by Andy Maslen
Gabriel enjoyed the sight of Lauren discomfiting Maitland with her stream of flattery, historical allusions and above all her tidal wave of sex appeal, to the point that his aura of control had deserted him.
“And what can I do for you, Miss Johnson?”
“It’s what I can do for you, Sir Toby. That is, if you’ll agree to my proposal.”
“Which is …”
“I am the launch editor of a new journal of international affairs. You must promise not to breathe a word to anyone just yet, but our working title is Validus. It’s Latin for …”
“… mighty, yes I know.”
“Of course, I am so sorry. A man with your background and education, of course you’d know Latin.”
If he does know Latin, it’s because he bought it, along with his accent, Gabriel thought.
“No matter,” Maitland said, clearly loving the attention, even if it was from someone who would no doubt be persona non grata in the state he was planning to erect around himself in a few weeks.
“We’re based in London … I’ve been out here scouting for stories. Our focus is the men who drive change in world affairs. Too many of our competitors are obsessed with policy. We believe – I believe – that history is made by great men acting decisively, perhaps even defiantly. I would be so pleased – honoured – if you would agree to be interviewed for our inaugural issue. We would give you the front cover, naturally.”
Lauren clutched her hands together in her lap as if she were the editor of a college newspaper begging for an interview with a minor celebrity.
Maitland was sitting straighter in the chair.
“I should be delighted.”
Gabriel looked on, amazed. What happened to the racism? Although Lauren could probably charm a Ku Klux Klan Grand Wizard into accepting a marriage proposal.
“Wonderful!” Lauren said.
She clapped her hands like an excited schoolgirl. Maitland gave her the warmest and most genuine smile Gabriel had seen him bestow on anyone, then he rose from his chair.
“You must excuse us, Boudicca. My associate and I have some delicate matters to discuss. Perhaps you would like to interview me at my home. Rokeby Manor. Do you have a card? I can have my secretary call you.”
“Of course, of course!” She fished a business card out of her handbag and proffered it, as if he might judge her on the quality of the printing.
“Very good. Please take one of mine. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”
They shook hands and Lauren found a seat on the other side of the lounge. In the entire time she’d been with them she hadn’t looked Gabriel in the eye once.
“What a charming young woman,” Maitland said, as they resumed their seats. He murmured her cell phone number as he tapped it into his phone. It was the same as the number on the Corvair Security card Gabriel had in his wallet.
“You did notice she was black? That didn’t bother you?”
“Don’t mistake me for a thick-skulled bigot, Gabriel. Purity is one thing for our island, but exploiting useful – eager – journalists to further our cause? That is something else entirely. I am more than happy to use her magazine as a platform. Legitimacy is everything in statecraft, Gabriel, as you will discover over the next month or so.”
“Legitimacy?”
“A quick history lesson for you. You’ve heard me discussing the career of the late Augusto Pinochet?”
“Chile. Ruled for years. Lived in a mansion in Surrey for a while. Died in 2006.Never answered for his crimes.”
“Do you know why he succeeded?”
“His troops killed President Allende and he took over.”
“No. That is exactly not why he succeeded. Killing presidents is easy, but achieves little. Look at this country. They have lost four presidents to assassins: Lincoln to Booth, Garfield to Guiteau, McKinley to Czolgosz and Kennedy to Oswald. Who assumed the reins of power after each killing? The vice president.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point? My point is that it is easy to succeed if your definition of success is merely killing the leader. Replacing him – or her – with yourself is somewhat trickier to orchestrate. And what it requires, above all else, is legitimacy. It must seem right. Back to Augusto. He had the support of the Chilean Army, which helped. But what sealed the deal was the backing of one President Richard M. Nixon.” Maitland lowered his voice to a whisper. “Today, the public aren’t so demanding. Most of them would be happy if I posted a selfie taken outside Ten Downing Street. But the media, Gabriel. They will confer legitimacy faster than anything else. Miss Johnson will help with the policy brigade, in the UK and overseas. And we have friends who will back me once I have control of the state outlets. Swayed by my speeches, their papers will coalesce around a position that I am the right man to lead Britain to greatness again. The masses will lap it up.”
