Condor (The Gabriel Wolfe Thrillers Book 3)

by Andy Maslen

  “So we’re going to track him down, then kill him. Or her.”

  “Smart boy. Don told me you were a quick study.” She pushed a wayward strand of hair back behind her ear. “Now, what do we know? Gregor, why don’t you start?”

  Standing cleared his throat.

  “We collected a couple of hundred steel ball bearings from the site. They’re being processed for fingerprints at the moment. Top priority, obviously. The moment the lab techs discover anything, they’re under instructions to call me. The explosives specialists are crawling over what’s left of the bus, which was trailered to our ENCB facility in Vauxhall.”

  Barbara frowned. “Let’s try to avoid the jargon, shall we?”

  “Sorry. Explosives, Nuclear, Chemical, Biological. Bit of a mouthful, but there you are. May I?” She nodded. “Initial feeling, terrorist cell of some kind. Loners don’t have the smarts or the resources for this type of thing. It’s all machetes and samurai swords these days, since the handgun ban. We’ll know more when we can pin down the composition of the charges.”

  Justine Creech spoke.

  “Any idea on the nationality or race of the bomber, Gregor?”

  “Not till we get some kind of DNA. On which subject, CID found a head. It made rather a mess of the reception area of a firm of stockbrokers behind Oxford Street. We’ll know more once the pathologist has done his stuff. Other than that, at this point? Nothing.”

  “Thanks, Gregor,” Barbara said. “For not dressing it up. I know we haven’t got much to go on. Andrew, do you want to add anything?”

  “I wish I could, Barbara. Once the Met can give us a steer, we can start cross-referencing to our surveillance feeds. But as of now, there’s been no relevant chatter on any of the usual sites and chatrooms. I know it doesn’t mean much, but at this point it doesn’t feel like any of our friends in the Middle East. We’re looking across the Irish Sea but, again, not really their MO.”

  There was a clearing of throats and a refilling of water glasses at this point. Maybe they’d been hoping for a simple conclusion. A ready-made enemy they could all rally against. Now Jeavons had plunged them back into uncertainty.

  “Barbara, can I say something?”

  “Go ahead, Justine.”

  “We need a story for the media. I know we have to get the people who did it. And I know,” she said, looking around the table, “that we don’t, at this point, have any idea who they are, but notwithstanding that, there’s public confidence to be maintained. I was up there earlier today. Jesus Christ! Oxford Street was awash in blood.” She swallowed and cleared her throat. “Can’t we say something to reassure the public? I mean, we wouldn’t be doing any damage to our position by hinting at an Islamic angle.”

  “If I may, Barbara?” It was Don who broke the uncomfortable silence.

  The prime minister inclined her head, smiling briefly.

  “Go on, Don.”

  “Whoever did this was evil. To their core. You don’t need to label them at this point. Evil people did this, and good people lost their lives. But there are more good people working round the clock to find them. Don’t point the finger. Not in a direction you may have cause to regret later on. Keep it metaphysical at this point.”

  “Goodness me, Don. I had no idea we had an amateur philosopher heading The Department. The last chap was more of a shoot-first-ask-questions-later type.”

  Don smiled. “Graham was an effective officer and a first-rate leader. I just happen to think we can manage public expectations without promising a crusade every second Tuesday.”

  Gabriel looked at the prime minister. She was staring down at her hands. They were clenched together on the tabletop, the knuckles bloodless and belying the relaxed banter she maintained with the quartet of powerful people ranged to her left and right. She turned to Gabriel.

  “There’s one person we haven’t heard from so far. Someone who heard the bomb go off, and, by all accounts, saved not a few lives this morning. Gabriel. Why don’t you give us your take on this?”

  Gabriel sat up straight in his chair. He swept a hand over his hair and turned his deep brown eyes on the others in turn before speaking.

  “I saw a young girl get out of a car on Regent Street. The bit to the north of Oxford Circus. She was behaving oddly. Frightened looking. Skinny, but wearing a bulky Puffa jacket. I told the detectives who brought me down to the safe house, I think she was the bomber.”

