by Helen Black
‘Very funny,’ Ronnie says and flips them the finger.
She gives it another go and guns the engine hard, then we barrel away, spraying dirt at the men.
‘Nip and tuck?’ I shout above the din of the exhaust.
‘I had to say something.’
‘And you couldn’t come up with anything better than a face-lift?’
‘I’m a bit knackered,’ she says. ‘Anyway, tell me you haven’t had anything done.’
‘I have not.’
She circles her eyes. ‘Not even a little around here?’
‘No.’
‘A bit of Botox, then?’
I’m furiously indignant. ‘No I have not!’
Hooting with laughter, she rams the gear-stick into fourth and heads for the nearest road.
Chapter Twenty-four
The PM didn’t smile or get up when Clem entered his study. ‘Clem?’
‘Prime Minister.’
‘What can I do for you?’
Clem noticed that there was a piece of food stuck in his top teeth. ‘I’ve come to ask you to cancel today’s events,’ he said.
The PM sighed and Benning finally looked up from his BlackBerry. ‘Again?’
‘I believe there is likely to be an attack today,’ Clem told them.
‘Haven’t we been here before, Clem?’ asked Benning.
Clem shrugged. ‘I’m afraid the evidence is all pointing to another attack today.’
‘And what evidence do you have to support this?’ Benning sounded unconvinced.
What was wrong with these fucking people? How many had to die before they took this thing seriously? Clem had met KGB agents with more humanity. ‘We’ve intercepted a message from someone who we believe to be one of the main instigators of the Plaza bombing.’
‘And what did this message say?’ Benning asked.
‘There weren’t any words; it was an image posted on a website called Platformnow,’ Clem explained.
‘An image of what?’
‘A valley,’ said Clem. ‘We believe it to be the location of a terrorist training camp.’
The PM cast a glance at Benning, who raised his eyebrows.
‘How long is it since you slept, Clem?’ asked the PM.
‘I’m fine, sir.’
‘One, two, three days?’
Clem sighed. He was tired but this was just part of their usual bullshit. ‘With all due respect, Prime Minister, that has nothing to do with the issue at hand.’
The PM leaned forward. ‘Actually, Clem, I think it does.’
Clem narrowed his eyes.
‘You look exhausted and your judgement seems off the mark.’ The PM smoothed his wrinkle-free shirt. ‘It’s perfectly understandable, of course, given the incident with Thomas Frasier.’
Clem knew exactly what was happening. The PM was using distraction tactics for the fact that he was going to sweep Clem’s advice under the carpet. ‘We believe the message sender was also involved in the attack at the Opening Ceremony.’
Benning cleared his throat and dropped his voice. ‘There was no attempted attack at the Opening Ceremony,’ he said. ‘The death of Thomas Frasier was a tragic, but sadly avoidable mistake.’
‘We believe the message sender was directly involved in passing the bomb on to Tommy,’ said Clem.
‘You told us, in this very room, that there was no bomb.’ Benning tapped the PM’s desk. ‘You were very specific, Clem.’
Clem shook his head. This was a complete stitch-up. Everyone in this room had known the score.
‘Did you or did you not say that there was no bomb?’ asked Benning.
Clem bit his lip.
‘I’m afraid I’ve let you down,’ said the PM, his voice dripping with concern.
‘What makes you think that, Prime Minister?’
‘I should have seen how badly you were affected by the death of that young man. The very fact that you began to call him Tommy should have set alarm bells ringing.’
‘I’m fine,’ Clem repeated.
The prime minister shook his head. ‘No, Clem, you’re not. You need rest and you may need counselling. Isn’t that standard after any officer is involved in a fatal shooting?’
It was in the book that after certain operations that were considered highly stressful, an officer should take four weeks off work and avail themselves of the assistance of the agency shrink. Since all Clem’s cases fell within the remit of ‘highly stressful’, it was hardly practical for him to follow the guidelines.
‘I don’t need any time off, sir.’
