Sam glanced at her watch.
27.35. Keep going. She was less than three minutes out from the Embassy. Turn right at the end of the road, and then right again.
She was sweating. The rain had stopped first thing and the sun was out. It wasn’t particularly warm, but she was working hard. Her breathing was linked to her strides. Four strides; one breath - two strides in, two strides out. Four strides - another breath. Someone had once told her to run at six strides per breath. She had tried that for a couple of weeks before recognising dizzy spells mid-run probably wasn’t a good sign. So she’d stuck to four.
This morning she was concentrating on working her body hard; watching where her feet landed and keeping an eye out for further obstructions. But that didn’t stop her mind from unpicking the last couple of hours.
Getting the photofit right had been a struggle. She’d walked away three times. Each time Frank had been incredibly patient. Each time she’d sat back down again and, with her hand on her wound, she’d squeezed: a finger and a thumb. The pain was sharp and disturbing. But it provided just about enough focus.
She only hoped Frank hadn’t noticed.
By the end the 3-D image was perfect. And she was washed out. Her lethargy was debilitating; it felt almost insurmountable. She looked at the comfy chair she’d slept in last night and felt its gravitational pull. She was just about to ask Frank for ten minutes when his trio of case-worker helpers came into the office. There had been brief introductions, followed by the bizarrest of conversations.
‘You’re Sam Green? The Sam Green?’ It was the tallest and eldest of the three: two piece Italian suit, black leather belt with a Gucci buckle, a pink, cotton shirt with a collar that was so cut back it was almost non-existent, and regulatory sunglasses in his suit’s breast pocket.
Sam hadn’t known what to say. So she didn’t say anything.
‘You are, aren’t you?’
Do I have to?
Really? Now?
‘I guess so.’ It was a tired but honest answer.
‘You’re the case officer who tracked down the North African with the dirty bomb. In a campervan. Here in Rome?’
‘Wow.’ The third of the three, the youngest; same attire but with permanent sunglasses.
‘I thought the files were closed? Orange markers and all that.’ Sam was convinced her whole op-file had been shut away in the bottom of a secure filing cabinet somewhere. The key melted in acid. Her checkered history buried and forgotten.
‘Not anymore. I’ve just come back from Fort Monkton. I was an instructor there. Your history is now essential reading for all trainee case officers.’
What?
‘I’m surprised.’ She was.
‘Yes. I hope you don’t mind?’ The man had an open face. He obviously wanted to talk some more.
Sam shook her head. This was going to be very dull.
‘Yes. We study your methods - how to use initiative. MOs for operating as a singleton. We spend a couple of days looking at The Church of the White Cross timeline. From Berlin through to Venezuela, over a three year period. Studying independent thought and tenacity.’
‘Wow.’ The youngster with sunglasses again. Sam couldn’t tell if he were taking the mickey, or was genuinely in awe of her. The shades made it difficult to say.
‘I’m betting it’s not all good news?’ She asked.
‘Uh, no. We spend an afternoon looking at ethics, responsibility and trust.’
How appropriate.
‘You mean, blindly following orders? Or not?’ Sam’s response would have been tarter if she’d had the energy.
‘Yes. We look at that as a case study. We encourage our students not to take matters into their own hands. That SIS protocols should be followed. Etcetera.’
‘Wow.’ The young lad was gently shaking his head.
Great.
‘Great.’
‘I have to say, I think saving the German Chancellor’s life by working out who the assassin was was an act of genius.’ The first man was obviously impressed.
Sam was stuck again - lost for words.
‘Does any of the material mention Frank, here.’ Sam pointed.
The first man looked confused.
‘No. I don’t recall it does.’
‘Well you should all know Frank was as much involved in Berlin, Moscow, Rome, Munich, The Bahamas and Venezuela as I was. He was central to gathering the necessary intelligence. I followed his lead and, by chance, I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.’
‘Wow.’ A deeper wow this time. Real respect from the man in the sunglasses.
He’s irritating me now.
Frank moved about in his seat, obviously uncomfortable with the accolades.
‘Well …’, the first man stuck out his hand, ‘... it’s great to meet the legend.’
Sam sighed inwardly.
If I must.
She offered her hand and they shook.
The third man offered his hand. Sam ignored him.
‘Well, now that you’re here, and other than Frank’s lists of tasks from last night, is there anything in particular we can do for you?’ The first man had completed his adulation. It was time for action.
Sam thought for a second.
She looked at the third man.
‘Do you mind taking your sunglasses off?’ She was as polite as she could be.
‘Sure. Sure.’ He whipped them off and put them in his breast pocket.
‘I need some running kit. Now. Size six shoes. Male or female. Don’t care. I need a top, a t-shirt will do. Shorts and a pair of socks.’ She had her bum bag open.
‘Are you sure? After last night?’ Frank interrupted her personal shopping order.
Bless him.
She was completely sure. It was either a beasting on pavement or a sharp knife. The first would be much better for her.
She put a soft hand up in Frank’s direction and, with her other hand, fished out a one-hundred Euro note. She offered it to the third man.
‘Well, OK. Like, wow.’
He took the money, but didn’t move.
