by Roger Pearce
Instead, he opened the door and called into the outer office. ‘Donna. Mr Finch has something he wants to say to you.’
Chapter Fifty-Three
Friday, 21 October, 13.43, Clacton Airfield
Racing east along the A12 towards the Essex coast, Kerr flashed past a stream of foreign trucks bound for the Harwich ferry. With Justin’s safety on his conscience, Kerr had decided to rely on the tracker sewn into his operative’s coat, rather than deploy the Reds to follow him away from the aircraft. Reliance on technology rather than feet on the ground was a calculated risk, though he guessed that Justin, wary of a foreign activist being sharp-eyed as a hawk, would also prefer things this way.
Such decisions were pieces in the game of chance Kerr had played all his working life and yet, for this operation, he needed to see Justin’s safe landing with his own eyes. It was professional duty bound with personal obligation, a mark of the nagging, 24/7 worry about the young man he had deliberately sent into harm’s way. He slowed to seventy as a sudden gust of wind buffeted the Alfa, pestering him with self-doubt. Did spying on Gina Costello justify a rookie pilot risking his life over the North Sea? Undercover deployments were about symmetry, balancing hoped-for revelations with real physical hazard, and he felt the scales tip as the wind struck again and rain streaked the windscreen. He slowed for the A120 slip road, scowling at the rolling clouds.
The airfield and Aero Club lay west of Clacton-on-Sea, opposite the golf course and a short stroll from the beach. Popular with townie pilots seeking a day at the coast, its only drawbacks, according to Justin, were the offshore wind farm and right of way for dog walkers crossing the grass landing strip. Surrounded by fields, the airfield stretched at right angles from the coastal road. Only two vehicles occupied the gravel car park, a VW Golf with a Clacton Airshow sticker beside a battered two door Fiat Uno.
Looking for a hiding place, Kerr drove past the modest clubhouse and reversed along a potholed, overgrown track to conceal the Alfa behind a screen of brambles. He ducked through a jungle of bushes and saplings to higher ground, searching the horizon for Justin’s aircraft. Like an outgoing tide, a sea of blue sky over the town was receding before a grey blanket of cloud from the north, heralding the next batch of showers. The breeze freshened as he crested the slope, quickening the wind turbines out to sea and filling the airfield’s orange windsock.
He had been there less than three minutes when Alan Fargo called to confirm that Justin’s call sign had been picked up, closing on the Essex coast.
‘Brilliant,’ said Kerr, sweeping the sky.
‘There’s something else,’ said Fargo before Kerr could ring off.
‘Did you authorise a Trig deployment?’
A ‘Trig, ’or ‘Triangulator,’ was a handheld unit capable of tracking a mobile phone anywhere in Europe, even when it was switched off. The devices were retained in a safe in Room 1830, and their deployment required written authorisation.
Kerr put a finger in his other ear. ‘Come again?’
‘Dodge dropped by, waiting for me when I got back from the the Fishbowl.’
‘Dodge? He doesn’t do gadgets.’
‘Says you okayed it last night.’
‘How did he look?’
‘Terrible.’
‘What’s the reason?’
‘Testing a new source he’s not happy about.’
‘In that case,’ said Kerr, ‘it must be down to me.’
Seconds later he spotted the Cessna far out to sea, a white dot flying into the wind from the west, then forming and droning as it tilted left to line up with the grass strip. He glimpsed Justin over the dipping wing, flaps down as he throttled back for the glide, crabbing right into the crosswind, then straightening to float in a near perfect touchdown. The Cessna gave a little skid on the damp grass and bounced once, twice, before slowing gently to a halt with a hundred metres to spare.
Kerr breathed easily again as they taxied to the right of the airstrip and parked alongside an identical aircraft. He could make out the three occupants as they jumped down onto the grass, then strolled towards the car park and climbed into the Fiat. Bumping back along the track, Kerr was just in time to see Costello pull onto the main toad and take the route into town.
Keeping five vehicles behind in the slow-moving traffic, Kerr followed them along Marine Drive, lined by Victorian villas, apartment blocks and pastel hotels. Beyond the pier they swung left, heading out of town for London, and Kerr prepared to break away as the traffic thinned, leaving nothing to chance.
