The must-read new blockbuster thriller

by Tony Kent

  ‘We cannot be absolutely certain as of this moment.’ A second speaker. Another face Davies knew. Another recognition he resented. ‘Not until we have a verified claim from the True IRA themselves. But circumstances suggest that our assumption is correct.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that as Thompson was the target of the threat and as Thompson was one of today’s victims – albeit he was not the one fatally injured – then the logical supposition is that the threat made was the threat carried out. In addition we now know the identity of the shooter. His name is Eamon McGale, a native of Belfast. In the current climate McGale’s nationality alone would suggest involvement with either the UVA or the True IRA, as they are currently the active paramilitary organisations in the province. When combined with the specific threat from the True IRA, the conclusion rather writes itself.’

  Davies nodded in agreement.

  ‘And has this McGale person not assisted by confirming his motives?’ he asked. ‘Or even just his loyalties? Surely that would negate the need for any verified confirmation from the organisation?’

  ‘Yes, it would. But I’m afraid we haven’t been able to get anything at all from him. He won’t say anything beyond confirming his identity. At least until he has seen a lawyer.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to do something about that.’

  Davies had seen an opportunity to shift at least some of the blame to the White House. It put him in a hurry to see it happen.

  ‘If he won’t speak without a lawyer then we need to supply one.’

  ‘That’s been dealt with already.’

  It was the original speaker again. Davies turned to face him.

  ‘It was urgent and so your office made arrangements in your absence, Prime Minister. Of course they had to be very careful in selecting the right person. An establishment lawyer wouldn’t look right in the left-wing press, while a lawyer with known terrorist connections would be wholly unacceptable to the Americans.

  ‘As such they decided – in consultation with the Ministry of Justice, MI5 and the US Secret Service – to use an independent lawyer with an unimpeachable reputation. This man has been contacted and in all likelihood he will attend Paddington Green to advise McGale and represent him in interview first thing tomorrow morning. After which we’ll hopefully know a lot more.’

  ‘In all likelihood he’ll be there in the morning? You’ll hopefully know a lot more after that?’

  Davies could not hide his irritation. With political survival within his grasp, he was becoming desperate.

  ‘This all sounds very uncertain. We’re not operating purely on wishful thinking and good intentions here, are we?’

  The speaker opened his mouth to respond. He was stopped by a dismissive wave of Davies’ hand. The prime minister had more questions.

  ‘And who is the lawyer in whom we are placing so much trust?’

  ‘His name is Daniel Lawrence. He’s a very well-known human rights lawyer with a reputation for utter integrity. We felt—’

  ‘I know who Daniel Lawrence is.’

  Davies could hear the change in his own tone of voice as he interrupted. The identity of McGale’s lawyer was not happy news.

  ‘Daniel Lawrence is the godson of Anthony Haversume. For the purposes of maintaining civility, I’m going to assume that wasn’t the reason he was chosen for this task. But other than that unfortunate connection, yes, I suppose Mr Lawrence is a good choice.’

  No explanation was needed for Davies’ comments. His difficult relationship with Anthony Haversume MP was common knowledge.

  Haversume had been a minister in Davies’ cabinet until resigning his position with the stinging criticism that Davies had surrendered to terrorists in Northern Ireland as part of the renewed peace process. Since that time Irish terrorist activity had surged, both Catholic and Protestant. It had cost hundreds of lives and strengthened Haversume’s argument, making him Davies’ most vocal critic. If the prime minister had a nemesis, it was Haversume.

  Davies continued.

  ‘And, as you say, hopefully we will know more once McGale has been interviewed in the morning. In the meantime, let’s focus on what we do know. Firstly, how on earth did McGale get a gun into Trafalgar Square when we’d restricted entry?’

  A third speaker answered. Another practitioner of the dark arts, as far as Davies was concerned. Another face he resented knowing.

