Heaven's Light

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘What’s that?’

  Kate bent to his ear. Her breath was warm on his cheek. ‘When it comes to me getting screwed,’ she squeezed his hand, ‘you can do it any way you like.’

  Owens had nearly finished sucking his second Strepsil of the morning when he saw the taxi turning into the top of Elphinstone Road. He watched it squeal to a halt outside Haagen’s basement flat, the driver leaning on the horn.

  ‘We’re on,’ he muttered throatily.

  The duty CID driver beside him was deep in a copy of the Daily Mail. She looked up to see Haagen appear on the pavement. He was wearing jeans and a thick green anorak, and he was carrying a black holdall. Seconds later, the taxi was on the move and the CID girl followed at a discreet distance. When they got to the harbour station, Owens checked his watch. The fast Waterloo train left in seven minutes’ time. So far he’d got it exactly right.

  He reached behind him, hauling out his own bag. His wife had washed it twice since the last competition but she still hadn’t got rid of the fishy smell. Haagen was out of the taxi now, twenty yards ahead, paying the driver. Any minute now he’d look up.

  ‘Sorry about the cold.’ Owens was genuinely apologetic. ‘But you’d better kiss me.’

  An hour and a half later, he was tracking Haagen across the concourse at Waterloo. The new international station was on a lower level and Owens let him get to the foot of the escalator before riding down. In the departure lounge, Haagen treated himself to a cappuccino and what looked like a Danish pastry. When the Brussels departure was ready for boarding, Owens took a chance and stationed himself at the head of the queue. His Eurostar seat allocation put him four rows in front of Haagen and he knew that the best cover of all lay in being first on the train. If Haagen saw him already seated, he’d hardly suspect surveillance.

  First class on the brand-new train was quietly comfortable and Owens settled himself beside the window. He’d bought a copy of Angling Times in the departure lounge and he was half-way through an article on ground bait when the train plunged into the Channel Tunnel. Twenty minutes later they were out again, picking up speed for the dash to Lille, and he sat back, watching the flat expanse of Picardy unrolling beyond the occasional blur of a trackside building. The CID girl who’d driven him to the station had given him a mobile phone that would hook into the European digital network, and when the train stopped for signals in the suburbs of Tournai, he tried it out. Back in Portsmouth Bairstow had appointed himself Owen’s primary contact, and Owens got through to him without difficulty. As usual, they’d agreed the simplest of codes and Owens signed off after less than a minute’s conversation. ‘Tell Derek I think it’ll probably be OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll get back to you again when there’s more news.’

  In Brussels, Haagen and Owens changed trains. Like Haagen, Owens’s ticket took him through to Amsterdam but this time he rode in a different carriage. The train was Dutch, a long yellow thing, and it wound slowly up through Belgium and into Holland, stopping at station after station. Each stop found Owens in his seat beside the pneumatic door, his bag at his feet, his eyes never leaving the platform. Haagen was riding in a carriage at the end of the train. If he chose to get off, he’d have to pass Owens. And if that happened, Owens would be out too.

  By four o’clock the train was easing into Amsterdam’s central station. In the busy forecourt, amongst the crush of bicycles, Haagen paused beside the taxi rank, consulting his watch. Owens was still inside the station entrance, half hidden by an advertising display, and when Haagen abandoned the taxi rank for a nearby tram stop, he stepped out, pushing his way through the crowds of commuters hurrying into the station. Across the cobbled forecourt, he could see Haagen at the back of a long queue. There were trams everywhere. One stopped, hiding Haagen from view. Owens began to sprint. To lose him now would look foolish indeed. A vision of Bairstow swam into his mind. Running errands for the Met was far from uncommon but there was something about this operation that had got under the superintendent’s skin. Owens had caught it in his voice when he’d used the mobile phone. He was paranoid by nature but he’d sounded even more suspicious than usual. Phoning in again to report a blank would really make his day.

  The tram was beginning to move. The kerbside queue was down to three women. Of Haagen there was no sign. Owens headed for the nearest taxi, cursing. Then he stopped. He’d kept track of the passengers as they’d filed onto the tram. He was certain that Haagen hadn’t been amongst them.