To his surprise, they turned into the mainline station and parked in the drop-off bay. Costello’s door was already open as Kerr swerved to the far side of a green facing the Victorian entrance. Costello released the driver’s seat, then Justin unfolded himself from the back, flipped his sunglasses down and stretched. Kerr saw Costello press something into his hand, then hug him close. By the time she rejoined the road, Justin had disappeared into the station and Kerr was texting him a letter S, the signal for ‘area safe, urgent contact.’ Window shopping outside an estate agent, he found Justin in the reflection and strolled back to the Alfa. ‘What’s going on?’ he said, driving off before Justin could pull his door shut.
‘They kicked me out. Gina gave me money for the train.’
‘But they’re friendly?’
‘I got them down in one piece,’ said Justin, buckling up. ‘Why wouldn’t they be?’
Kerr turned left, retracing the route to the seafront. ‘Couldn’t you have just sat tight?’
‘It wasn’t Gina. Perhaps they want to talk personal. Whatever.’ He was speaking rapidly, still pumped up from the flight. ‘You don’t argue with this guy.’
‘Don’t know where they’re going, either.’
‘I left the coat on the floor, scrunched beneath the seat. The tracker wakes up when they reach London and you’ll have their location within a couple of metres.’ He glanced sideways, drawn by Kerr’s look of scepticism. ‘Boss, I should know. Camberwell designed the software.’
Kerr laughed. ‘Hungry?’
They drove into town, settling for fish and chips at the Cheeky Chappie Chippy by the pier entrance. The place had capacity for about thirty diners but was less than half full, with most customers ordering takeaway. Kerr found them a corner table overlooking the seafront.
‘So how did it go?’ he said, as Justin unstrapped his watch and removed the link housing the Sim card reader.
‘Well, I greased it down, didn’t I?’
Kerr’s eyes followed the queue snaking out of the door. ‘I watched you.’
Justin chuckled. Evidently shattered from the flight, he had stayed silent in the car while Kerr contacted the office and terminated Bill Ritchie’s urgent call about the Bull’s visit; now, the mug of sweet builder’s tea re-energised him. ‘Side wind, six knots and gusting, practically a full load.’
‘Not bad,’ said Kerr.
‘Good solo experience for the log.’
‘Cool. How about the passenger?’
‘Gina calls him Luca. Speaks French but doesn’t look it. Understands English but doesn’t let on.’
‘How close to Costello?’
‘They’re acquainted.’
Kerr blew on his tea. ‘Friends or lovers?’
‘Activists.’
‘Not drugs, then?’
Justin shook his head. ‘It’s the political cause every time. Anti-cap, like me.’
‘Yet Gina’s never mentioned him before, which must be disappointing.’
‘She trusted me to bloody fly him here, didn’t she?’ said Justin, reddening. The food arrived before he could say more, and he seemed to check himself. ‘These people live in silos. Same as us.’
Framed on the wall facing Kerr was a review featuring the patron with a fresh cod and wide smile (‘Five Stars for Clacton’s Triple C’). He shifted his chair. ‘So what have you brought us? A hashtag warrior or the real deal?’
‘Well, we’re certainly not ta
lking your radical chic, piss and wind revolutionary.’ Justin ripped a couple of sachets of sauce with his teeth and squeezed them over the chips. ‘Luca is the genuine article. Been there, done it, didn’t hang around for the T-shirt.’ He began eating hungrily. ‘Remember, back in the day, when European militants actually relished taking on the state? Well, I’ve just delivered a nine carat zealot, a mean, partisan bastard who needs to stay beneath the radar.’
‘You managed all that from his French?’
‘His silence.’ Justin shook his head, sucking air to cool the batter. ‘Which is why I’m supposed to be on the train right now, not exchanging life stories in the back seat of the Fiat.’ He swirled a piece of cod in brown sauce. ‘So. That’s my initial readout. Luca in a nutshell. Quality.’
‘So not big on email?’
‘Or phone, or social media,’ said Justin, chewing fast. ‘But you don’t need a Twitter account. I’ve got Gina.’
‘Later,’ murmured Kerr, hesitating as fairground noise suddenly blasted through the open door.
‘You what?’