‘Now. Please.’
‘Oh, sure. Like. I’m going.’
And he did.
Whilst the puppy went off to get her running kit, Frank updated the two remaining case officers on where they were and what he and Sam had planned to do. The Carabinieri were due upstairs at 10.00 am to take a statement from Sam about the incident in Villa Feradina, and Gareth Jones’s murder. After that they were heading off to Switzerland. Exactly where in Switzerland was not yet clear, but they hoped to get further direction from Babylon during the day.
Frank reiterated his instructions to the team. They were to continue to press every button and break as many protocols as they needed to either get the Italian intelligence infrastructure to break into the Mafia and/or specifically target Andrea Placido. Or do it themselves via on-the-books agents. They were to identify phone numbers, cars, number plates, villas - anything that might add some structure to how the ‘Ndràngheta were coordinating the NT attacks. This included their control of Gioia Touro.
And Frank had given the eldest case officer a new instruction.
In one of the breaks during the tortuous photofitting experience, Sam had mentioned to Frank about the Brit-Swiss-man’s cufflinks.
After she’d described them, Frank had said, ‘You mean a daisy?’
‘No, not a blooming daisy.’ Just then she had been feeling particularly tired and irritable. ‘I know a sodding daisy when I see one.’
‘What about a sunflower?’
‘I’m not a complete idiot!’
‘A cornflower?’
‘I don’t know. What’s a cornflower look like? Aren’t they blue? If it’s white-petalled with a yellow centre, then maybe?’
Frank didn’t answer. Instead he worked his magic with his keyboard. A few seconds later the screen was a bloom of white and yellow flowers - all similar, but all different.
<
br /> Sam put her hand on his shoulder and leant forward.
‘Scroll down.’
Oops. Not so sharp, Sam.
‘Please.’
The images moved upwards.
‘There. That’s it. What’s that?’ Sam pointed at a flower that looked like a small, but complicated daisy.
Frank enlarged it.
‘It’s an edelweiss.’ Frank said.
‘What? As in The Sound of Music?’
‘Yes. You know the Alps … Switzerland. That would make sense under the circumstances?’ Frank replied.
‘To split hairs The Sound of Music was based in Austria. Although I think Julie Andrews did a reverse-Hannibal and took the kids into Switzerland at the end.’ Sam added.
‘Why edelweiss?’ Frank asked.
‘Beats me.’ Sam let go of Frank’s shoulder and took a pace back. ‘It’s obviously an alpine flower, so the Swiss connection is a good one. It could be decorative.’ She paused. ‘Maybe.’ She thought some more. ‘I tell you what. We should do a complete Cynthia search on edelweiss. See if there’s anything in her records. And get one of your team to check all of the 296 companies and accounts to see if they have edelweiss as their logo. In fact, let’s find any industrial or company linkage to the flower, anywhere in the world. Just in case.’
And that was the additional instruction Frank had given to the first case officer. Find any associative connection between Op Peacock and edelweiss - anywhere.
Sam turned the last corner. She could pick out the Embassy a couple of blocks down.
She lengthened her stride.
Three hundred metres.
She pushed some more, slowing only to slip between a couple of parked cars and cross a side street.
One hundred metres.
Shit!
She half-skidded, half-stumbled to a halt. And then threw herself into an arched doorway of some Roman mansion.
She was breathing through her ears as well as her mouth - anything to get her breath back. She kept herself pressed against the side of the arch closest to the Embassy - out of sight of the main entrance.
Out of sight of the silver BMW 530 that had just pulled up to enter through the main gate.
Her breathing was more regular now. But her heart rate was over 100 - she had to get that down.
She dropped to one knee. If they’d spotted her they’d be searching at head height. It was a simple military camouflage technique.
She leant forward.
The Beemer was still there; its driver and passenger facing forward. The security guard was walking around the car with a mirror on a stick, looking under the sills for IEDs.
She studied the driver. No change from her initial glance.
The man from the service station in Ferrara. For sure.
She couldn't see, but she’d bet a day’s wages the passenger was the woman who had chased her through the service station’s kitchen.
Who are you?
She pulled back into the archway, picked out her phone from her bum bag and speed-dialled Frank ...
… who picked up straight away.
‘Are you all right, Sam?’
She took a breath. She hadn’t recovered as quickly as she thought she had.
‘There’s a silver BMW 5-series just coming into the compound. A man and probably a woman. I need you to find out who they are. Now.’
‘Where are you, Sam?’
‘Outside the Embassy. I’m not coming in until I know who they are.’ She cut Frank off before she got any more supplementaries. She needed him to act now.
She popped her head out again. The car was through security and was parking up. It took a couple of attempts; space in the Embassy grounds was tight. Both doors opened.
Gotcha.
The man and the woman. Déjà vu.
Her phone rang. It was Frank.
‘What have you got?’
‘They’re AISE. Two officers. They’re coming here. Just as you left the building for your run we got a call from the Carabinieri. The AISE have pulled rank. They want to interview you about Gareth’s murder.’
Sam thought for a second.
‘Did they say anything about taking me to the Ministry of Defence? Maybe to use their facilities?’