  On the other side of a canal a big main road ran left to right, thick with traffic. At right angles to the main road, spearing into the heart of the city, was a wide boulevard. The traffic lights at red, Owens joined the flood of pedestrians crossing. On the other side, he knew he had to make a decision.

  He stopped again, trying to visualize the map he’d committed to memory on the train. Left, right or straight on, three options, a 33 per cent chance of not fucking up. He was about to settle on the second option, the boulevard into the city, when he spotted the cluster of phone kiosks. Haagen was in the nearest one, his back turned, his hand chopping up and down on the thin metal shelf as he made a series of emphatic points. Owens backed away slowly, the adrenaline washing through his system. Haagen had a notebook out. He was scribbling something down, the phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear. Any minute now the conversation would be over.

  Owens felt a nudge in the small of his back and turned to find himself beside a florist’s stall. The woman was holding out a bunch of early daffodils. Owens took them without a word, fumbling for a twenty-guilder note. By the time the woman had tallied the change, he was thirty metres away, hurrying along beside the canal, trying to make the corner before Haagen disappeared again.

  It was nearly dark by the time Ellis found the entrance to the drive. On the phone to the ministry, Zhu had been surprisingly vague in his directions, telling Ellis that the house was half-way between Wentworth and Bagshot. Only on his third pass had Ellis found the sign indicating Bentwaters.

  He followed the drive between thick hedges of dripping laurel. At the end, beyond a turning circle of newly laid black tarmac, stood a substantial, brick-built house flanked on both sides by double garages. Ellis parked behind a white delivery van and got out. Beside the front door was a big iron bell-pull. He yanked on it twice but heard nothing. He was about to try again when the door opened. Zhu was dressed exactly the way he’d first seen him at Heathrow, the baggy cotton shirt hanging on his thin frame. Ellis shook the outstretched hand and stepped inside. The hall was enormous, panelled in oak. At the foot of the stairs that led to the first-floor gallery were a number of heavy-duty cardboard boxes. Some were open and inside, cradled in white polystyrene, Ellis could see computer terminals and keyboards.

  Zhu led the way into a lounge. At the far end of the room, a Labrador lay in front of a roaring log fire. Through big french windows, in the garnering dusk, Ellis glimpsed a stone-flagged terrace and beyond it, still crusted with snow, an expanse of lawn.

  At Zhu’s invitation, Ellis sank into one of the plump armchairs beside the fire. A tray of tea had already appeared and Zhu was bent over the pot, peering down at the thin yellow liquid. As ever, he had no interest in small-talk.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said. ‘I have a proposition.’

  Ellis put his attaché case on his knees and opened it. The case was on loan from MI5 and Louise Carlton hadn’t let him leave Thames House without proving to the F branch technicians that he could operate it. The microphone was built into the bottom of the case and Ellis moved his chair a little, ensuring that the case was angled directly at Zhu.

  Zhu was pouring the tea. ‘You’ll know we’ve placed an order for the equipment.’

  ‘Of course.’ Most of the counter-insurgency stuff in the original deal that the DTI had helped facilitate was coming from a company in Derby. Their quote had been substantially less keen than the rest but, quality-wise, their products were in a different league. Zhu’s judgement in this respect ha
d attracted much comment within the ministry. Businessmen with an interest in excellence, rather than the bottom line, were an increasingly rare breed.

  ‘And you’ll know our client intends to place supplementary orders?’

  ‘So I hear.’

  ‘Good.’ Zhu’s hand hovered enquiringly over the sugar bowl. Ellis shook his head, curious to know where this conversation might lead. Discreet enquiries in Singapore had capitalized Zhu’s various stockholdings at a fraction over $857 million. By anyone’s standards, that made him a very rich man indeed. Hence, perhaps, his acquisition of a property like Bentwaters. If you were looking for a UK base, somewhere with a bit of privacy but a global reach, you could do worse than a £1.4 million mansion in the Surrey woods, stuffed full of computers.

  Ellis accepted the tea, balancing the saucer on his attaché case. The hope in Whitehall was that Zhu would cap this first order with something truly substantial. Armoured vehicles, perhaps, or something in the guided missiles line.