‘Has she ever talked about a woman called Benita?’
‘Spanish?’ Justin looked out to sea, frowning. ‘Who is she?’
‘Maria Benita Consuela. We think she’s involved in the Home Sec’s murder.’
‘And why would Gina know her?’
While Justin cleared his plate, Kerr briefly talked him through Gemma Riley’s raw information on Benita and her divorced husband, Maximo. By the end, Justin wore the look of a student who had just won the argument. ‘Terrific. She has to be the missing link here. The connection to everything,’ he said, the moment Kerr picked up his fork again. ‘Al told me the op name?’
‘Javelin.’
‘Right. So Benita takes the heat off Gina, right? And me? Why hasn’t she been nicked?’
‘Hold on. Max moved to Pontevedra. Doesn’t that ring any bells?’
Justin looked through the window at a couple of fishermen ambling along the seashore. ‘The claim about euros being deposited in Gina’s name?’
‘Not claim. Fact.’
‘Coincidence. Like her stepfather being a director at Dolphin and Drew.’
‘The bank is in the old town,’ said Kerr, ‘and someone just paid in twenty-three thousand euros.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday.’
Justin left Kerr waiting as he gazed over the grey sea again. ‘Okay, so the money could be for, I dunno, our political justice campaign.’
‘Or terrorism.’
‘Or a scam. A hundred things unconnected to the murder of Avril Knight.’
‘We also talked about a call to an IRA man in Bogota, remember? From Marin, only a few miles down the coast?’
Justin nodded.
‘The caller was a Frenchman. Luca?’
Justin groaned. ‘Or a million others.’
‘Until we get voice recognition. But I’m going to lift them in the next few days. Costello and Luca.’
Justin stared at him. ‘Which will cause me a massive problem.’
‘No, Justin,’ said Kerr, quietly. ‘You’re not in the equation.’
The fryer suddenly hissed and crackled as someone threw in a fresh batch of chips. Justin sat back in disbelief. ‘Boss, did you just fire me?’
‘You told me the man is dangerous. I can’t let them run. It’s unsafe.’
‘Bollocks. And I’ve already said Gina’s not into terrorism. Or drugs.’
‘She organised Luca’s infiltration. That’s your own info.’
‘No. At the very most, she’s being used, same as me.’
‘But I can’t take that risk.’
‘So is this it? Six months work down the pan?’
Kerr paused to watch a dinghy tacking from the pier. ‘The problem is, I don’t have the Echo Chip on her computer. Without cover, I can’t let them run.’
‘It’s too risky…I already told you…especially now. Jesus, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.’ His voice had risen above the buzz of conversation around them, drawing a sharp glance from a young mother in a Barbour with a buggy the size of a small car. Kerr nodded an apology and, when he turned back, Justin’s shades had dropped over his eyes again. ‘I just gave you her bloody phone log.’
‘Not enough. Can you do it this weekend? For real time, three sixty monitoring I need the EC in her laptop. Key strikes and audio.’
‘Why can’t we do a technical on the flat?’
‘No time.’
‘And if I say yes?’
‘I’ll make a case to the commander to keep your op running.’
‘So now it’s an ultimatum. He’s agreed to this?’
‘That’s the deal. In the meantime, work on an exit strategy. Come up with a reason not to be around them.’
‘Boss, I asked if Mr Ritchie knows.’
‘Prepare to disappear. Family emergency, whatever, while we think of something plausible for the long term.’
‘This is so unfair.’
‘You need a rest,’ said Kerr, dropping cash on the table.
Justin gave a harsh laugh. ‘Now I’ve done your dirty work.’
It was drizzling again as they walked to the car park and sat in silence, staring out to sea through the crescents left by the wipers. ‘Where to? Safe house or Louise?’ said Kerr, eventually.
‘Gina’s.’ In the shade, Justin’s eyes had disappeared behind the glasses, and the straggly beard left his face unreadable. ‘I have to recover your tracker, remember?’
Kerr started the engine, then studied him for a moment. This was Justin in disguise and denial, hiding his anger from Kerr and the truth about Costello from himself.
‘Justin, it’s not personal,’ said Kerr. ‘You’ve done a fantastic job. Nothing changes that.’
