by Andrew Grant
Or was someone trying to divide our efforts to stop them?
No one spoke for over a minute. Even the traffic noise from Hardwicke’s location seemed to reduce in volume while Melissa’s suggestion hung in the air, waiting for someone to acknowledge it.
“We should consider that a viable possibility,” Hardwicke said, finally. “Everyone is to factor it into their activities. Any other thoughts?”
No one responded.
“Right,” the DG said. “Next call - same time tomorrow. Same number. In the meantime - good luck.”
Melissa reached out to hit the disconnect button then shoved the spider phone away from us, across the table
“What do you think?” she said.
“We’re in good shape,” Jones said. “I’ve already started pulling records. By lunchtime we’ll know all there is to know about Stewart Sole. Family background. Bank records. Financial profile. Employment history. Everything. Have no fear. Whatever the DDG asks for, we’ll have it.”
“Thanks, Tim,” she said. “Good initiative. David, what’s your take?”
I didn’t answer straight away. Not because I didn’t have an opinion. But because I was at a crossroads. I was convinced we were facing a serious threat. Caesium was missing, people had been killed, and more were going to be if the right steps weren’t taken in the next twenty-four hours. The snag was, as far as I could see, Melissa and her colleagues were on the wrong track. So, I could either do what my control wanted me to - stand back, wait for the carnage, and see whether either of the people in the room with me had a hand in it. Or I could try and stop the train from crashing, and worry about handing out blame when everyone was safe.
In the end, it wasn’t too hard a choice.
“I admire your brown-nosing instincts, Tim,” I said. “You’ll go far. But for now, Melissa, you need to call your boss. Tell him Hardwicke’s barking up the wrong tree. There’s a threat, but not to the opening of Parliament.”
“You can’t be serious,” she said. “They’ve found a dozen ways the place is vulnerable. And the problem with the fire sprinklers? If al-Aqsaba’a could feed in dissolved caesium and trigger the system? There’d be nowhere to hide. Everyone in the building - the Queen, the MPs, the Lords, everyone - would be fatally contaminated.”
“How much caesium would that take?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because this is where they’ve gone wrong. They were looking for a target on a scale which matched all the caesium stored at St Joseph’s, because that’s what they thought al-Aqsaba’a was trying to steal. Now we know they were never after that much. So, if the weapon is different, it follows the target is different.”
“Not necessarily. What if there’s a way to control where the radioactive water comes out? The system’s bound to be broken down into discreet circuits. Then they could target the Queen directly. Or the PM. Or whoever they like.”
“That’s...”
“And we don’t know that they want to kill everyone, anyway. Maybe the chaos that any degree of radioactivity would cause would be enough for them.”
“Melissa, no. You could come up with any number of possibilities, but the logic doesn’t hold up. You’re starting with an answer, and working back to a question. Things don’t work that way.”
“Have you got a more plausible suggestion?”
“No. That’s why we need everyone to stop chasing after something that isn’t there, and help find the real target.”
“Don’t forget what Leckie’s guy told us.”
“I’m not. But all you can really take from him is the timescale. The rest - to bring down or close down the government - that’s too ambiguous. We’ve got to start again, and this time not lose sight of the facts.”
“What facts?”
“That the original plan called for two small amounts of caesium, and that al-Aqsaba’a’s M.O. to date involves focused, high value objectives. Not huge public spectacles which depend on weapons they don’t even have.”
“No. I’m sorry, David. None of this is convincing me. They could have been planning to add the two lots of caesium together. They could have been moving both lots to the same place, and got disturbed half way through. They could prefer storing them separately, keeping their eggs in separate baskets. And by now, they could have a completely different means of attack lined up.”
“You’re grasping at straws. This makes no sense.”
“And nor does throwing the baby out with the bath water.”
I didn’t respond for a moment. Her reluctance was making me uneasy. Could she really not grasp what I was saying? Or did she have another motive for not warning her people they were on the verge of a huge mistake?
“OK,” she said, after a few moments. “Look. I am prepared to expand the parameters of what we’re doing. A little. Assuming you’re both prepared to put in a few extra hours?”
“Absolutely,” Jones said, nodding his head. “Count me in. Whatever you need. We should be sure about this.”
“Good,” she said. “But I’m not calling Chaston. Not yet, anyway.”
“Why not?” I said.
“Tim, could we have the room for a second?” she said.
“No problem,” Jones said, getting to his feet and heading for the door. “I need the bathroom anyway.”
“Look, I didn’t want to discuss this in front of him,” Melissa said, once Jones was safely out of the room. “But think how this would look. I’m already under the microscope. My loyalty’s being questioned, as it is. What would happen if I started arguing for us to pull away from the one plausible target we have? One that everyone else, from the Deputy DG down, has bought into? They’d think it was sabotage.”
“But they’d be wrong,” I said. “Are you ready to see people die to save your own career?”
“No. Of course not. And I will make the call. But only when we have something tangible to point to as a reason. Some solid proof.”
“Good. So let’s get on with finding some.”