“And by the time they sense something’s up, it will be too late.”
“Exactly. You are a fast learner. I like that.”
Their conversation was interrupted by an announcement that their flight was boarding. Maitland drained his whisky and clanked the heavy tumbler down on the table, causing a few people close by to look round.
Gabriel didn’t speak to Lauren again for another seventeen hours.
Chapter 34
The flight was uneventful, thankfully. Earlier, at the commercial terminal, Gabriel had noticed Maitland give himself a surreptitious shot of morphine. With any luck he’d become an addict. Try parlaying that into legitimacy. Adding whisky to clinical heroin is what doctors call “inadvisable”. Maitland was out cold, having buckled his seatbelt over the soft blanket provided by the airline. The eye mask and earplugs gave him a comical air at odds with what Gabriel had come to think of as his personality disorder. He caught Lauren’s eye and raised his eyebrows in a mute signal. Can we talk? But she shook her head, just a fraction of an inch left and right.
The bounce as the big Boeing landed woke him, even if the screech as the massive tyres hit the tarmac was muffled owing to Gabriel’s higher than usual berth above the runway. After the inevitable snail-like creep through the various administrative functions that accompany entry into a new country, and which even billionaires have to endure, Gabriel and Maitland were heading southwest along the M3 motorway in Maitland’s silver Bentley, Franz at the wheel.
As they neared Salisbury, the roads diminished in size, from motorway to dual carriageway and then to single-lane A-roads. As if compensating, the vista to their left and right kept expanding, until the countryside ahead and around them stretched to the horizon without interruption. The only signs of life were kestrels hunting above the hedges and scatterings of sheep or cows in distant fields.
How could this be the same planet where Hells Angels flew apart under heavy machine gun fire? Where torturers reigned in jungle kingdoms? Where the hyper-rich saw laws as obstacles to be overcome or brushed aside with bundles of cash or small velvet pouches of diamonds?
Maitland spoke, breaking his reverie.
“You didn’t ask about the cargo, Gabriel.”
“I imagine you had it taken care of by more of your people at Heathrow.”
“Yes, as predicted, the D-Type proved sufficiently interesting to Her Majesty’s Customs officers that they ignored the harvester. Somehow they sensed the D-Type should receive all the scrutiny. Import taxes are crippling on luxury items like that, Gabriel, did you know? They nailed me good and proper. Somehow I had omitted to complete the relevant paperwork. I am expecting a substantial bill from HM Customs and Excise.”
“They’re keeping it?”
“Oh, yes. They’ve impounded it. My man said they even helped secure the harvester inside the lorry. Your handiwork was first-rate, Gabriel. We shall have to see about a bonus. Especially now I don’t have to pay Mr Cunningham.”
“Cunningham? Oh, you mean Shaun.”
“Yes. That was his name. Why? Didn’t you trouble to ask?”
Gabriel real
ised he hadn’t.
“No names, no pack drill,” was all he said.
“Indeed. Your military training, I should imagine. Never pays to get too close to people does it. You never know when one of them might disappear.”
“No,” Gabriel said. “You never do.”
He stared out of the window. He’d had enough of Maitland for a while and he sensed that he’d be spending a lot more time in the man’s company before this whole thing was over.
To their left a serpentine scar of chalky earth coiled up and over a hillside. A dirt track for off-road bikers to play on. The canopy of trees on each side of the road curved overhead, the centre-most branches just kissing in the middle, creating a tunnel of dappled light that flickered inside the car, making Gabriel’s eyelids flutter shut. The flashing set up a hypnotic pattern of oranges and blues and as the stress of the past week caught up with him, he drifted off to sleep.
“You shouldn’t have left me there,” Smudge Smith said from the seat next to him. “I missed Nathalie’s birthday and her mum is well pissed off with me.”