  ‘Does your client have a time-frame for whatever he needs next?’ Ellis asked.

  ‘Yes. Very soon now I hope to have the documentation.’

  ‘And do you want us to arrange another meeting? At Victoria Street?’

  ‘That may well be necessary. Unless, of course, we meet here.’ Zhu beamed, already very much at home.

  Ellis said something polite about the panelwork in the hall. He asked about the age of the property and Zhu said he didn’t know. Maybe the nineteen thirties. Maybe earlier. He was standing by the fire now, gazing down at the dog.

  ‘I’ve been in Portsmouth,’ he said at last. ‘You know Portsmouth?’ Ellis shook his head. Zhu’s file had recorded a number of recent visits to the south coast and full details of his purchase of a local hotel. Quite where this fitted into his portfolio was a mystery, although he had hotel interests back in Singapore.

  ‘Nice place, Portsmouth,’ Ellis remarked.

  ‘Very pleasant. Good people.’ The dog began to stir and Zhu tickled its ear with a slippered foot. ‘Good prospects too. I like it there.’

  He glanced up, a slightly contemplative smile on his face. Outside, in the hall, Ellis could hear a whispered conversation about cable ducting.

  ‘They have a dockyard,’ Zhu was musing, ‘down in Portsmouth.’

  Ellis reached for his tea. ‘That’s right. Home of the Royal Navy. Always has been.’

  ‘So I understand.’ Zhu’s attention had returned to the dog. ‘How would I go about buying it?’

  Owens waited until he’d crossed the road before he made the call. From the corner, beside the canal bridge, he could still see the entrance to the café and the men in profile drinking at the bar. Most were watching football on the television at the end. The couple beside Haagen were locked in a gentle embrace.

  Owens checked his watch, wondering why Bairstow wouldn’t answer his phone. After half past seven he’d said he’d be at home, and it was already way past eight. At long last the call was answered.

  ‘Me,’ Owens said, turning his body towards the canal, dispensing with the code. ‘He’s in a bar in Amsterdam. It’s a pick-up, I swear it.’

  ‘Pick up what?’

  ‘Fuck knows. It’s in his holdall. And it cost him a fair bit. He paid in US dollars. At least two grand’s worth.’

  ‘What did it look like?’

  ‘It’s in packets.’

  ‘Big? Small?’

  Owens frowned, picturing the way he stored his fishing bait. ‘Tobacco tins,’ he said. ‘Eight-ounce.’

  ‘Resin?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Something heavier?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Owens glanced over his shoulder. Haagen was buying another drink. For someone holding, he was either brainless or the goodies had already left with someone else. Either way, Owens needed orders.

  He bent over the phone again. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  He heard a grunt at the other end. Lights from the street were dancing on the black waters of the canal. Bairstow was back on the phone. He wanted to know more about Haagen. Where had he been? Who had he met? Owens felt his patience beginning to wear thin. Put the big guys behind a desk, he thought, and they rapidly lose touch.

  ‘He’s been nowhere,’ he said. ‘He’s made a phone call, he’s walked from the station to the bar, and now he’s sitting on a couple of thousand dollars’ worth of something naughty.’ He stepped back to let a bicycle sweep past. ‘Shall I talk to the locals? Get him pulled in?’

  At the other end there was a minor explosion. It sounded like a sneeze and Owens was suddenly back in the world of soggy tissues and hourly doses of throat linctus. Then Bairstow was coherent again. On no account was Owens to think in terms of arrest. Haagen was to run and run. In the end Owens would lose him but that wouldn’t be an issue. The more they had on the boy the better it would be.

  Owens was getting lost. ‘Better for who?’ he said. ‘Who are we talking about?’

  There was a brief, mirthless bark of laughter. Then Bairstow was back on the line. ‘Don’t ask me, son,’ he snorted, ‘I’m only a fucking policeman.’