“We will. We’ll look into Stewart Sole as ordered, obviously. If we’re really lucky, that might even throw up something we can use. But assuming it doesn’t, we need a second string to our bow.”
“al-Aqsaba’a, itself. That’s where we should be looking.”
“Chaston has a team already doing that. There’s no point in duplicating effort. We should look somewhere else.”
“I don’t agree. Chaston’s people are looking to tie al-Aqsaba’a to a scheme that in all likelihood doesn’t exist. They’re chasing shadows. We should go after them too, but from a new angle.”
“How?”
“Let me ask you something. Leckie. Can he be trusted?”
Melissa didn’t answer straight away.
“Why do you ask me that?” she said, after a moment.
“I’m just being methodical,” I said. “It was Leckie’s snout who came to us, and first threw suspicion on al-Aqsaba’a. Leckie’s had successes against them in the past. Sole and Shakram worked at the same hospital as Leckie. And that’s where the thefts took place. I think we’re due another conversation with the man.”
“I guess so. I can see where you’re going, I suppose.”
“But my question is, what kind of conversation? And that hinges on whether we can trust him. What’s your view?”
“I’d say we can, and we can’t. He feels badly treated by Box, and the hospital’s his livelihood now. So if he’s screwed something up, I don’t see him putting his head in noose to help us. But if you’re asking me if he’s bent, you already know the answer.”
“I do?”
“Yes. He was kicked out, right? That means he did something wrong. Being over zealous with his interrogation methods, or whatever it was. I doubt we’ll ever hear the full story. But the point is, if there was even the faintest whiff of treachery, he wouldn’t have walked away. The rank he was at, he’d have swallowed his gun. On his own. Or with help. Either way, same result.”
/> I thought about the job I’d recently been assigned in Chicago, where I’d been sent after a Navy Intelligence agent who’d crossed the line. There was no possibility of that guy resigning and walking into a cushy job somewhere else. It made sense that things would be the same for the Security Service.
“How soon can we...?” I said, as her phone started to ring.
“It’s my boss,” she said, showing me the screen. “You don’t think Jones...?”
“One way to find out,” I said.
Melissa hit the answer button, and talked for just over a minute.
“I guess he didn’t,” she said, when she’d hung up. “Chaston wants me to cover a meeting for him, this afternoon. Here. He can’t get back in time. Do you want to hang around till I’m done?”
“Not especially,” I said.
“Then there’s something you can do to help. Do you know the one thing Leckie loves more than golf?”
“No.”
“Champagne. The good stuff. Could you pick some up, somewhere?”
“I should think so.”
“Good,” she said, tearing a page from her pad and starting to scribble. “Here’s my address. I’ll have him meet us there, since we’re flying under the radar for the time being. Will six o’clock work for you?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The cab driver dropped me on Piccadilly, but I used the side door to Fortnum’s in order to avoid the crowds of inert shoppers, rendered immobile by the bewildering selection of tea and confectionary. My original plan was to just pick up one bottle of champagne, but on the spur of the moment I grabbed a second. My shopping urges weren’t completely uncontrolled, though. I did manage to resist the edible baked tarantulas from Cambodia.
I worked my way through to the restaurant and left via the exit on the corner of Jermyn Street. An elderly couple was just clambering out of a cab, so I waited for them to get steady on their feet and then jumped into the back and asked for the Museum of London. It’s right at the corner of the Barbican Centre, and out of habit I never let strangers know my full address.
The traffic was heavier than I’d hoped, and I had to swim against the tide of pedestrians that was already building up along both sides of Aldersgate Street. I had to wait at the lights, as well, before finally turning into Beech Street and heading for the main entrance to Cromwell Tower. The plaza in front of the double doors was broad, but for some reason a couple of guys were walking straight towards me. It was as if they were deliberately maintaining a collision course. They would be in their early twenties, I’d guess. They were tall - six foot four or five - and walked with the awkward, lumbering gait that people end up with when they spend too many hours building pointless muscle in the gym. Their clothes were unremarkable - cheap trainers, ill-fitting jeans and black leather jackets. One was carrying a football. And both of them had baseball caps - one the Baltimore Orioles, one the Toronto Blue Jays. I wondered what Melissa would think of two teams that were named after birds.
We closed to within twenty feet of each other, and the guy with the ball dropped it on the ground. He watched it bounce, then volleyed it expertly at the wall of the Tower. It hit the concrete just at the side of a notice beneath a City of London crest that read -
NO BALL GAMES ALLOWED. BY ORDER.
Their attitude reminded me of the yobs Melissa and I had encountered in the garden at St Joseph’s, four days ago, and I wondered how many more idiots there were like them spread throughout London. I also wondered about taking a minute and encouraging them to show a little respect for the environment. Specially the environment around my home. But given the upcoming meeting with Melissa and Leckie, I decided to give them a pass. Some things in life are more important than others, and I didn’t want to get embroiled in anything that could make me late.