  They all leaned forward, alert now, hands steepling under chins, brows creasing.

  “What makes you think that?” Standing said.

  “White? Black? Muslim?” Creech added, showing a fine disregard for the difference between race and religion.

  “Partly timing. She gets out of the car, five minutes later the bomb detonates. Partly she just looked wrong. I couldn’t explain it to the detectives, and I can’t really explain it to you, either. But my nerves were just, I don’t know, jangling. There was a middle-aged woman inside the car ushering her out, you know. Like she didn’t want to go. And the driver pulled a real stunt, U-turning in Regent Street at that time in the morning? Like he was in a real hurry to get out of there. I know it’s all a bit vague and impressionistic, but that’s how it took me.” He looked at Creech. “She was white, by the way.”

  The corners of Creech’s mouth turned down and she pursed her lips in disappointment.

  “Barbara,” Don said. “Don’t discount this because Gabriel can’t give you hard evidence. His instincts for threat are exceptional. I could reel off a list of instances where his gut kept his men, and non-combatants, safe, from Northern Ireland to the Balkans. It’s why I asked you to have him here and why he’s on my team to sort this mess out.”

  “Fine,” she said. “But with the greatest respect, Don, and Gabriel,” she looked to her left, “all this isn’t worth bull-scutter unless we can pin down some basics. Motive. Type of explosive. Demands. Claims of responsibility. Unless anybody has anything else?”

  Silence.

  “Fine,” she said, interlacing her carmine-tipped fingers and straightening in her chair. “I, Barbara Jane Sutherland, in my capacity as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, First Lord of the Treasury, do hereby declare that an Executive Order is issued with immediate effect, targeted onto the person or persons unknown who perpetrated the atrocity in the West End this morning. In other words, find those fuckers and finish them. Any questions?” There were none. “In that case, thanks all. Now, I need a drink and something to eat. I’ll be at Downing Street in five minutes, and you are all most welcome to join me.” She turned to Gabriel. “You especially, sunshine. I hear you like a nice white Burgundy?”

  “Yes, I do,” Gabriel said.

  “Right. I’ll see you up the road shortly. Thanks all. Meeting adjourned.”

  With that, the group broke up.

  Outside the meeting room, Gabriel drew Don to one side as the senior security officials and politicians left.

  “What is it?” Don asked.

  “Why did everyone keep looking at me? Have I got blood on my collar or something?”

  The older man grinned and leaned towards him. “No, Old Sport. But you do have a rather fetching pair of lips printed on your cheek.”

  11

  Planning Another Cleansing

  “SEND CLEANSING FIRE TO HOLLYWOOD,” Jardin said, as he sat cross-legged on the floor in his house, facing the senior Uncle of the Children of Heaven. “Those idolaters foist their meaningless ideas on the world and persuade billions to abandon God for the transitory pleasures of their so-called ‘silver screen’.”

  The Uncle sitting opposite Jardin had been the managing director of a regional French bakery chain in his former life. He creased his brow as he tried to anticipate his Master’s wishes.

  “We should reveal the shallowness of their dreams,” he said. “Expose the spiritual rot at the heart of the big apple.”

  “That would be New York City, Uncle,” Jardi
n said, not bothering to hide the contempt in his voice. “You did hear me say Hollywood?”

  Caught out in an attempt to mimic Jardin’s effortless flights of rhetoric, the man looked down at his clasped hands, now gripping each other so tightly the knuckles had turned ivory.

  “Of course, Père Christophe,” he said, trembling. “Hollywood. What did you have in mind?”

  Jardin stroked his beard again, enjoying the silky texture of the fine hairs as they trailed through his long fingers.

  “The Chinese want to get into film production. The Americans strive to keep them at bay. I will talk to some friends in Beijing. They can be ready to offer moral—and financial—support after the tragedy. Stand shoulder to shoulder with their American cousins. We might also drop a few well-chosen words into a few well-chosen ears in Los Angeles. Suggest that rebuffing such overtures of friendship might motivate whoever,” he paused and smiled at the Uncle, “committed such an outrage to repeat the exercise.”

