by Roger Pearce
‘Any connection?’
‘Sean Molloy’s nephew.’
‘Well he looks bloody wild. Don’t say they’ve dragged me all this way to deal with a nutter?’
‘He doesn’t want to meet you, either. We made the approach to Sean yesterday afternoon.’
Bannerman squeezed the bread flat and took another bite. ‘How?’
‘Through Dublin. Same channel as before. Same alert status. He picked up in less than ten minutes.’
‘Sean always was responsive. But things were different then.’
‘And we’re still paying his pension.’
Bannerman glanced at her naked feet. She had bunions, neat hemispheres polished from rubbing inside her boots, and her toenails were painted bright red. ‘Coming in?’ he said, spreading his legs.
Penny drank her tea. ‘Mark, you need to concentrate. Anyway, Tommy will show.’
‘Says who?’
‘Sean will have him killed if he doesn’t. He’ll listen to what you have to say.’
Bannerman was chewing rapidly, washing the bacon down with tea. Bubbles of soap wobbled on his right eyebrow. ‘Which is?’
‘We need to know if dissident republicans did this.’
Bannerman laughed. ‘I’ve just been reading that they didn’t. Your words, Penny. Everyone in the Emerald Isle denies it, right? Or did I miss something?’
‘They want you to make sure.’
‘Who? Five?’
‘In case something got missed along the way.’
‘You mean they’ve taken their eye off the ball and want me to find it for them.’
‘To discover if the IRA have been kicking it around in London,’ said Penny.
Bannerman sighed. With both palms he streaked his hair back, forming a Dracula V on his forehead. ‘Who fired the distress signal to C?’
The present incumbent was James Harrower, a user-friendly ex-diplomat. He had let it be known around the Office that he wished to be addressed by his first name, but this was a step too far for spooks of Bannerman’s vintage, raised on Cold War paranoia and MI6 deniability.
‘It went straight to Number Ten,’ said Penny.
‘Let me guess. From Toby Devereux?’ A nod. ‘And what answer is he hoping for?’
‘He’s briefed COBRA they have no definitive intelligence against the IRA.’
‘And how pissed off did that leave our hawk at the Home Office?’
‘Very. But Toby can’t be seen to be trashing his own assessment, obviously.’
Bannerman frowned. ‘What does he actually believe?’
‘That Victoria station has their fingerprints all over it. Metaphorically speaking. A “rebuttable presumption” at Thames House, apparently.’
‘It’s arse covering, Toby Devereux in a tizz because the bombers sneaked over from Belfast while he was fretting about social networks in Rotherham.’
‘Whatever. No-one can afford to wait until the dust settles,’ said Penny. ‘The political implications are massive. If you confirm their fears tomorrow…if the unionists get into a strop and Sinn Fein walks away…’
‘And how heavily am I supposed to lean on Tommy Molloy?’
‘You’re not.’ Penny leaned across and took his arm. ‘Listen. You have to tread carefully. None of your jokey post-imperialism icebreakers.’
‘What’s his track record?’
‘Prime suspect in three murders over the past decade. Plus shootings and punishment beatings. Conspiracy to supply explosives and drugs.’
‘So why isn’t he banged up?’
‘Insufficient evidence, I suppose…not sure. The whole thing doesn’t smell right.’
‘Perhaps he’s working for the Garda Siochana and no-one told us.’
Penny shrugged. ‘There’s probably tons we don’t know. He’s not active now but the current bunch of thugs in Belfast are terrified of him. Anyone who crosses Tommy Molloy disappears. He’s unpredictable, irrational. But if the IRA have come back to attack London he will say so.’
‘Unless someone tops him first,’ said Bannerman, finishing his sandwich.
Penny leaned forward in the chair, deadly serious. ‘Don’t be flippant about this. Tomorrow won’t be like dealing with Sean. I was against you going anywhere near the bloody place.’
‘Okay, Penny. What’s my back-up from Dublin?’
‘No cover. You’re on your own, like before.’
Another phone was ringing in the living room. This time it was Penny’s landline and she was back in less than twenty seconds. ‘Giles,’ she mouthed as she handed him the phone.