The two guys looked at each other. It was like they were surprised I hadn’t reacted to them. Or maybe disappointed. I kept an eye on them, and continued on my way to the entrance. The guys split up when they were about ten feet away from me. The one who’d kicked the ball peeled off to his right, to collect it. The other continued straight towards me. He picked up speed, and started to lunge sideways when he was about a foot away, aiming to barge me with his shoulder. I tracked his movement and spun around sideways at the last moment, pulling my body out of harm’s way. Deprived of his anticipated impact the guy was left staggering and off balance, so without thinking I stepped across to finish the job gravity had started. I stamped down hard, crashing the edge of my right foot into the side of his knee. The joint gave way and he dropped onto all fours, howling with pain. Then I smashed the ball of my foot into the side of his head, and he went down the rest of the way, finally silent.
I spun round, needing to locate his friend. I spotted him fifteen feet away. His right leg was raised, his foot was up almost at chest height, and I was conscious of a white blur closing the space between us. It was the football, rising sharply and blazing towards my head. I had to jump sideways to avoid taking it full in the face, and quickly tighten my grip to avoid one of the bottles slipping out of my left hand. The guy took one step in my direction and then stopped, looking a little confused.
“You nearly made me drop my champagne,” I said. “Then we’d have had a real problem on our hands.”
The guy started moving towards me again, closing to within six feet.
“You’re the one with the problem,” he said.
“No,” I said, raising the bottles to chest level and holding them out in front of me. “I don’t think so. See? They both survived.”
“Not for long. I’m going to break them. Then I’m going to break you.”
“Actually, breaking them would be quite difficult,” I said, lowering the bottles again. “They don’t just use any old glass, you know. It has to be extra strong. Able to withstand up to ninety pounds of pressure per square inch, due to all those busy little bubbles inside. So why don’t you save yourself the trouble? Turn around now. Walk away. I’ll even let you collect your football before you go.”
He didn’t respond.
“OK,” I said. “How’s this for an idea? I’m going to give you a choice. Option one – turn around and walk away, unharmed. Or option two - we conduct an experiment to see which is stronger: The glass in the bottle, or the bone in your skull.”
The guy shifted his feet slightly, and his mouth gaped open about a quarter of an inch, but he didn’t speak.
“It’s your choice,” I said. “But you’ve got to make it now.”
He still showed no sign of reacting.
“You’re running out of time,” I said. “And the longer you stand there, the more I’m favouring option two.”
I heard a groaning sound, behind me, and realised the first guy was starting to come round.
“Maybe we should ask your friend?” I said, stepping back so I could both see of them at once.
The first guy grunted and pulled himself back onto all fours, so I gave him another tap on the head.
“Or not,” I said, as he fell sideways and rolled onto his back.
That was enough to break the second guy’s trance. He roared with fury and lurched forward, trying to rush me. I started to swing the champagne bottle in my right hand but I could see he was watching for it, just as I’d hoped, so I ducked down, set the other bottle on the ground, then straightened up and brought my left arm around, driving my fist into the side of his head.
The blow sent him reeling, but he didn’t go down.
“You didn’t think I’d really use the champagne, did you?” I said, placing the second bottle next to its twin. “It’s Dom Perignon. I’ve used it for a few interesting things over the years, but never as a weapon. That would be sacrilege.”
We stood ten feet apart for a moment, staring at each other. Then the guy charged at me again, swinging his fists this time, trying to bludgeon me.
“Why are you doing this?” I said, pulling back at an angle and jabbing him in the kidneys as he lumbere
d past me. “When I’ve offered you the chance to walk away?”
He stopped, turned, and came at me again.
“Give it up,” I said, sticking out a foot this time and tripping him. “Show some common sense.”
He struggled back to his feet and dived at me, arms out in front like a swimmer starting a race. Only he wasn’t aiming for clear water. He was going for my throat, so I ducked down low and when his thighs slammed into me, I instantly straightened my legs and sent him somersaulting over my shoulder.
“Looks like there was a third option,” I said, watching to make sure that this time he didn’t get up again. “Who would have guessed?”
The two guys had both ended up on their backs with their arms spread wide, about two yards apart, like they’d been crucified lying down. I couldn’t see what had happened to their football. The only movement I did detect was an old lady walking very slowly away from the entrance to the building. She was less than five feet tall, and looked at least ninety. We could have been neighbours, I suppose, but I didn’t recognise her. She stopped moving when she realised I’d seen her, then shuffled round and made her way towards me.
“Did you kill them?” she said, stopping next to the football guy’s head.
“No,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Nothing more than a couple of bruises.”
“That’s a shame,” she said, poking the guy’s head with the toe of her shoe. “I wish you had killed them. People like that, making a nuisance of themselves, showing no respect. My Eric would never have stood for it. I wish you’d killed them. I wish you’d tortured them, then killed them.”
“Eric was your husband?” I said.
“We were married fifty-nine years, and even in his dying days he wouldn’t have stood for nonsense like that. A week before the end he was outside our flat, yelling at the next-door kids for making too much noise. Ten years ago, that was, now.”
I did the maths.
“Your husband was ex-army?” I said.