “The caesium’s been recovered. None of it’s missing. It’s all under lock and key, somewhere else. The people who stole it are in the bag. Box have got all their available resources trying to find out what the target would have been, in case someone tries to hit it another way. All the bases are covered. They don’t need me anymore.”

  “Maybe not, from that point of view. But you were never there to find caesium or catch thieves, Trevellyan. Or even to stop the thieves using the caesium to kill people. Your job is to find out whether anyone from Box is bent. And judging by the picture you painted, I’d say their brass is right to be worried. Something is very definitely rotten with the state they’re in.”

  The problem was, I knew he was right. But it had been unpleasant enough the various times I’d had to wash the Navy’s dirty laundry, in the past. I didn’t relish having to do the same for MI5, now. Not because I had a particularly soft spot for them as an organisation. But because I had to admit, there was something about Melissa I liked. I was going to be genuinely disappointed if I found she’d crossed the line.

  “Let me ask you this,” he said. “Box have sketched out a pretty convenient connection between the first time the vault door was damaged and the successful theft. But what do you think? Are you buying it?”

  “I’m not convinced of it,” I said. “But I’m not convinced it was a coincidence, either. That’s why I went looking for witnesses. The key will be getting our hands back on that janitor. He saw what happened. His story should throw a little more light on things.”

  “It might, I suppose. If you can trust him. He might be a plant.”

  “He might be.”

  “You’re looking to him to explain that connection. Well, something smells off, and that’s where the stench started from, for my money. I mean, I understand the idea of someone learning lessons. But think about how much the M.O. changed. And when.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Scratching a high security door and expecting it to trigger an evacuation of such a closely monitored substance? That’s totally naive. But compare it with what happened, only a couple of days later. It wasn’t just in a different league of sophistication. It smacked of specialised knowledge.”

  “It was a step change, for sure.”

  “It was. So, ask yourself, what had changed between the attacks? Two agents turned up, on the scene. And all of a sudden this mystery group that no one had heard of before went from amateur hour to knowing exactly how to press all Box’s buttons. How’s that for a coincidence?”

  “It’s a stretch, I grant you. But I don’t see Melissa Wainwright’s fingerprints on it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because one of the thieves, posing as the hazmat team leader, called her and told her they were moving the caesium. We can prove that.”

  “So? What’s your point?”

  “How did they get her number? Someone from Box must have given it to them.”

  “Unless she gave it to them herself, to create her own alibi? Did you consider that?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “And can you be sure it was one of thieves who called her?” he said.

  “I was there when she took the call,” I said.

  “But could you hear who she was talking to?”

  “No.”

  “So it could have been anyone. Like, Jones, for example. Where was he when the theft took place, by the way?”

  “Still out of the game after his accident.”

  “Was he? Are you sure? Because he was back at the hospital later that night, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he the one who told Wainwright about the Fire Brigade finding the hazmat team all tied up?”

  “He was.”

  “Right before someone told the thieves. I wonder who that could have been?”

  “We don’t know anyone told them.”

  “No, you’re right. It could have been a complete coincidence, them choosing that particular moment to knock out their escort.”

  “Well, Melissa Wainwright couldn’t have warned them. I was sat next to her in the car.”

  “And the buyers. Or whoever was supposed to pick the stuff up. Who warned them? Not the thieves. What did they say when the Box agent knocked on the gate? ‘You’re late?’”

  I was silent for a moment.

  “I know you agree with me,” he said. “Otherwise, why did you risk turning Croydon into the new Chernobyl to stop Wainwright leaving the scene?”

  “She wasn’t ‘leaving the scene,’” I said. “She was being abducted at gun point. Who knows what those guys would have done to her?”

  “So you did it to save her? Or because you know every successful job has an inside man? And once they were in the wind, we may never have found them again. Not in time, anyway.”

  “To save her. It was a calculated risk.”

  “Calculated, how? You may have had time to peep into the back of the van, but don’t tell me you knew it was just a tube of aspirins the guy was holding, and not a remote trigger.”

  I didn’t reply. Because I knew he was right again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I wasn’t ready to place Melissa in the frame. Not as firmly as my control had her there. Not yet, anyway. But I had to admit, when I made sure the thief didn’t take Melissa away, it wasn’t because I was certain she was innocent. I still hoped she was, though. And as the meeting I’d just endured had made clear, finding out one way or the other was going to be down to me.