  ‘His pistol had masking tape around it. There was no sign of tape on him, or any marks on his body to suggest that anything had been taped to him. It’s a fair assumption, then, that he collected the weapon inside the square. That someone left it for him.’

  The final statement hit Davies like a physical blow. The light at the end of his metaphorical tunnel was suddenly receding. There was rising anger in his voice as he spoke.

  ‘Are you telling me that someone with access through our security planted that gun for him to use? That this thing was planned with the help of an insider?’

  ‘That’s the only logical conclusion.’ The answer was matter-of-fact. ‘Someone in a position of trust was involved. McGale could not have done it alone.’

  Silence descended as Davies took this in. He looked from face to face. Searched for a different opinion. All he found was wordless agreement. Defeated, his eyes returned to the bearer of this bad news.

  Taking a deep breath, he asked the inevitable question.

  ‘Have we got any idea who this insider is?’

  ‘No, sir.’ The answer came from the same senior agent. ‘I’m afraid we don’t. It could be anyone. From any team. We can’t even say if it was from the British side or from the American.’

  ‘THAT’S JUST NOT GOOD ENOUGH!’

  The sudden increase in volume made even the most experienced operatives jump.

  Davies could see his political survival moving further out of reach. It made him desperate. A desperation that manifested as anger. Every shouted word was directed at the latest speaker.

  ‘WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO TELL PRESIDENT KNOWLES?’

  ‘That we are investigating every angle, sir.’ The agent kept his calm. ‘The Americans had joint responsibility for security, Prime Minister. It’s as much their failure as ours.’

  ‘AND YOU THINK THAT WILL MAKE A DIFFERENCE, DO YOU?’

  There was anger in every word.

  ‘IT WAS ON BRITISH SOIL. WHICH MEANS WE WILL BEAR THE BLAME FOR THIS IF WE CAN’T IDENTIFY THE INSIDER.’

  ‘Sir, we will get to the bottom of this. We will find who was working with McGale. We just need more than five hours to do that.’

  Davies did not respond. He could not, because the agent had a point. Five hours was just not enough time. Even the White House would understand that.

  The thought calmed him. As did the realisation that, right now, he needed these people. Alienating them with anger and abuse would achieve nothing.

  ‘OK.’ When Davies spoke again his tone had lowered. Still strained, but at least his volume had decreased. ‘That seems reasonable enough. At least to buy us some time. Which leaves the question of apprehension. Why wasn’t McGale stopped before he fired?’

  Most eyes turned to the meeting’s first speaker, but it was the second who answered.

  ‘Timing, Prime Minister. McGale was seated close to the stage, twenty-three rows back and in an aisle seat. He waited until the crowd were on their feet and applauding before making his move. When one considers the short distance, and the cover he had by moving quickly among an animated crowd, it’s really no wonder that he wasn’t taken down sooner. That anyone reacted at all is quite remarkable.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Davies jumped on the opportunity. ‘The reaction of our operatives. I’ve been fully briefed on this point. It could be problematic. Having broken cover, the gunman ran into the area at the foot of the stage. An area controlled by a team from the DDS.’

  The Department of Domestic Security. It was the first agency Davies had mentioned by name. In that moment ever
y man and woman at the table knew that the scapegoat had been selected.

  Davies continued, aware that his intention was now clear.

  ‘Of the nine DDS operatives in that area, only two reacted. Of those two, one managed to put her head into the line of fire of the only marksman to get a shot off. The other failed to draw his weapon at all. I’m no expert, but is that the standard I should expect from our premier department of national security?’

  ‘With all due respect, sir, I think you are oversimplifying the situation.’

  Davies turned to face the latest speaker. This time it was the head of MI5, the UK’s internal security service.

  ‘How so?’ Davies asked.

  There was no mistaking the prime minister’s tone. He would not accept the explanation that was to come. But still the answer was given.