‘No. It’s over,’ he said flatly, clunking his door open. ‘I’ll take the train.’
Chapter Fifty-Four
Saturday, 22 October, 07.46, Dodge’s Apartment, Harrow
Trig, the cellphone triangulator that Dodge had lifted on false pretences from 1830, was smaller than his ageing Samsung Galaxy with the idiot’s-guide screen commands, yet it still left Dodge perplexed, as if Fargo had asked him to babysit Mercury for a couple of hours. The device enabled real-time tracking by locking onto an agent’s mobile phone, and the source unit regularly ‘Trigged’ new prospects or recent signings whose conduct was suspicious. His four agent runners were experienced millennials who treated HUMINT like any other business, except that the best clients were idealists or extremists, and the cash inducement was often laced with coercion. Such integrity tests were the secret world’s version of commercial due diligence, and Trig data often showed the client to be cheating, betraying or double-dealing. Dodge, a leftover from the analogue generation, had never used Trig or its earlier, less reliable versions. In a lifetime pitching bad people on both sides of the Irish Sea, agent-running’s heaviest hitter had trusted instinct over technology, right up until the day Bobby Roscoe ransacked his life and blitzed his self-respect.
He had spent most of Friday afternoon in his hidey-hole at the Yard, fiddling with the device in baffled isolation before calling his most experienced handler for help. Helen Farr, already concerned about her boss’s erratic behaviour, had scooted from the main office to give him a rapid tutorial with black coffee on the side. ‘Thanks,’ he had grunted, feeding in Roscoe’s mobile number. ‘And sorry for being a grumpy bastard.’
‘We’ve been worried about you.’
‘Tell them I’m better now.’
‘Sure about that?’
‘Helen, I mean it,’ he had said as she reached the door. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’
Fifteen hours later, taking more caffeine at home after a sleepless night, Dodge fixed on the white dot that was Bobby Roscoe, still motionless over Old Oak Common Lane in Willesden. Home address or safe house? Conflicted, he took a shower, tilting the jets to pressure wash his face and flush his mind. Roscoe’s
threat of a lorry bomb was as real as the cardinal rule of terrorism: never let an attack go to waste. Last Saturday’s mortar had been a mark of defiance to dominate the weekend news; but why explode a lorry bomb in the City outside banking hours? Sweating through Friday’s rush hour, eyes fixed on Trig, Dodge had felt his panic slowly recede. He had a respite of two days to plan, act, and close down the nightmare. He could capture Roscoe, drawing the spotlight onto his secret guilt, or save himself, jeopardising innocent lives. He had to choose between duty and self-preservation. The band tightened around his chest again as a third option sparked in his brain. Resolved, he dressed for confrontation, made breakfast in bed for his wife, and waited.
Shortly after eight, smoking on the balcony, he saw the dot shimmer and pulse. It faded, then glowed steadily again and turned right, a tiny star leading him north. He hurried into the kitchen, grabbed his car keys and kissed Nicola. She was already showered, wearing a powder blue sweater and the light perfume that reminded him of Fridays. ‘Have to go out, love,’ he said.
Nicola was making more toast. ‘When are you back?’
‘Not long,’ said Dodge, his face creasing into the look she had seen a thousand times.
‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll be in all day,’ she said, absorbing his lie into her own.
Three minutes later, Dodge was edging through Suffolk Hall’s electric gates, Trig jammed on the dashboard. The lack of TomTom satellite navigation or blue lights on his high mileage Audi A4 did not impede him for a second. Dodge knew his way around London and split the light Saturday morning traffic with a repertoire of flashing headlights and expeditious hooting. Accelerating through another red light along Harrow Road, he raced to the A40, shamelessly goading the speed cameras, knowing that, one way or another, today would mark the end of his torment.
The travelling white dot had reached the M1 but Dodge kept speeding east, his destination the place Roscoe had just left, the screen marker seared into his brain. Driving up Old Oak Common Lane he had to brake hard as a stream of oncoming vehicles snaked into his lane to pass a stationary bus. Dodge’s angry headlights lit up the tail-ender, a grey horsebox with French registration. He caught the lowered sun visor, the stubbled driver’s raised finger and, as it swerved past, the image of a silver racehorse at full stretch.