‘Hey!’ Martin shouted. A man had hold of his arm; firmly but not so it hurt.
‘Hi. Sorry I don’t mean …’, the man started to say something.
‘Leave my friend alone. Got it!’ Simon was in the man’s face like a shot. He had his finger close to the man’s nose. There was real intent in his eyes. It was a side to his pal Martin had not seen before.
As the man let go of Martin’s arm, he noticed that, in his other hand the man was holding a banner of sorts: two tall wooden poles wrapped in a white plastic sheet.
‘Sorry. I meant no harm. Look. Would you like to earn a little bit of cash?’
Never talk to strange men …
Martin was 20 years old, but his mother’s maxim still rattled around his head.
‘No. Thanks. Come on Simon, let’s leave the weirdo behind.’
‘Wait.’ The man continued. As Martin had turned, the man had stayed on his shoulder, Simon’s finger still close to the man’s face. ‘I couldn’t help noticing that you’re wearing anti-US badges. Are you going to the protest? The VP - coming in a few minutes?’ The man was well spoken.
For some reason that stopped Martin.
‘Yes? Why?’
Simon had dropped his finger and was looking quizzically at the man with the banner.
‘I need you to do me a favour and I’m willing to pay handsomely for it.’
Martin was caught between sense and intrigue. Sense won. He turned again.
‘Let’s go, Simon.’
‘Five grand. Cash.’ The man blurted it out. ‘All I need you to do is hold up this banner so the cameras get a look.’
‘Five grand? Cash?’ Simon had stopped. If Martin wasn’t interested, he was.
‘Yes. This is the banner. It says nothing illegal. Nothing inflammatory. In fact, you won’t understand what it means, without some context. But those watching will.’
A red double-decker drove past. Martin caught sight of the latest advert running along the side. It read: #enoughisenough - vote them out!
‘What’s on the banner?’ Martin was interested now.
Headquarters SIS, Vauxhall, London
The phone rang in his ear with the ‘long tone’ of an overseas mobile. Three times. Four. Five. Frank was starting to get worried.
‘What?! What?’ The speaker barked.
He wasn’t worried anymore.
‘Hi, Sam. Have you got five minutes?’
There was a noise Frank didn’t recognise. It could have been a word. Or a grunt. He wasn’t sure.
‘Give me two minutes. I need a pee. I’ll call you back.’
The phone went dead.
He had fifteen minutes of updates for Sam. He hoped she had something for him from the wedding. The Mafia/Italy link was the one he was pressing hardest with Jane and he wasn’t sure he was getting very far. She hadn’t been convinced by the connection. That both Viktor Molnár and the leader of the FFO had spookily used the exact same words; the first on a major TV speech, the second, in passing, to Sam acting as a Reuters journalist in the Caucasus mountains. Or Sam’s link of the Hungarian PM to the ‘Ndràngheta, via a holiday villa in Calabria. Or the conduit for the four terrorists from Eritrea via Gioia Touro.
He’d raised it at this morning’s cabal. The focus of the meeting had been the threat against ‘a major public figure’, with eyes on the US VP’s visit to meet with the Foreign Secretary in … he checked his screen … ten minutes time.
What had Jane said in reply?
‘Check it out, Frank. Speak to Rome and Budapest and paint a better picture. Where did this come from?’
He’d replied, ‘Sam’. To which there was the slightest of groans from around the room. There was no doubt (was there?) she was well respected in the building. But the events of two years ago, when she’d gone after the oligarch Sokolov having been explicitly instructed not to by all the senior hoods in the building, tainted that reputation. She was seen as a competent maverick. Very good at her job. But not to be trusted fully.
Frank trusted her. With his life.
The phone rang.
He connected.
‘What have you got, Frank?’
She sounded tired. No, that wasn’t right. Wired.
‘You OK, Sam?’
There was a pause.
‘No.’
Frank didn’t know what to say. Sam was always under the cosh. There was always an issue, but she never said so in so many words. She always grinned and bore it.
The pause was uncomfortable.