Gabriel turned. Smudge had recovered from his wounds. He looked good. His shaved head was glistening in the sunshine, the tips of the silver scar just visible behind his ears.
“I’m sorry, Smudge. We tried. And I wanted to get you. But N’Tolo’s men were over-running us. We’d all have gone down there.”
“It’s OK, Boss. I get it. I was expendable. A casualty of war. It’s all about the mission, isn’t it? And we did OK, didn’t we?”
“Yes, we did, Smudge. You were a good soldier.”
“Thanks, Boss. Oh.”
As Smudge smiled at the praise, two of his front teeth dropped out of his mouth and into his lap. He retrieved them and held them close up to his face, peering at them. Then part of his skull peeled away and flopped onto the cream leather between them.
“Sorry, Boss. I’m making a mess.”
“No, Smudge, it’s fine. It’ll come off,” Gabriel said.
“IT BETTER NOT!” Smith roared.
Gabriel woke with a groan of fear, jerking forward in his seat and coming up hard against the seatbelt.
“Everything all right, Gabriel?” Maitland said, frowning and pursing his lips, though his mocking tone was more amused than sympathetic.
“Fine. Just a bad dream.”
“Yes, I imagine it was. You were mumbling. Something about, ‘it won’t come off’. I hope you weren’t dreaming about our mission.”
“No. Just weird stuff. You know. Nightmares.” Gabriel took a gulp of air.
“Yes. Well, here you are, alive and kicking. Now, there are some important tasks I have in mind for you. Things are going to happen very fast from this point on. Tomorrow, we need to sit down and have a serious discussion with my team.”
“Polly and Melissa? And David?”
“Oh, please! They are children, Gabriel. They know nothing of my true intentions. No, I want you to meet my real team.”
“Your real team?”
“Please don’t be coy. You must have worked out by now that there are influential people, powerful people, who are backing me.”
“Well, I suppose so. I’m more of a tactician – details are what I notice. I leave the big picture stuff to people like you. They told me that’s why I’d never go higher than Captain.”
“Which is absolutely fine. The world needs men of action just as much as it needs men of vision. Why do you think I selected you in the first place? I am convening my council of war tomorrow at 9.00 at Rokeby Manor. I have given the whizz kids the day off, so we’ll be able to speak freely. Please don’t be late.”
“I won’t. Oh-nine-hundred. Rokeby Manor.” Gabriel had picked up that every time he used military terminology, Maitland relaxed around him. Time to push it up a couple of notches.
“I look forward to your mission briefing.”
“Excellent! Well, now, we’re nearing your abode, I believe. May I drop you at home?”
“Thanks, Toby. That would be perfect.”
Franz unloaded Gabriel’s bags from the Bentley’s capacious boot.
“Tomorrow, then,” Maitland said. “Oh, and one more thing. Your phone and laptop. You’ll find them in your suitcase.”
With a scuff from the huge rear tyres, the Bentley turned out of Gabriel’s drive and hurtled off down the lane, back across the city to Rokeby Manor.
Gabriel opened the back door and slung his bags onto the kitchen table. He was about to call for his dog when the memory of Julia’s texts flooded his brain. He slumped onto a chair and rested his head in the palms of both hands. Oh, Seamus. Poor dog. In the corner there was a dusty rectangle on the floor with whitish scrapes all over the slate tiles. It was where the greyhound’s crate had sat, the scrapes from moving it to get at the cupboard behind. He’d never scratch his friend’s long neck again. Never sit on the sofa watching television, the lanky dog’s head heavy in his lap. Never wash the stink of whatever he’d rolled in off the smooth, brindled coat. He let the tears come, wiping them off his cheeks.
He drank a pint of water, then headed upstairs, undressed and fell into bed. He needed rest. He switched on his phone. As he was settling down to sleep, the phone started beeping. A whole series of texts had been stockpiled on some server and were now being sent on the last leg of their journey.