  “And us? How will we benefit?”

  “We, as minority—substantial minority—investors in our Chinese friends’ studios, will reap our share of the rewards accruing to them and their newfound success in America.”

  “So, another bomb, Père Christophe?” the Uncle asked, staring intently at his master’s face, even though the eyes were closed.

  “No. Not a bomb. I fancy a change. Tell me, Uncle Simeon,” he said, stroking his beard, “how much do you suppose a petrol tanker costs?”

  12

  The Meaning of Free Speech

  GABRIEL WALKED UP WHITEHALL, DON at his side. A breeze had sprung up, and the temperature had dropped by a few degrees. Don touched him on the elbow.

  “So what did you make of our glorious leader?”

  Gabriel looked up, pursing his lips, then across at Don.

  “A lot more likeable than I’d imagined. Everyone says she’s this down-to-earth type, but you think, well, that’s just PR spin for the media.”

  “Barbara’s OK. I’ve met a few prime ministers over the years, ours and other people’s, and she’s been by far the easiest to deal with. And I’ll tell you why. One,” he started counting off points on his fingers, an old habit, “she never pretends to have all the answers. Two, she’s decisive, as I think you saw inside the Cabinet Office. Three, as you’re about to discover, she maintains a bloody excellent cellar.”

  Something ahead had caught Gabriel’s eye. Instead of bantering with his boss, he nudged his right arm.

  “Coming towards us, one o’clock.”

  Don looked where he’d been instructed. Four placard-bearing male protestors were swaggering along Whitehall’s broad pavement. The signs read STOP THE WAR, though it wasn’t clear which war they might be referring to. One of the men, who were all wearing variations on a uniform of black jeans and T-shirts printed with anarchist slogans and symbols, leather biker jackets and black Dr. Martens boots, pointed straight at Gabriel and Don. He called out.

  “Stop the war! Down with the class enemy!”

  Perhaps it was Don’s grey suit and tie that inflamed the bearded young man’s sensibilities. Or simply that he and Gabriel had that unmistakable look, and bearing, that years of military service bestows on you, whether you like it or not. Either way, he’d elbowed his neighbour in the ribs and now the group had closed ranks and veered to their right, into the path of the oncoming “class enemies”.

  “I’ll deal with this,” Don said. “Can’t have you getting mixed up in anything else today, now can we?”

  As the four men approached, Don slowed, then stopped. He spread his hands out and smiled warmly at them. The bearded shouter stepped forward until he was within a foot of Don. Punching distance. His three scrawny lieutenants hung back.

  “Why aren’t you down there, with the people?” the man said, pointing past Don towards Parliament Square. “Don’t you care what’s being done in your name?”

  “Oh, very much. In fact, it’s because I care so much that I’m heading in this direction. So perhaps you and your friends would like to let us past and we’ll leave you to join your colleagues.”

  “Colleagues? Did you hear that, boys? This wanker thinks we’re going to some fucking board meeting.”

  The others snickered, shifting from foot to foot and catching each other’s eyes.

  Gabriel tensed, but Don laid a restraining hand on his wrist.

  “I really don’t think there’s any need to call me a wanker,” Don said mildly. “I’m actually happily married, so I’m probably getting it rather more regularly than you are.”

  “Fuck you, you Tory bastard!” the man shouted, then he dropped his placard and threw a punch.

  The man’s fist sailed into empty air past Don’s left cheek, and he followed it in a graceless fall, as Don pulled hard and down on the wrist. Gabriel stepped in fast and placed a foot on the fallen man’s neck.

  “Stay down or I’ll put you down,” he said. The man complied, though he didn’t stop struggling.

  “You cunts!” he shouted. “You Tory cunts!”

  Gabriel knelt by his head and hit him hard on the bridge of his nose. There was a loud crack and blood spurted out of his nostrils.

  “What part of ‘stay down’ did you not understand?”