‘Yup.’ Bannerman activated the speaker so that Penny could hear.
‘Welcome back,’ said Giles, then continued when Bannerman failed to answer. ‘You didn’t pick up earlier.’
‘Too busy reading Penny’s excellent paper.’
‘We want to fill you in here, too, before you leave. How soon can you be at the Office?’
‘No can do. Sorry. Just leaving for London City.’
‘You can drop by with Penny on the way.’
‘Giles, I have to be in Belfast in three hours.’
‘Why?’
‘Catching up with someone.’
‘Who?’ There was a pause and Bannerman could hear voices in the background. ‘You know the stakes here, Mark.’
‘Corpses at Victoria, outrage at Stormont,’ he said shortly. ‘Blowback at Westminster. I can imagine.’
‘We want you to go in hard.’
‘Hard.’ He watched Penny vigorously shaking her head. ‘I thought you wanted a negotiation?’
‘This is the deal. If they’re not responsible for this, then fine. Everything hunky-dory and we all go home. But if this gangster Molloy dissembles…’
‘Dissembles?’
‘…and we find out they did it anyway, then Her Majesty’s Government will retaliate.’
‘Oh, I shan’t be mentioning HMG, Giles.’
‘Let’s be aggressive and not take any shit. Have you got that, Mark?’ Bannerman stayed silent again, reminding himself why he disliked Giles so much. ‘That’s what we want you to say. No shilly-shallying. We fight fire with fire. That’s the message. From James.’
‘Ah, I see.’ The extrovert James Harrower had been profiled in a couple of Sunday broadsheets as tough, no-nonsense and pragmatic. The new broom actually seemed to relish his televised select committee appearances, jacket off, cuffs out, Blair-like and blokeish. ‘And what am I offering in return? That we don’t send the SAS to execute them? Like the good old days?’
‘No need to be facetious.’
‘Nice speaking, Giles, but have to run or I’ll miss the flight.’ Bannerman reached down and pulled out the bath plug. ‘I’ll drop by on the way back to Nairobi. Love to all.’ Click.
Penny handed him a bath towel. ‘Now you can see why I’m so against this.’
Bannerman was slowly shaking his head. ‘Giles brings to mind a bully three years above me at boarding school,’ he said, handing her the phone. ‘Always on the lookout for a spliff and a blow job.’ Ignoring the towel, he raised himself up and turned to her as the water gurgled around his calves.
She touched the smooth skin inside his thighs. ‘I don’t have any cannabis.’
‘No, it’s alright, love,’ he said quietly, looking down, enjoying the pulse of hot blood.
Penny stayed in her chair, watching him, snatching a glance at her watch. ‘Shall we go to bed?’
Chapter Ten
Tuesday, 11 October, 09.12, Claridges, Mayfair
Philip Deering’s modest offices on the third floor of a mansion block in Chapel Row, Mayfair, close to the US embassy, were inconvenient in many ways. The claustrophobic lift still had its original metal concertina gates and occasionally jolted to a halt between floors. The three rooms were poky, poorly insulated, damp and spartan for the specialists and PA who worked there, the annual rent astronomical. Yet Deering dismissed any notion of leasing modern offices further west, toward
s Kensington or Holland Park, because location in the capital’s wealthiest centre had cachet. A Mayfair address was the gold standard in his delicate line of work, and high value clients squeezing with their anxieties into the conference room always left comforted by its old world charm. For that alone, Deering was happy to climb the stairs and quietly elevate his fees.
He liked to lunch in Harry’s Bar, dine at The Wolseley and drink in the Punch Bowl or Running Footman, but top of the list was the working breakfast at Claridges in Brook Street, a ten minute stroll away. He was heading there now through the drizzle, in deep conversation with ‘Sunny’ Jim Walker, the morose chief financial officer and money laundering wizard he had rescued from the rubble of the global banking crash.
Philip Deering was sixty-six and a retired major general, though from his appearance few would guess his age or position. So determined was he to reinvent himself that even his Sandhurst contemporaries, still peering at life through the regimental prism, in civvy outfits as blatant as mess-dress, would barely have recognised him.