‘I need to get into the Embassy in Rome.’ Frank heard an exhalation of breath bordering on a sigh. Then she continued. ‘I’ve got some photofitting to do.’ Sam was quiet, and slow. It was as though she was concentrating on every word.
‘Where are you? And have you got transport?’ Frank asked.
There was another pause.
‘This is … bigger than the Mafia, Frank.’
Sensing what was coming was key he dabbed at his middle screen and Cynthia started recording their conversation.
‘I left the wedding, although I’m not sure there was going to be one, a couple of hours ago. I was …’, she coughed, ‘I was chased off Andrea Placido’s villa by an Englishman. His name, according to the wedding guest list, is …’ Her voice broke towards the end of the sentence.
She stopped.
‘Are you all right, Sam?’
‘F Derwent.’ It was a whisper. He hardly picked it up.
Frank hated hearing her like this. She was tough - for sure. And always calm. Focused. He’d only heard her lose it twice. Both of those were associated with the deaths of people she cared for. Her uncle Tony in the plane crash. And Ginny, last year. The girl she’d got close to in Miami. On both those occasions she’d flipped. Anger and single-mindedness had merged into one. There had been outpouring … and everyone got a bit.
This was different. Her mood seemed reclusive. As though she were on the edge of a breakdown. And it hurt like hell.
‘Sorry.’ A sniff. ‘You talk for a bit. I’ll come back to all this.’
‘OK.’ He stiffened himself. ‘Viktor Molnár caught an Alitalia flight from Reggio Calabria to Zurich on 19 August. He returned two days later. He hired a car at Zurich. As you know we don’t have a station in Switzerland so I’m currently struggling to work out where he travelled to. Does this add any colour to the picture?’
There was a further sniff.
‘Sam?’
‘Yeah. That makes sense. Go on.’
‘The calendar. I’ve nothing other than the marker for his time away and the two initials: FD. I’ve run those through Interpol and Europol and came up with a couple of would-be thugs, but no one in Switzerland, and nobody you might think worth dragging the Hungarian PM away from his family vacation for.’
He paused. Waited.
‘Fuck this.’ It was a soft fuck.
‘What, Sam?’
‘FD. F Derwent. How did I not see that?’ It was more mumbling. To herself.
The phone went quiet again. Frank could hear the sound of a bird in the background. And tears? He sensed Sam had pulled the handset away from her face. He imagined her standing in a garden or park somewhere, sobbing uncontrollably with the phone held to her chest.
He listened for a heartbeat.
And waited.
Nothing. Another sniff. A noise as though someone was wiping their nose with a hand. Then more nothing.
‘Let me know when you want to continue, Sam.’
As he waited he opened up Cynthia’s database and typed in F Derwent. There were no entries.
He looked around the room. The place was packed. Leave had been cancelled. Everyone was busy. On a big screen in the corner of the room the BBC was showing the latest from the VP’s visit. According to the red and white headline the VP would be arriving at the FCO in three minutes. The crowd waiting for him had been corralled across from the FCO’s offices on Parliament Street. There were maybe a thousand people held
back by police tape and a thin blue line of bobbies. The crowd wasn’t there to welcome the statesman; their placards and signs made that clear.
Hey?!
Among the, You’re not welcome here!, and, VP go home, was a large two-man banner: big, red, professionally stencilled letters on a white background.
Not the right man, Jane. Try again.
Shit!
Frank took the phone from his ear and pressed it against his shoulder. He was on his feet.
‘Claire!’
Jane’s PA had her the desk as close to Jane’s door as was possible. She looked up - confused.
‘Get Jane onto BBC News. Now! If she hasn’t seen the last 30 seconds of the crowd outside the FCO, get it on catch up.’ Claire wasn’t reacting fast enough for him.
‘It’s important, Claire. Now! Please!’
She was on her feet and in Jane’s office a second later.
‘Frank!’ It was a squeak from his shoulder. He quickly brought the phone back to his ear.
‘Sorry, Sam. It’s a flipping madhouse here at the moment. Sorry.’ He sat down and tried to refocus.