  This time the man did comply, whining through his clogged nostrils about his human rights.

  While Gabriel was dealing with the ringleader, Don had whirled round and elbowed one of the trio of lieutenants in the side of his head, dropping him where he stood. Then he stepped in quickly, pushing his face right up against that of the bigger protestor still upright, and grabbing a fistful of the last man’s T-shirt.

  “I’m not a Tory; I’m a socialist, as it happens. And I don’t like little shits like you or your friend down there throwing their weight around. So either fuck off and do your protesting peacefully, or I’ll have to exercise my rights to defend myself.”

  He pushed them both away and stood, feet apart, arms hanging loose at his sides.

  “Fine. We’re going,” the bigger man muttered.

  Leaving them to gather up their groggy friends, Don motioned for Gabriel to start walking. Then he beckoned a police officer coming towards them from the direction of Downing Street.

  “See that foursome?” he said to the cop once he’d arrived. The policeman nodded.

  “And I saw you getting into it with them. Everything OK, sir?”

  “Right as rain, but I think a word of caution about assaulting innocent bystanders in the street mightn’t go amiss.”

  “Couldn’t agree more, sir. Look after yourself. Although it looks like you already have.”

  With a wink, the cop set off after the black-clad quartet, leaving Don to catch up with Gabriel.

  “Well,” he said, as he drew level, “always good to know one can still handle oneself. I’ve been pushing paper so long I thought maybe I was past it.”

  “You looked in pretty good shape to me,” Gabriel said.

  Tourists were busy taking photos of themselves posing by the Household Cavalry soldiers mounted on glossy black horses outside their barracks, some using selfie sticks almost as long as the men’s ceremonial sabres. On a joint mission with the Irish Guards six years earlier, Gabriel had asked a captain how the men on duty outside government buildings and royal palaces managed not to laugh or twitch when the Americans, Italians, Japanese, Arabs, and Chinese were capering around them with cameras, trying to make them smile for the picture.

  “Very simple,” the Guards officer had said. “You imagine taking them to pieces with your bare hands. Does the trick wonderfully.”

  Now it was Don speaking. “Here we are, Old Sport. You can relax, now you’ve been,” he tapped his own cheek and made a kissing sound, “blooded.”

  Gabriel smiled as they turned into Downing Street and stopped at another set of black, wrought-iron gates to have their security credentials verified by armed police. Once they were inside, Gabriel asked Don another question.


  “How come down the road’s guarded like a bloody fortress and here, she’s only got a couple of cops with HKs on the gate?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, it’s a lot more secure than it looks, but Downing Street’s her home, and, well, the public face of the prime minister. When the serious shit hits the fan, there’s a tunnel that connects Number Ten to COBRA. She and her family would be down there in seconds with an armed escort of useful chaps like you used to be. Not that you aren’t useful now, of course …”

  “It’s OK, Don. I know what you mean.”

  Two more armed and uniformed police officers manned the front door of Number Ten. No more checks, and once they’d been admitted, Barbara Sutherland was there to greet them.

  “Hello, boys,” she said, suddenly looking tired. Her eyes were tight at the corners, her mouth downturned. “Ready for a drink? The others pleaded business. Good job, too, otherwise I’d have sacked them. So it’s just us, I’m afraid. Come this way. I’ve got a nice bottle on ice in the sitting room.”

  The room she led them into was furnished comfortably, with two sofas covered in yellow, flowered chintz facing each other in front of an open fire. An aluminium ice bucket stood on a side table with a slender-necked bottle leaning against the rim. She offered the bottle to Gabriel as if she were a sommelier.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  He read the label. A Puligny-Montrachet 2002 from a vineyard he’d read about in the Sunday papers.

  “Wow, is what I think. Closely followed by, yes please!”

  “Good lad.” She poured three generous glasses and then took one end of the sofa furthest from the window and patted the cushion beside her. “Sit next to me, Gabriel. I’ve some questions I want to ask you. Oh, and I wondered whether you’d eaten today, so I’ve arranged to have some sandwiches sent in from the kitchen.”