‘Do you think he’ll turn up?’ said the accountant as they reached the junction with Grosvenor Street. ‘Must be frenetic over there right now. Horrendous.’
‘A tenner says yes.’ Traffic was heavy and the pedestrian light showing red, but Deering spotted a gap and crossed anyway. Walker was too hesitant and Deering waited for him at the opposite kerb, outside the Post Office.
‘But will he buy it?’
Deering nodded. ‘He’s greedy.’
The major general had been assiduous in masking his Service life, a bubble of power, status and entitlement. There was no spit and polish on Deering’s shoes or chalk stripe in his suit, and the grey, crinkly hair was in need of a trim. In the space of a single summer the plummy-voiced, unchallenged supremo had left town for good, ousted by the deal-maker in tasselled loafers and high street raincoat. ‘Shabby-chic’ his wife jokily called him, dressed to match the furniture in their Fulham home. Amelia, the present Mrs Deering, was third in line to Deborah, the colonel’s daughter he had married as a young subaltern, and Kaltrina, a sexy Albanian interpreter who had caught his eye while serving in Kosovo in the summer of ’99. Amelia was the widow of Deering’s closest friend in 1 Para and had a couple of car-crash liaisons behind her, too. They had been going strong for eleven years and Deering knew this marriage would last because his fallen comrade bound them together, loyalty ensuring faithfulness.
Breakfast was served in the hotel’s beautiful art deco Foyer and Reading Room, and Deering’s usual table was awaiting him, in a corner beside a giant blue flower arrangement just inside the soaring entrance arches. His position gave an uninterrupted view of the beautiful Chihuly chandelier, ornate lobby fireplace, and any guest drifting within eavesdropping distance. At first glance the choice of place appeared unnecessarily open: all the tables were set apart, and those alongside the far wall offered complete discretion. But only Deering’s spot allowed a rapid getaway without drama, should the business deal take a dangerous turn.
Philip Deering was the founder and CEO of Wymark Corporate Solutions, a boutique company offering services in business intelligence, corporate risk and protective security. There was no website or other marketing because Deering accepted commissions by word of mouth only. Consumers included a Russian oligarch reeking of KGB, the risk and compliance heads of three investment banks, a football coach, a couple of hedgies, a phone-hacked celebrity and a high-ranking fugitive from Egypt’s Arab Spring. His most recent signing was a trust fund manager intent on suing her husband to death.
Wymark’s core associates deployed an army of freelancers to carry out its work: due diligence for the patron or disinformation against the rival; personal protection or invasive surveillance. The fee structure covered every permutation. To the privileged few who took their chance in the creaking Chapel Row lift Deering used ‘boutique’ because it sounded non-Army and implied a uniquely personal service to satisfy ‘niche requirements.’ And he uttered ‘niche’ as a whisper that boundaries could be pushed, favours pulled and laws stretched to satisfy Wymark’s élite hierarchy of clients.
Walker ordered tea, almond croissants and brioche while waiting for their guest, checking every few moments for the anticipated ‘no show’ text while his boss surveyed the foyer. Suddenly Deering spotted a flurry of movement by the fireplace. With a laugh like a small explosion he slid the chair back and got to his feet in one movement. ‘You lose, mon ami’ he murmured to Walker as he dabbed his mouth and let the napkin drop. By the time their guest reached the arch Deering’s hand was already outstretched, his face glowing with bonhomie. ‘You made it,’ he said, ‘Marvellous.’
Derek Finch, deputy assistant commissioner and head of counter-terrorism, dubbed the ‘Bull’ within the Yard because of his untrammelled aggression, took the remaining chair facing into the restaurant, unbuttoned his jacket and let the waiter pour his tea.
‘Sunny and I watched you on the seven o’clock bulletin,’ said Deering when they were alone. ‘Never thought you’d make it.’
Finch gave a modest shrug. ‘Just another day.’ He smiled, placed his mobile on the table and did a take of the room, a minor celebrity checking his fan base. ‘This is important.’
‘And after yesterday’s trauma our need is all the greater.’