  Chapter Eight

  Two days later Louise Carlton drove out to the Heathrow Marriott hotel for breakfast. It was still early, barely seven, but the eastbound M4 was already at a virtual standstill, three lines of headlights crawling slowly through the thin drizzle. She left her Saab in the hotel car park and asked reception to check whether David Jephson had yet arrived. The F branch director was booked on the first BA flight out of Brussels. According to the directorate schedule faxed to her home last night, he should have landed twenty minutes ago.

  The young American behind the reception desk had no news of Jephson. Louise thanked him and followed the stream of executives into the hotel restaurant. Breakfast was served from a buffet and she lingered beside the chafing dishes of scrambled eggs and newly grilled sausages, wondering how long she could hold out. The drive over from her house in Kew had been simplicity itself but getting up at five thirty had sharpened her appetite and, savouring the smell of bacon and fresh coffee, she realized just how hungry she’d become.

  She was weighing the possibility of two separate breakfasts when she felt the lightest pressure on her elbow. As ever, Jephson was immaculate: the dark suit perfectly cut, the black brogues newly polished, the crisp white shirt carrying the subtlest blue stripe. Louise submitted to a kiss on the cheek and then shepherded him towards the queue for cereals, marvelling at the man’s stamina. At noon, he was due to address a closed-door gathering of chief constables at the ACPO conference in Leeds. Just getting there by road would take at least three hours. Yet here he was, eyeing the kippers as if time was the least of his problems.

  They carried their trays to a corner by the emergency exit. The nearest occupied table was comfortably out of earshot. Jephson slipped his mobile phone out of his pocket and turned it off before storing it in his briefcase. He was currently commuting to Brussels on a near-weekly basis, attending regular meetings of one of the Europol working groups. This was an arrangement that should, fingers crossed, give MI5 the key intelligence liaison role between UK law-enforcement agencies and sister organizations on the continent. In the brave new world of transnational policing, this was a very big prize indeed and, as a direct consequence, the bureaucratic in-fighting was ferocious. The Metropolitan Police were convinced that the responsibility was properly theirs, and Jephson’s elegant reports from Brussels, circulated around Whitehall, had become a legend at Thames House. They were, in the parlance, Five’s very own smart bomb, scoring direct hit after direct hit on the uniformed bodies over at New Scotland Yard. Whether or not MI5 would prevail was anyone’s guess, but Jephson had turned the exercise into a textbook campaign, winning the agency the kind of friends who might, in time, turn the tide of battle.

  Now, loading his fried bread with grilled tomato, Jephson wanted to know about Haagen Schreck. The last of Louise’s encrypted reports had reached him eighteen hours a
go in Brussels. The youth had left Amsterdam aboard a KLM flight for Heathrow. Intelligence from Hampshire Special Branch suggested he was carrying a quantity of unspecified narcotics and a call to the Customs and Excise controller at Terminal Four had cleared his path through the green channel. A team of watchers from A branch had picked him up on the arrivals concourse and followed him into Central London. He’d visited two addresses in Shepherd’s Bush, both belonging to known drug dealers. Emerging from the second address, a three-storey terrace house off Goldhawk Road, he’d no longer been carrying his holdall.

  Jephson reached for his coffee. ‘Where did it get to?’

  ‘We’re assuming he left it there.’

  ‘Anyone tempted to find out?’

  ‘Not so far, thank God.’

  Jephson concealed a grin with his napkin. New Scotland Yard and Thames House were often looking for different yields from an operation. In an instance like this, with the net closing around an original MI5 target, it could often be difficult to dissuade the drugs squad sharp-end heavies from forcing the pace.

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘We’re saying he should run.’

  ‘Rationale?’

  ‘Unspecified. If they really push it, I think we should take it to the top.’

  The beginnings of a frown shadowed Jephson’s face. The top, in the first instance, meant the Home Secretary. Thereafter, at his discretion, referral could reach as far as Downing Street.

  Jephson picked warily at a disc of black pudding. ‘You’re confident about this?’ he murmured. ‘If we have to show our hand?’

  ‘Absolutely. Schreck anchors a new NF network. That’s a matter of fact. He keeps it no secret. On the contrary, you can read it in his column every month if you can bother wading through the rest of the wretched paper.’

  ‘National Front News?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But what’s new? What are we really saying?’