‘Wait. I didn’t take the call.’
Sam waited. In the pause she put a finger to her neck to check her pulse. It was now at about 85. That was good.
The phone chirped.
‘Yes. That’s what they want to do. And, sorry, I didn’t know that. We won’t allow it.’
Sam slumped onto the cold floor of the steps and put the phone on her shoulder. She closed her eyes.
‘Sam?’ A squawk from Frank.
She didn’t move.
Come on. That voice again. From somewhere in a recess.
She put the phone to her ear.
‘OK, Frank. Here’s what I want you to do. Get your team to welcome them. Get all of their details. Every last thing. Then they need to spin a yarn. Give them coffee. Move rooms. Move back again. Blah, blah. Make it slow. Get them to make excuses. And get the puppy …’
‘The what?’ Frank interrupted.
‘Sorry. The young lad in the team. Permanent sunglasses. Get him to let a tyre down in the Beemer. Maybe two. Right down. So the car won’t move. In the meantime, get all of your and my stuff, and any surveillance kit you can carry, and stick it in whatever inconspicuous Embassy car you can find. And get out of there as soon as you can.’
‘What? Why, Sam?’
‘There’s no time to explain, Frank. But it’s imperative that you leave the building before the AISE thugs do.’
A1 Autostrade, 50 kilometres north of Rome, Italy
Sam pressed one of the many buttons on the central consul of the Range Rover. The LED screen above the heating vents changed from a satnav map to a rear view camera. She pressed it again. The screen now showed the front right bit of road zooming along at 115 kilometres per hour. It made her feel dizzy. She pressed it again. The aspect changed, but the motion-sickness factor didn’t.
She ignored the button and felt the faux-leather covering on the front dash. It was of the highest quality. She then pressed her electric window button. The glass descended with a grace that wouldn’t be amiss in a ballet class. Frank’s hair blew about in the newly introduced cold wind. She touched the button again; the window stopped. She nudged it upwards. The window closed. No squeaks. No judders.
It was a beautiful car.
‘Do you want to drive?’ Frank’s question bordered on exasperation. To counterbalance his tone, he looked across at her and smiled.
She forced a smile back.
‘No. Thanks.’ She leant forward and turned the radio on. It was set to 102.5 FM. They were playing Up Town Funk with Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars. The latter was doing his, take a sip, sign a check ... Julio, get the stretch.
She studied the scrolling information that came with the RDS signal. It read: Very Normal People.
The station’s strapline clearly didn’t include her, but she tapped her feet anyway.
‘I didn’t see you as a Bruno Mars fan?’ Frank quipped.
Sam snorted. But she still kept tapping her feet, her right knee rising in time to the music.
I'm too hot … hot damn.
Called a po-lice, and a fi-re-man.
‘Is this the best you could do against the very clear instructions to get an inconspicuous car?’ Sam asked.
Girls hit your hallelujah - whoo.
Frank was tapping the steering wheel now. Sam glanced at him. He was mouthing the words.
‘It’s all they had. The Ambassador’s out of the country. Everything else was taken.’
'Cause uptown funk gon' give it to you.
Sam stared straight ahead. The damn song was playing with her rhythm bone.
'Cause uptown funk gon' give it to you.
Frank was now singing it, quietly. He obviously wanted to belt it out, but was too embarrassed to do s
o. It was a chink of joy in an armour of misery. She smiled.
The brass section were now doing their bit. It was so catchy.
And it was loud.
Frank must have turned the radio up using the steering controls. She let the music engulf her.
Well it's Saturday night and we in the spot.
Don't believe me just watch … come on!
‘Do, do, doh … do, do, doh.’ Frank was in the groove.
She shook her head and smiled again.
The song ran its course and once it was finished Frank turned the radio down.
‘How are you doing?’ Frank asked.
‘Fine.’ She replied much too quickly.
There was quiet for a bit. The Range Rover’s soundproofing was exceptional. They were in their own private jet, flying above the autostrade at a million miles an hour.
‘John and I dressed the wound on your leg last night.’
Sam said nothing. She fixed a stare out of the side window and watched the world fly by.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ His voice was soft and full of concern.
No.
She concentrated on the crash barrier. It was a blur. Like everything at the moment.
‘Did Derwent do it to you?’
That was it.
Enough!
She tried to stop the tears, but she couldn’t. She didn’t break down. She didn’t blubber. Her tears came in a trickle, as though someone had gently turned on a tap. Like you would if you wanted to add water to your Scotch, but were concerned about drowning it.
She turned away as far as she could without looking behind.
Why?
Why was she crying? How could she go from the high of desperately wanting to sing slightly out of tune with Bruno Mars, to running along the bottom of a seabed gasping for air?
Frank was a darling. He always had been. He was, without doubt, the nicest person she knew. He had never let her down. When she had needed him, he had always been there. And he had never questioned her actions or her motives. And now, when she so wanted to talk to someone about how she really felt, he was inadvertently offering her a way out.
That’s it. Brit-Swiss-man had done it.
But she couldn’t lie. She couldn’t.
The crash barrier was a silver-grey smudge. Life rushed passed.
Frank’s phone pinged.
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 35