Finch ordered eggs Benedict and Deering his usual omelette made with Scottish haddock, Sunny contenting himself with muesli and yoghurt. This was not the first time they had broken bread together. Deering’s overture in late spring had been supper in the top room of The Other Place, a private club in a narrow alley off the Strand, behind the Adelphi Theatre, where Finch had swallowed the bait even before the arrival of the hors d’oeuvres.
‘So what do you think?’ said Deering.
Finch was piling soft butter on a chunk of brioche. ‘I don’t think this affects our time scale.’
‘Sorry, Derek. I mean the investigation. If it’s not too…’
‘You saw the news,’ said Finch, eating the bread in one mouthful.
‘But this is the return of the IRA to our shores, right? Known code words, the same MO? Is that your working assumption?’
‘Everyone’s in denial,’ continued Finch, chewing rapidly. He glanced at his watch, a chunky, expensive Breitling. ‘COBRA can’t even face the thought.’
‘So you’re the breaker of bad news.’
‘Oh, I’m not jumping to conclusions.’
‘Quite.’
‘And no way is this for politicians to decide.’
‘Absolutely. Good to hear.’
Finch straightened his cuffs and drained his tea. In a few months he would be flying in Philip Deering’s slipstream, yet the two men had reached this point from opposite trajectories. The badges of prestige shunned by Deering still meant everything to Derek Finch, who deployed his double breasted pinstripe suit with monogrammed silk ties and retro braces to shout power and success.
The youngest offspring of a bus driver and care assistant, Finch had scrambled his way into the Yard’s inner circle by self-promotion, trashing of rivals and a borderline pass in Criminology at Cambridge. Shaky around political correctness, unsound on diversity but a fixture in the Masonic Lodge, Finch had slipped through on a raft of bullshit and tokenism that fooled no-one, including the cronies steering him. Yet for all his success he lacked Philip Deering’s inner confidence, seeing every provocation as a red rag. The runt of the litter had shredded flesh to become leader of the pack, but everyone still despised him as the Bull.
Deering stayed silent, hands lying still on the crisp white table cloth while Finch briefed him on the investigation. He spoke openly, as if Deering and his associate had a need to know, only pausing briefly while the waiter brought their orders. On the coded bomb warning he was word perfect. Vigorously polishing his fork with the napkin, he held nothing back about the forensic recovery at the scene, difficulties in identifying the most mutilated victims and the placing of the bombs in polythen
e rubbish sacks. He led them through the scene, speculating that the second device had been intended to murder his bomb disposal officers, then walked them around the detail of his exchanges with MI5 and GCHQ.
Deering worked hard to disguise his contempt for the man. The sole purpose in cultivating Finch had been to extract such disclosures, yet the scale of his indiscretion always took him by surprise. Scotland Yard’s head of counter-terrorism was exploiting insider knowledge to pitch for the plum job Deering had already offered him. He was behaving like a prostitute inflating the price, and Deering had rarely listened to anything so flagrant and undignified. ‘Thank you for being open,’ he said when he had heard enough. ‘And for trusting us. I think we can offer you something in return.’
Finch’s face clouded in midbite. ‘Haven’t we already agreed that?’
Deering nodded, reminding himself that if Finch ever made the conversion to Wymark’s security consultant, he would require a tight leash. ‘I’m talking about the here and now,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘Sunny and I believe we can add value to your inquiry, or at least narrow the search.’
‘Sorry. Not with you.’
‘The perpetrators. I would have called you, but here we are anyway. Serendipity.’ Deering tried his omelette and glanced at Walker. ‘I’ve had a call from an associate across the water. A friend, actually, from the old days. Intelligence Corps.’
‘Which section?’
‘14 Det.’
‘Long gone.’ Finch had begun liberally spooning hollandaise sauce onto his eggs.
‘But with operatives still very connected.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Doesn’t matter. This friend has access to people on the ground, Derek. Far deeper than the police or MI5 and a hundred percent more reliable.’
‘And what’s he telling you?’
‘Yesterday’s attack was planned and carried out by republican dissidents controlled from west Belfast. That’s the shorthand. You can throw out any other theory.’
‘Names?’