Gabriel. If you get this, please call me. ANY time. Intel you need to know. Lauren.
Hope you got a way to snag your phone. Your little fight in Flint yesterday? One’s dead. Meeks is pissed and so are his boys. They’re coming after you. Lauren
Proceed back to the UK. I’m to let you guys leave Heathrow. Not sure why. Someone higher up has other plans, I guess. Watch your back. Britta.
Babes! How are you? All good here. It’s always wine o’clock at ours so pop round whenever you’re back. Jools. :)
Assume you’re leaving today. Will send in a team to Roscommon to review tomorrow. My bosses happy to leave you out of it. Lauren
Cleaned up your mess in Roscommon. Jesus. Looks like you fought a war there. Local cops squared away. No casualties. Am booked onto your flight. Follow my lead. Lauren.
Lauren and I will be with you at 17.00 tonight. Britta.
The two women arrived in Britta’s Range Rover at just after 5.00 p.m. Gabriel had showered and changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and was sitting in the garden with a cup of tea when they rolled into the driveway. They were laughing and Lauren was finishing a story.
“… and then he said, ‘But Baby, I thought it wasn’t loaded!’”
Britta burst out laughing and Lauren joined her. It was the most beautiful sound Gabriel had ever heard. They came over to where he was standing. Britta embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks and again on the lips. Then Lauren came over and offered a handshake, which turned into an awkward hug, their hands squashed between their bodies.
“Oh, Gabriel,” Britta said. “Look at you. You look so tired. What happened?”
“It’s a long story.”
“So come on, Sherlock,” said Lauren. “Spill.”
He made some more tea, then fleshed out the narrative of the previous week’s events, from the meeting with Davis Meeks to the business with the harvester. When he’d finished, Lauren spoke first.
“Your boy’s a piece of work. A psychopath, you realise that don’t you?”
“I thought they were all unwashed weirdos dragging young girls into the back of transit vans.”
“You’ve been watching too many movies. He’s what we call high-functioning. Sometimes they can move around in normal society and do their thing without getting picked up by law enforcement. Especially if they’re rich.”
Gabriel showed them the notes he’d copied from Maitland’s contacts book. Britta spoke.
“This is bad. I recognise a couple of those MI5 names. Now I know why we’re not getting cooperation in trying to shut this down. This is all starting to make sense. He’s got some of Britain’s most senior counter-t
errorism officers on his side already. I don’t know how he did it but they’re the reason nobody’s got through to the Prime Minister. They’re blocking all the communications.”
“So does this mean it’s just us, then?” he said.
“Not exactly,” Lauren said. “We’ve put together a team but it’s only at operational level. Everything inter-governmental is off-limits; we have a couple of teams from MI5 and I’ve pulled some strings with the US Embassy – we have some people on loan from diplomatic protection.”
“We have to do this with limited resources, Gabriel,” Britta said. “Us three are the kill team. But whatever happens, it’s going to be hushed up. Nobody wants to know how close Maitland’s been getting to succeeding.”
“We’re going to stop him. Then we’re going to take his friends down,” Lauren said. A hard edge had crept into her voice. “Once the head’s been cut off, we’re authorised to kill the body.”
“As long as it doesn’t grow another,” Gabriel said.
“Don’t worry. My superiors – and Britta’s – will get those names now. We can’t be seen to be interfering in the politics of an ally like Britain, but once Maitland’s down, it’s game over for his little club of neo-Nazis.”
“Down?”
“Or captured. Whatever. It’s just an expression. Hey, it’s been a long day for me, too. And Britta. Do you have anything stronger than tea?”
Over dinner, they hashed out the details of the plan that Britta and Lauren had been working on while he was dealing with murderous Hells Angels and happy-go-lucky arms dealers. Lining up her spoon and fork on her plate, Lauren leaned forward, hands steepled under her chin.
“Last time I had pasta that good I was in Naples.”
“Yes, Gabriel,” Britta said. “It was delicious. What’s it called?”