  There was nothing to be gained by postponing the inevitable, so as soon as I had the office to myself I pulled out my phone and called Melissa’s number. She answered on the eighth ring, just as I was expecting to be dumped into her voicemail.

  “How’s it going?” I said.

  “So, so,” she said. “And you?”

  “I’ve had better days. And I’ve had worse. But what’s happened to darken your mood? Any news?”

  “No. I’m just frustrated. I’m on my way back from Leytonstone. The surveillance team leader from GCHQ emailed me right after you left Millbank. She thought she had something, but, well, no cigar.”

  “Just a red herring, then?”

  “Not entirely. They’d picked up a suspicious word repetition in a series of emails from a community centre over there. But you know how those tend to go. It didn’t pan out. The traffic’s like a particularly malicious practical joke. And on top of that...”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on. Tell me.”
r />   “I will. Just, not on the phone, you know?”

  “Do you want to meet for a drink when you get back into town? We could chew the fat for a while? Set the world to rights?”

  “Why not?” she said, naming a little pub she knew on Albermarle Street. “That sounds fun. I’ve got to close the file on this non-lead, so see you there at six?”

  I arrived at the pub a quarter of an hour early, but Melissa was already there. She’d picked a table in the corner and was sitting with one hand on a glass of hard cider and one eye on a TV that was showing 80s music videos with the sound turned off.

  “I got you a drink,” she said. “Beer. It’s called Old Speckled Hen. I hope it’s OK.”

  “It’s more than OK,” I said, taking a sip. “It’s one of my favourites. Thank you.”

  “That’s a relief. I only picked it for the name.”

  “That can work sometimes.”

  “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Could you tell, if I was? Do you get many basket cases in the Navy?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard of a few. I’ve got no idea if the stories are real, though, or just urban legends.”

  “What about people you’ve worked with?”

  “I work alone, most of the time. The people I spend time with aren’t in the Navy. They’re the ones who are out to do us harm. Some of those are crazy, of course. But I stop them, anyway. I’m an equal opportunity operative. Why do you ask?”

  “It must be very different where you work. Being isolated like that. With us, it’s all-for-one, you know? Instinctive interdependence. Whatever you’re doing, you’ve got someone else’s back and someone else has got yours. You thrive on that sense of belonging. On being part of something bigger than yourself. You need it to function. Only now, I suddenly don’t feel like I belong. I feel like everyone’s eyes are on me, but in a bad way. Does that make any sense to you?”

  I nodded my head. It made absolute sense. If she was innocent, I could understand how being cast out of the nest would leave her disoriented. But if her hands were dirty, she was laying the perfect foundations to excuse her behaviour, however erratic or suspicious it might become later. I didn’t know whether to sympathise with her predicament, or applaud her foresight.

  “Fancy another one?” I said, nodding towards her empty glass. “Or would you like to grab a bite to eat somewhere?”

  “No,” she said. “Thank you, though. I’m not really hungry, to tell the truth. Do you mind if we just go… somewhere else?”

  I didn’t have a reply for that.

  “Oh, no,” she said, when the penny dropped. “Wait. I didn’t mean... what I did mean is, could we just walk around for a while? Would that be OK?”

  “Of course,” I said. “As long as we don’t have to leave the city. I don’t want to be involved with leaves or plants or animals of any kind.”

  “Absolutely. I love the city, too. It’s just - I don’t want to be around people right now. People I don’t know.”

  “I’m with you one hundred percent. And I have an idea. Will you wait here a moment, while I make a quick call?”

  Melissa nodded.

  Although strictly, I should have said two calls.

  When I returned to the table, Melissa had pushed the empty glasses to one side and was sitting with her coat on, ready to go.

  “May I?” I said, taking her by the arm and leading the way to the door.

  “Please do,” she said. “But are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

  “No. It’s a surprise.”

  “How far away is it?”

  “A mile? Maybe a little over? If we were going straight there.”

  “We’re going somewhere else first?”

  “No. But we’re not taking the most direct route.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you said you wanted to walk. And because the guy I spoke to needs forty-five minutes or so to get things lined up for us.”

  “What things?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Who did you speak to?”

  “A friend of mine.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s ex-Royal Corps of Signals. We worked together on a job in Gibraltar, once. I did him a couple of favours. He told me to give him a call if there was ever anything he could do for me.”

  “Where does he work now?”

  “You’ll find out, soon enough. Don’t be so impatient.”