  ‘As anyone with field experience knows, Prime Minister, those agents did more than could be expected of them. How they reacted so quickly is beyond me, but somehow they managed it.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re missing the point. Those operatives may well have reacted quickly, but they also did so incompetently. The world saw seven DDS agents do nothing, an eighth get shot by her own marksman and a ninth who seemed to forget that he carried a gun. They allowed a major security operation to descend into farce.’

  ‘I hardly think that’s fair, sir.’

  The last word was spat out. The expression on the face of the MI5 director suggested that it had not left a pleasant taste.

  He continued.

  ‘The DDS agents followed protocol to the letter. Sergeant Regis had the short-range shot. In those circumstances Major Dempsey was required to keep his weapon holstered. If he were to draw it he would risk hitting the agent with the clearer firing opportunity. That is why he didn’t shoot and that is why the police sniper should not have pulled his trigger. The agents did everything right. If the marksman had done the same we would not be having this conversation.’

  The heads around the table seemed to turn as one. Towards the occupant of a seat in the far corner of the room. The same Met officer who had spoken earlier.

  The MI5 director addressed the man directly.

  ‘Assistant Commissioner, as you know, you’ve been asked to attend this committee today as a witness, to deal with the matter that has now arisen. Namely to establish which of the twenty snipers on duty around Trafalgar Square today took the shot which killed Sergeant Samantha Regis. Are you yet in a position to deal with this issue?’

  The police officer rose to his feet. He faced Davies rather than his interrogator. ‘Prime Minister, despite the inclusion of multiple agencies in the blanket marksmen coverage of the square we have been able to confirm – albeit unofficially – that the shot was . . .’

  ‘I did not ask you a question,’ Davies interrupted, ‘and nor am I interested in your answer. Take your seat.’

  Davies indicated the same instruction with his hand as he interrupted.

  His eyes returned to the director of MI5. Fault had been placed. Davies would not see that changed.

  ‘It was the DDS agents who failed today. No one else. This was supposed to be a celebration of our victory in the war against terror. Instead, the incompetence of our operatives has allowed it to descend into a rallying call to terrorists across the world.’

  There was no response. And Davies knew why. He knew the belief that these people held. It was part of why he hated them. They believed that Davies had surrendered in Ulster. That he had gifted power to those who had maimed and killed in exchange for nothing. They regarded Davies’ concessions for peace to be nothing less than cowardice. Davies knew differently. He also knew that he would never persuade them from their views. And nor would he try.

  ‘OK,’ he finally said, breaking the silence. ‘Time to move on. I want to know what steps are being taken to identify McGale’s accomplice.’

  FOURTEEN

  Daniel Lawrence sat in his Porsche 911 and listened to the purr of its engine. It was a low rumble. Just ticking over. Which was about all it ever got to do in the nose-to-tail London traffic.

  The short journey from Daniel’s office to Paddington Green police station had so far taken twenty minutes. Roadworks, one-way systems and the sheer weight of traffic meant that the last three miles would take just as long again. Not that it mattered. Daniel had a lot to think about as his car crawled along.

  The last few hours had been the most surprising of Daniel’s life. He had been selected by the British government to represent Eamon McGale; to protect his interests in police interview. It made Daniel a part of living history. It was a privilege, of course. But it was more than that. It was the case that would make his career.

  Daniel had reached his office minutes after leaving Michael on Fleet Street. Still on a high from their victory, he had paid no attention to the distant police sirens. Those sounds always filled the central London air. Why should he notice a few more than usual?

  The shocked face of Daniel’s secretary had been the first sign of something wrong. She had been oblivious to the single tear that had stained her left cheek with a line of black mascara. Her attention had been elsewhere, her eyes fixed on the room’s wall-mounted television. Daniel had followed her gaze and immediately understood. The images on the screen had told him everything. Like half the world, he had been unable to look away.

  Daniel turned his car left onto the Marylebone Road and joined the snaking westbound traffic. One of the two main routes into London from the west, this stretch of road was always congested, but tonight was worse than usual. The engine that sat at the rear of his car would be lucky to hit 5 mph. A waste of so much power.