‘This isn’t a request,’ said Benning. ‘It’s an order.’
‘You don’t give me orders,’ spat Clem.
‘I’m afraid you’ll find that I do,’ Benning replied.
‘Listen to me.’ Clem leaned across the desk and was gratified to see Benning flinch. ‘You are a suit. A pen-pusher. You have no jurisdiction over me or anyone else at MI5.’
‘That’s true, of course,’ the PM interrupted.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Clem.
‘But I do have jurisdiction and, as of today, I’m suspending you from active service.’ The PM’s face was firm. ‘Do you understand?’
Clem felt as if he’d received a low blow to the kidneys.
‘Do you understand, Clem?’ the PM repeated.
Clem understood all right. ‘Perfectly, sir.’
Nine a.m. on Roman Road and the market is already busy. Ronnie and I criss-cross through the stalls, ignoring the delicious smell of fresh oranges, until we’re outside a tatty travel agents. Ronnie presses her nose to the window, peers inside and nods.
The shop is empty, a desk in the corner clear except for a plant in a pot emblazoned with the words ‘World’s Best Dad’. The leaves are brown and drooping.
An Asian man in a white cotton kurta appears from the back, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. When he sees me, he smiles, but his face falls when he sees Ronnie. He drops his mug and flees out the back. Like a tiger, Ronnie vaults over the desk after him and I follow.
The man has his hand on the back door but Ronnie pulls him towards her and slams him against the wall. ‘Problem, Ahmed?’ she asks.
‘I couldn’t help your friend,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t give him anywhere to stay. Not now.’
‘Which friend?’ Ronnie demands.
‘I didn’t ask his name.’
Ronnie slams him again. Harder.
‘I didn’t ask!’ the man screams. ‘Why would I?’
Ronnie pulls back her fist. ‘Don’t lie to me.’
The man closes his eyes, waiting for the crunch, but I intervene.
‘Describe him,’ I tell the man.
‘What?’
‘You didn’t ask his name but you met him, right?’
The man nods.
‘Then tell us what he looked like,’ I say.
‘I don’t know,’ the man stammers. ‘I don’t pay attention to such things.’
Ronnie growls and balls her fist in anger but I cover it with my hand. What use will this guy be to us unable to speak through broken teeth?
‘Was he white?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘Tall or short?’ I ask.
‘Tall,’ the man says.
‘Accent?’
The man shakes his head. ‘I’m not sure. Not English.’
‘Scottish?’
‘I think maybe, yes.’
‘What about this?’ I prod my chin. ‘Did this man have a beard?’
‘Yes, yes. Neatly trimmed.’
Ronnie looks at me. He must be talking about Sean.
‘Did he say where he was going?’ I ask.
‘No.’ The man begins shaking violently.
‘Let him go,’ I tell Ronnie. She doesn’t react. ‘He’s told us all he knows,’ I say.
Reluctantly she releases him and the man sinks to the floor. ‘I cannot do this any more. Can you understand how difficult this is?’ He buries his face in his
hands. ‘I cannot do this any more,’ he repeats.
Rory’s seat is 22A. He also bought a second ticket and reserved 22B so no one could sit next to him. It has been a difficult journey. Even with his ear defenders, the noise is deafening. He has considered going back, but Hawk is his friend. Hawk needs him.
A woman points at the seat next to him and says something. She has a jewelled ring in her nose, which catches the light and makes his head hurt. She speaks to him again.
The man opposite leans over and yanks off his ear defenders. ‘She’s talking to you, mate,’ he shouts.
Rory can hardly breathe. The noise of the engine, the wheels on the track, the whooshing of the automatic door to the next carriage all mix together.
‘Is that seat taken?’ the woman asks.
‘Yes,’ says Rory and goes to replace his ear defenders.
‘No one’s sat there the whole way down here,’ says the man. ‘So whose seat is it?’
‘Mine,’ says Rory.
‘What?’ the man snorts. ‘You bought both tickets, then?’