There was a long, loud exhalation of air all the way from Italy. And then she started.
Sam told him about Gareth and Giorgio. About their affair. And then about the shooting in Giorgio’s father’s study.
‘We need to get Rome onto the Carabinieri as soon as possible. The chances of the body still being in the grounds is unlikely, but they have just cause.’ Another sniff. ‘If nothing else, it’s a good reason to start an interrogation of Andrea Placido. I’m absolutely convinced the ‘Ndràngheta are running the operation.’ Sam’s voice was more steady.
‘Jane’s not convinced. Not enough to take it upstairs. Not yet.’
‘She’s wrong.’
A thought caught him. According to Sam the murder was at about 10.30 this morning. It was now past 2.00 pm. Why had it taken Sam so long to get in touch?
‘I tend to agree with you.’ He took a breath. ‘Just a thought, Sam. Why have you waited until now to phone me with the details of Gareth’s murder?’
There was that pause again.
‘I crashed.’ A sniff. ‘A couple of hours ago. More of that in a second. Let me finish what I have. It might all make sense by then.’
‘OK.’ He glanced up. Jane was out of the office. She was heading his way.
‘I was attacked just as Gareth was murdered. Recognised by … by a man.’
Jane was at his side. He didn’t turn away from his screen. Instead he put a hand up to shush her, and then touched his keypad. Sam was now on speaker. It was a combination of words, sniffs and pauses.
‘He was English. Drove a Bentley Continental … are you recording?’
‘Yes. Jane’s here. Carry on.’ He glanced up at Jane. She had a look which spelt, ‘Have we really got time for this now?’. He ignored it.
Sam read out the Bentley’s Swiss number plate.
‘According to the guest list his name is …’ Did she just gulp? ‘A Mr F … F Derwent. He knew who I was. He called me “The Sam Green”, as though I was really well known to him.’ Sam sniffed. ‘He would have done me harm. But, with the help of some Italian good manners, I got away.’
There was another pause. Frank looked at Jane, who shrugged her shoulders.
‘Got that Sam. But, sorry, you still haven’t told me why the delay.’
‘Don’t you sodding get it!?’ A scream of frustration.
Whoa.
Jane put a hand on his shoulder.
‘No, sorry, Sam. There’s a lot going on here …’
‘F. Fucking F. Fucking F for Fucking Freddie. There, I said his name out loud. It was him. I’m sure it was.’
Frank looked around. A couple of colleagues sitting at adjacent desks were looking his way.
Freddie?
‘She means Freddie, from Croatia. The one who got away from Samostan monastery, last year. The one nobody can find any trace of.’ Jane added.
‘What does this mean, Sam?’ Jane asked.
There was another pause and another long exhale.
‘It means my life has just crashed around me. Look, I got away on a scooter. He chased me in his Bentley.’ A sniff. A further pause. ‘He almost caught me. I ended up in a vineyard. Hidden. And then the enormity of it all hit me. I’d been running from Ralph Bell for four years. And then he’s replaced by a man without a face. Haunting me. And then I saw that face … at the wedding … and I crashed.’
‘You mean, off your bike? Are you OK?’ Frank spoke quickly. He was really concerned now.
A kind snort from the other end. Not a demeaning one.
‘No, Frank. My brain shut down. Tiredness. Adrenalin. Fear. You woke me where I dropped. In the vineyard. If you hadn’t phoned, I’m pretty sure I’d be flat out now.’ Another pause. ‘I’m not sure I can cope with this anymore. Where is he now? Is he …?’ She stopped talking. Frank imagined Sam looking around. Searching …
Frank waited. Nothing.
‘Sam?’ Jane this time.
‘I’m here. Just.’
‘Are you in Calabria?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you get to Rome?’
A pause.
‘Yes. I think. I need to get out of my best frock. And lose the bike. But I should be able to get there by late evening.’
‘Good. I’ll give the head of station a call. They’ll be expecting you. Are you still convinced this is Mafia based?’