  We crossed Piccadilly against the lights, continued straight down St James’s Street, and swung round to the left onto Pall Mall. The wind was picking up a little so Melissa buttoned her coat as we walked. We kept going at a relaxed pace, neither of us speaking, until we reached the outskirts of Trafalgar Square. Then I saw Melissa stiffen, and wrap her arms across her body.

  “Is everything OK?” I said.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just these pigeons. I hate them.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know that. Why?”

  “It’s not just pigeons. It’s all birds.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes. Except one kind.”

  “Dead ones?”

  “No. Because then I’d still have to see the nasty, feathery bodies. As far as I’m concerned, the only good bird is an extinct bird.”

  “I see.”

  “Now you probably think I’m weird.”

  “Why would I think that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I’m an adult with a concealed 9mm and I’m freaked out by small, harmless creatures.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s nice.”

  Melissa didn’t respond for a moment. Then she jabbed me with her elbow and nodded towards a couple of teenagers. They were standing next to the vacant fourth plinth, staring at each other, their faces about two inches apart.

  “Those kids, over there,” she said. “What will they do next? Kiss? Or fight?”

  They were gazing earnestly into each other’s eyes, mirroring each other’s posture, and the boy’s head was moving very slowly towards hers, their lips closing inexorably together.

  “Kiss,” I said.

  The girl took a step back and slapped the boy across the face so hard we could hear it twenty feet away.

  “Really,” Melissa said. “Shows what you know about nice.”

  We made it past the front of the National Gallery without any pigeons coming too close to us, crossed St Martin’s place and followed round to the left towards Charing Cross Road. The pavement grew noticeably busier the closer we got to Leicester Square tube station, and it became more difficult to keep together as we elbowed our way through the unruly crowds. We kept up our momentum, though, and when we were almost at Oxford Street a guy stepped forward and handed Melissa a flyer.

  “Look at this,” she said, handing the paper to me.

  It was an advert for an Elvis impersonator who was appearing that night in a pub on Wardour Street.

  “Do you want to go?” I said.

  “Not really,” she said. “I just thought it would be funny if it was our guy. The one who saw our fireman.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “It would be hilarious. Although, if he is as good at singing as he is at running from the police, it might not be too bad.”

  We pushed our way through a gaggle of people milling around outside the Dominion Theatre, then continued down Tottenham Court Road until we were level with Goodge Street tube station.

  “So where are you taking me?” Melissa said.

  “Somewhere I think you’ll like,” I said, guiding her left into Howland Street.

  “How much further is it?”

  “Not far. We’re nearly there.”

  “Is it a pub?”

  “No.”

  “A restaurant, then?

  “No. Not even close.”

  “Then, what? she said, scanning buildings on both sides of the street. “I can’t see anything. Is it undergro
und?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said, leading her across the road and into the narrow entrance to Cleveland Mews. “In fact, quite the opposite.”

  “Now I’m getting intrigued. If we were in a car, this is the time I’d expect you to say we’d run out of petrol…”

  “It looks a little strange, I’ll give you that. But we can’t go in the main entrance, so we’re meeting my friend along here.”

  We continued for another thirty yards and then stopped in front of an unmarked, grey steel door set into a textured concrete wall. A keypad was mounted on the frame, but I ignored that and knocked twice on the metal surface. Immediately the door swung open and a man in dark blue overalls beckoned us inside.

  “Gerard, good to see you,” I said, and introduced him to Melissa.

  Gerard closed the door behind us and led us across a narrow, grey-painted waiting area to a pair of full height metal turnstiles in the centre of a glass wall. He held a proximity card up to a reader to the side of the right-hand turnstile and gestured for Melissa to go through.

  “It’s OK,” he said. “There are no metal detectors here. They’re only at the public entrance.”

  “What is this place?” Melissa said when I joined her on the other side.

  “You’ll see, soon enough,” I said.

  Gerard emerged from the turnstile and lead us to a pair of lifts. He hit the down button, the doors to the right hand car slid open, and we followed him inside.

  “These lifts only serve the admin offices,” he said, pressing the button for the basement.

  We descended one level and followed Gerard out of the left and a long corridor to the left. After twenty-five yards he stopped to open a door in the right-hand wall and hold it for Melissa to go through. This led to another corridor, but this one was curved. We followed round half of the circle and found the entrance to another lift. Gerard hit the only button, but this time it took thirty seconds before the door began to open.