‘Yes,’ replies Rory.
‘Then have some manners and let the lady sit down. You can see her condition.’
Rory looks at the woman. Condition is the word used to describe an illness. The woman does not look ill.
‘Come on, love,’ coaxes the man. ‘Sit yourself down there.’
The woman smiles at Rory and sits down. She has eight bangles on each wrist and they jangle when she moves. Rory gags.
‘Is there a problem?’ the woman asks.
‘You smell of onions,’ Rory says to her.
‘A bloody racist as well,’ the man shouts. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’
Rory can’t take any more. He pulls his ear defenders back on, pushes past the woman and runs down the aisle. When he gets to the toilet he goes inside. He daren’t touch anything because of the germs. Instead, he stands with his eyes closed and waits to arrive in London.
I tap my head with my knuckle and try to think. Ronnie is out of ideas but we must find the guy posing as Paul. ‘If we can’t find him, maybe we could send him a message,’ I suggest.
‘How?’
‘You said you contacted Hawk via websites. Is it likely he would do the same with Paul?’
Ronnie shrugs. ‘I guess.’
‘So let’s send a message to Paul, pretending to be Hawk, telling him the whole thing is called off.’
‘I don’t know,’ Ronnie replies. ‘Maybe they used code words to identify each other.’
‘Maybe they did and maybe they didn’t,’ I say.
Ronnie still looks dubious.
‘Look,’ I tell her. ‘It’s worth a try, surely?’
At last she nods.
We head to the nearest internet café and grab tea and toast while we wait for a computer. Then Ronnie looks up a website called Platformnow.
‘Do you know Hawk’s password?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘You could make an educated guess.’
‘Such as?’
‘Your name?’ I suggest.
She screws up her face but types it anyway. No luck. Then she tries several other names. ‘My family,’ she tells me, but none give her access. ‘This is hopeless,’ she says. ‘It could be anything.’
I shake my head. ‘Most people use something meaningful. For someone like Hawk it would be especially so. How about where you grew up?’
Her face takes on a pained expression, as if the very memory physically hurts. ‘Old Maple Creek,’ she says. ‘That’s where we lived.’
She doesn’t need to say it. It was also the place where so many of her loved ones died.
She types in the words ‘Old Maple Creek’ and is given access to Hawk’s account.
We both take a long, slow breath. ‘What shall we say?’ I ask her after a few seconds. ‘We can’t just start a thread saying the bombing is off, can we? It has to be something Paul will believe.’
‘Let’s look at Hawk’s last posts,’ says Ronnie. She clicks a few keys and is directed to a thread started by Hawk not long before he died. He’s sharing images with a number of other posters.
‘What on earth’s that all about?’ I ask.
Ronnie doesn’t answer.
‘I said what’s that all about?’ I turn to her. Her skin, freakily pale in any event, has all the colour bleached from it and the light has left her eyes.
‘Ronnie?’
She doesn’t take her eyes from the screen. ‘You said Hawk was using people to plant the bombs?’
I nod. ‘Young people with learning disabilities.’
‘This is Hawk leaving a message for Rory,’ she says.
‘What does it mean?’
Ronnie shakes her head, but I understand what she’s alluding to.
‘You don’t think Hawk is using Rory to plant a bomb?’ I ask.
‘He can’t be.’ Ronnie speaks slowly. ‘Rory doesn’t leave his flat.’
‘Not ever?’
‘Not if he can help it.’
‘What if Hawk managed to convince him he was his best friend?’
‘Rory doesn’t have any friends,’ she says. ‘I’m the nearest thing he’s got.’
‘And when did you last check in?’
She shrugs.
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘If Rory now thinks Hawk is the only person in the world that cares about him, surely he’d be prepared to do him a favour.’
Clem’s doorbell was ringing. ‘I’m coming,’ he shouted, but whoever it was kept their finger pressed down. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Clem flung open the door.
Sebastian stood there, the collar of his lilac polo shirt obscuring his face.