‘Yes. How FD, F Derwent, fucking … Freddie fits in, I’m not sure. But he’s pulled the big strings before. We know that. And maybe he was the one Molnár went to see in Switzerland? He could well be using the ‘Ndràngheta to make this happen. They have the reach, the cover and the acumen.’
‘Mmm. Let’s see.’ Jane paused in thought. ‘I’m sure Frank has told you we have a lot on here. The ferry, the global ricin attacks and now an indeterminate threat against a major public figure, whatever that means. And the same threat has been issued in the US, China and Australia. None of it makes any sense. And we have a global population on the verge of uprising. If we, the CIA, whoever, don’t come up with something soon, governments will fall.’
‘It’s about money.’ Sam said. ‘This is not ideological. The ‘Ndràngheta haven’t got a Catholic bone in their bodies. It’s about cash. I’m convinced. So we need to find out who and how that works. We should start with the Mafia and Viktor Molnár’s trip to Switzerland. And F …’, she stalled again, ‘… Derwent, if that’s his name. I can photofit him. And two thugs who chased me out of a service station in northern Italy. That may help.’
Sam still sounded flat. Frank was really worried about her. Something pulled at him, like a dog at his shoe laces.
‘Are you feeling better?’ Frank asked.
‘No, Frank. I feel like shit. I know if my mind pauses for a second it will melt quicker than an ice cube in a microwave. It’s irrational. And it’s bloody scary. I know I shut down when I’m knackered, but I can mostly second-guess when that’s going to be.’ There was pause. Frank thought he could here Sam’s bottom lip quivering. ‘This is different. What worries me now is if I stop thinking and start imagining, it’ll all be over and I’ll end up as a gibbering wreck.’
Jane squeezed Frank’s shoulder.
She replied. ‘You can’t afford that. Nor can we. I have a team here, Sam, who are chasing every lead we have. Yours makes sense. It does. But we need more. Get to Rome, now. I’ll have the station there give you a desk and a buddy. You can work together.’
There was a pause and then Sam’s reply was heartfelt, almost a plea.
‘I need Frank?’
Jane didn’t say anything. Frank tensed. Jane must have felt it through his shoulder.
Rome? Me?
The one and only time he’d been in the field, he’d ended up in the basement of a Munich mansion that had been set on fire by a couple of rockets. He’d got out. Just.
The question hung over
them like wet towel. Jane didn’t say anything for a second. She was looking across at the TV in the distance. Someone in the team had replayed the shot of the two men and the banner. They’d paused it.
‘OK. Good idea. Frank?’
He was lost for words.
Rome?
Whatever.
Vineyard, near Tiriolo, Calabria, Italy
Sam put her hands, her mobile held loosely in one of them, on her lap. She leant back, relaxing her head against the hard, limestone wall. She moved her neck until the back of her head found a gap between pointed rocks. Any energy she had left after the phone call with Jane and Frank trickled out of her, leaching into the wall and the soil beneath her.
Rest. Just a bit longer.
Her leaden eyelids closed of their own accord.
Darkness came.
She woke with a start.
Shit!
Dusk would be on its way soon. The temperature was already dropping. Her joints ached.
What time is it?
She checked her phone. It was 5.30 pm. She had lost another three hours. Just gone. Stolen from her by a thief. He’d taken her time and left her with aches in places she didn’t know she had bones. And he’d poisoned her dreams. Freddie, all angular faced and salivating … white flowers with yellow centres turning red with blood ...
Nope.
She didn’t want to think about that.
Action was needed.
Come on.
Frank was probably on his way to Rome and she was about 500 klicks behind him. As always she had her essentials with her in a bum bag, but she was still ridiculously dressed in a red frock and inappropriate shoes. Nothing warm. The shops would all be closed and she had to get to Rome tonight.
First, a plan ...
Think.
No. Her brain was fog. Her limbs weak. And something inside wouldn’t let her press for action. She wanted to stand. To get on. But somewhere in her frontal lobes was an immovable object. It wasn’t adding to the conversation, it was preventing any. Like an over-sized dumpling in a small bowl of stew.
She closed her eyes. Darkness descended.
And then she opened them again.
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 31