  Daniel could not now remember how long he had stayed in his office reception. How long he had stared at the screen. Those hours were a blur. He had closed up for the day, but he had no idea what time that had been.

  He could also remember telephone calls. One to Claire. One to Michael. One to his father. These conversations had occurred but, like everything else, the details now escaped him. The entire afternoon remained a confusing haze. At least until the call that would change his life.

  There had been no reason to expect it. Sure, his public profile was growing. But Daniel had not dared to presume he would be in the running for such a major case. Every crusading lawyer in the city would be chasing it. Yet somehow it had been handed to him. It begged the obvious question: why?

  All of these thoughts had raced through Daniel’s mind after the call. But they had not slowed him down. Determined to grasp the opportunity, within minutes of the call ending he had activated the security system, converted the office switchboard to its voicemail setting and left the building.

  The request had been that he attend to represent Eamon McGale at Paddington Green police station the next morning. It was the first time he had heard the name, and a name was all it was; he would not receive any more information until in the presence of the man himself. But the location was enough for now. Only one man would be held in Paddington Green tonight, and that was Neil Matthewson’s killer.

  The only case in town.

  The knowledge had made Daniel impatient. Unwilling to wait until morning, he decided he would grasp this opportunity and not let go.

  He would meet McGale tonight.

  The traffic, though, had been in no such rush. It was typical of London. The only downside to the city Daniel loved. As his car crawled past Baker Street station, he knew that the last half-mile could be covered faster on foot. But the delay did not matter. Nothing could start without him.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘The thieving weasel bastard!’ shouted Sarah Truman.

  Her raised voice startled Jack Maguire. He jumped, banging his head on the low roof of their outside broadcast van.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Sarah.’ Maguire rubbed his skull as he turned towards the cause of Sarah’s outburst. The remnants of a half-eaten cheeseburger were sliding down two of the six screens that sat in the rear of the van. On the uppe
r screen a resilient pickle obscured the face of CNN lead anchor Martin Hone.

  Maguire took a rag and mopped up blobs of relish from the monitors. As the screens were cleaned, the images became clearer. And the cause of Sarah’s anger.

  Hone’s face had disappeared. In its place was Maguire’s footage of the shooting. But the anchorman’s voice remained. His perfect English diction complemented the visuals. A brilliant example of calm and articulate live reporting. It would have been even more impressive if the words spoken had been his own. They were not.

  ‘I can’t believe they’ve done this to me.’

  Sarah’s Boston accent was more pronounced than usual. It happened when she was irritated, Maguire had noticed.

  ‘Those are my goddamn words and now that stuck-up son-of-a-bitch is reading them out all over the world. Like it’s his report.’

  Maguire shook his head. He was sympathetic, but he was not surprised. There was no way the network would have left this story in Sarah’s hands. She had been in Trafalgar Square to cover a semi-newsworthy event. A classic safe assignment, somewhere for a promising reporter to cut her teeth. No one could have guessed it would become ground zero for the biggest story of the year.

  Sarah’s on-the-spot performance had been impressive. That much was undeniable. Her live commentary had been average at best, but then that was expected; no one assigned to Trafalgar Square that afternoon had been prepared for the carnage they had witnessed. But Sarah’s main report, made literally moments later? Now that had demonstrated her talent.

  Maguire had long recognised Sarah’s potential. Today she had proved him right. And in the long term she had likely made her career. But none of that would matter right now. CNN, like any network, paid its main correspondents a serious amount of money. For those salaries they expected airtime and, right now, Trafalgar Square was the only show in town. It had been only a matter of time before Sarah’s report was passed to the big guns. That was how things worked. Maguire knew that. He also knew that Hone’s co-opting of Sarah’s report was a huge compliment. The fact that he had then not changed a word of it? Even more so. But making Sarah understand that would not be easy.