‘You shouldn’t be here, lad,’ said Clem. ‘I’m off the case.’
‘I heard what happened and I think it’s disgusting.’
‘Thanks, but you still shouldn’t be here. They’ll sack anyone in MI5 who gets in contact.’
‘Luckily I don’t work for MI5, remember?’
Clem gave a snort. ‘You’d better come in.’
Sebastian followed him into the living room. He took in the bare walls, the empty shelves. ‘Homely,’ he said.
‘What do you want, Sebastian?’
‘The message from Hawk, I worked it out.’
‘What?’
‘He told R1234 to look deeply into the picture,’ said Sebastian. ‘So that’s what I did.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I looked into the pixels and there it was, a hidden message.’
‘Fucking hell, is that even possible?’
Sebastian rolled his eyes. ‘When all this is over I am giving you a crash course in technology.’ He handed a piece of paper to Clem. ‘This is what it says.’
Clem read the brief message, taking in the two important pieces of information.
11 a.m. Stratford station.
Shit.
‘What time is it?’ asked Clem.
‘Ten thirty-five.’
Clem flew out of the door. ‘You’re a genius.’
Chapter Twenty-five
The traffic was hideous. No matter how many times Clem got on his horn or cut up other drivers, he kept getting boxed in.
He checked the clock.
10.48.
He banged his fist on the steering wheel, abandoned his car and ran the rest of the way, one hand clutching his chest.
The pavements around the station were just as crowded as the roads. Groups of people blocked his path so he had to dodge into the gutter. Panting, he checked his watch.
10.56.
He wasn’t going to make it. His heart felt as though the PM was squeezing it with his bare hands. 10.58
People were staring at him as he staggered up the road. He didn’t care. He had to get there. Sweat pouring down his face, gasping for breath, he stumbled into the entrance of Stratford station. He looked around wildly for signs of anyone with a rucksack.
11.03
Surely the ha
ndover couldn’t have happened already? Surely he couldn’t have missed them? He pulled out his mobile. ‘Carole-Ann?’
‘Clem, I really can’t speak to you.’
Clem struggled to get his words out. ‘There’s a bomber on his way to the Games.’
‘Are you okay, Clem?’
He breathed deeply, trying to regain control. ‘There’s another bomber on the way to the Games, Carole-Ann,’ he said. ‘You have to trust me on this.’
She didn’t reply.
‘The handover took place at Stratford station,’ he told her. ‘I missed it, but the device must be on its way to the stadium now.’
‘Do we have an ID for the carrier?’
‘No, but it’s going to be someone on their own, someone different.’
‘Clem, that’s not enough to go on.’
He leaned against the railing. ‘Please, Carole-Ann, just look at the screens. He’s there, I know he is.’
She said nothing but Clem could hear those fingernails tapping. ‘Have the profilers spotted anyone?’ he asked.
‘Nope.’ She sighed. ‘Hang on a second, though.’
‘What?’ he shouted. ‘What is it? Carole-Ann, talk to me.’
‘It’s the face recognition software,’ she said. ‘It’s picked up your terrorist friend.’
‘Who?’
‘Ronnie X,’ said Carole-Ann. ‘She’s just entered the stadium and . . . shit . . . you will never guess who she’s with.’
I look through the crowds feverishly. I thought Rory would be easy to spot, but there are too many people. It’s as if the nations of the world have descended on east London, all chattering excitedly in a hundred different mother tongues. Children dart between street vendors selling balloons and vuvuzelas, their parents chiding them gently to stay close by. Somewhere at the back of my mind I know I should be pleased that the event is such a success, but right now I can’t let my thoughts wander.
‘Rory will hate this,’ says Ronnie. ‘He just can’t operate in this type of environment.’
We dive in and out of the crowds, desperately trying to find him. ‘What event do you think Hawk might target?’ I ask.
‘Track would be the obvious one,’ she says. ‘The world will be watching Usain Bolt.’