The Bordeaux Connection

by John Paul Davis

  As the conversation ended he dialled a three-digit extension and waited for an answer.

  “Allo?”

  He recognised the voice of his superior and told him everything he’d witnessed.

  “Stay where you are, I shall be right with you.”

  *

  Maria saw Jay approach from the bottom of the street. No sooner had he entered the car, she shifted into first gear and accelerated away, circling Hyde Park.

  “I’ve just received word from Mike. The DPM’s wife has turned up at Chevening.”

  “Might help explain why I didn’t see her here.” He smiled.

  “Any signs of entry?”

  “Negative. The apartment hasn’t changed since this morning.”

  She figured as much. “How about the rest of the place?”

  “Nothing new.”

  “You sure you checked everything?”

  Jay shot her a unique stare, playful yet unimpressed. “You’re perfectly welcome to try.”

  She smiled and concentrated on the road, waiting for the traffic to clear before heading back towards Whitehall. Her assumptions were once again bearing out. The key to unlocking the mystery would be to target the Foreign Secretary himself. And that left two possible options.

  One of which Mike and Kit were dealing with right now.

  21

  Mike and Kit stood in the grand hallway, leaving Mrs Hughes alone in the lounge. Mike watched her from the doorway as she cried into a handkerchief.

  He brushed his thumb and index finger across his eyebrows. “Pickering and Hughes.” He shook his head, trying to remove the recently conceived image from his mind. “Who would have thought it?”

  Kit was busy examining his phone. “Oh I don’t know. Wife of a colleague. Sharing the same estate.”

  “You think the four of them stayed here at the same time?”

  “Perhaps. I’m sure if we asked a few subtle questions, it would be easy enough to find out.” He looked conspicuously through the doorway into the lounge before guiding Mike out of sight. “Between you and me, I know a few journalists who would pay pretty big for this.”

  Mike laughed. “I reckon I could find a few myself.”

  *

  They returned to the lounge five minutes later, carrying freshly made coffee and a plate of biscuits. Kit had made a joke to Mike in the corridor about expenses.

  Mike sat down in the same seat. He sipped his coffee for the first time, taking a second to savour the long awaited caffeine rush.

  “I understand your husband and the Foreign Secretary have been sharing the house since Mr Pickering’s promotion. How does that work exactly?”

  Mrs Hughes seemed confused by the question. “How does what work?”

  “Well, are you often here together? Do you draw up a rota? One weekend on, one weekend off.”

  She replaced her mug on the table, taking care to ensure it rested on a coaster. “I assume the real question you want to know is, how did we get away with it?”

  Kit raised an eyebrow. Though technically it wasn’t part of their job, he was still curious. “I suppose the PM might have hoped a house this size would have been large enough to keep both of his key ministers happy.”

  The woman was unimpressed. “It only happened the once. Recently. Usually only one of us is ever present at one time.”

  “So you do use rotas?” Mike asked.

  “No. My husband is a busy man, the Foreign Secretary perhaps busier still. As with his predecessor, together we all came to an understanding. Should all of us want to use the house at the same time, the estate would be more than capable of accommodating us. So far it’s only happened on three occasions.”

  “But you said it was recent?” Mike asked.

  “Three weeks ago the PM asked my husband to help entertain some important visitors from France. Diplomats of some sort . . . I’ve never really been much interested in affairs of state.”

  Mike hid a smile.

  “As our visitors were foreign, and as the Foreign Secretary had no other pressing engagement that weekend, it was only natural he would also attend. The evening began with canapés – very good they were, too. We dined at around eight, and shortly afterwards my husband went to bed. Christopher’s never really been much of a drinker.”

  The information matched the reports. “So it was just the three of you?”

  “Six of us. The diplomats enjoyed their wine. Their wives were not with us. After Rachel went to bed, it was just the four of them and me.”

  A thousand thoughts were going through Mike’s mind. He knew he daren’t even consider what was going through Kit’s.

  “As the evening wore on, I excused myself. By 1 a.m., our visitors had gone to bed. I was in the kitchen cleaning up. That was when Richard walked in.”

  “I think we get the picture,” Mike said.

  Kit was annoyed. “Then what happened?”

  “Clearly I’d had too much to drink. The next day I woke up, remembering very little.” Her hands trembled as she sipped her coffee. “Later that day, Christopher took two of the boys across the estate. Rachel was out shopping. It was just myself, Richard and one of the visitors.”

  “Randek?” Mike guessed.

  “No. I never knew his name. Richard threatened me over what happened. Said he’d tell my husband unless I did them a favour.”

  “Steal the book?”

  She nodded, clearly ashamed.

  “Why go ahead? If it really came to it, why not just deny the affair and tell your husband you were being manipulated?”

  Kit shook his head, the woman laughed without humour. “This is Westminster, darling. And believe me, Richard Pickering is not a man to be taken lightly.”

  Mike frowned. It still seemed an extreme request for a one-night stand. “I take it no one else knows.”

  “You two know.”

  “Well you needn’t worry about us. We’re required by law to keep restricted information confidential.”

  “Ha! You MI5 boys love your code of secrecy, don’t you? You know I’ve always thought it was a Cambridge thing. Honour among class. Honour among thieves,” she scoffed.

  “Fortunately Mike here went to Loughborough,” Kit interjected.

  Mike pressed on. “What happened tonight?”

  The woman laughed again. “It sounds to me as if you already know.”

  “Whose idea was it? Dvorák.”

  “Richard’s.”

  Mike could tell from her face she was furious. “You agreed to attend?”

  “Christopher was delighted. Then again, he’s never been slow to show goodwill to a colleague,” she huffed. “Always been a fan, you know? Opera. Musicals. Even ballet. He’s been a patron for over ten years.”

  “You’re certain your husband didn’t know?”

  “Well I certainly didn’t tell him if that’s what you mean?”

  “Earlier tonight you narrowly avoided being killed. At least a dozen people were not so lucky. Whoever’s behind it clearly didn’t do it simply to do away with you, it’s all much too elaborate. All you needed to do was keep quiet. What happened tonight was a risk. One that’s backfired.”

  She shook her head. “I suppose you’re going to have to ask my husband’s housemate.”

  *

  At precisely 23:30, the Director of The White Hart exited the private apartment in Admiralty House.

  The same constable was waiting by the door.

  “Keep an eye on this one, won’t you? I’m afraid he’s just had a bit of a shock.”

  *

  Mrs Hughes was sitting by one of the kitchen windows, taking in the view. Once upon a time she’d adored the sight of moonlight reflecting off the lake, but tonight it seemed grim and remote, as if she was looking at a barren wilderness.

  “So what happens to me now?”

  Mike was sitting on a barstool in the kitchen; a modern item that he guessed had been added by one of the present tenants.

  “Well that d
epends. CCTV at Montacute House caught you stealing a valuable manuscript. The next day, you were photographed giving the same item to a man at King’s Cross who just so happens to be wanted in connection with events at Edinburgh.”

  She looked at him. Though she was no longer crying, her face appeared drawn. “Depends on what? You’re not telling me I’m actually being considered a suspect?”

  Mike left his seat on the barstool and moved to a sun lounger close to the window. He slid it closer to the politician’s wife, her eyes watching his every move.

  “At least a dozen people have been killed tonight. At least fifty have been injured over the past three days. Even before tonight your husband and the PM had a major crisis on their hands, now they’re dealing with something a hundred times greater. Now, you may not have been directly involved in the events of tonight, but you have been photographed having direct contact with someone who has a connection to at least one of the attacks. Even if you’re not a direct suspect, you’ve found yourself a link in the chain.”

  “For what?” She made a spitting gesture. “A drunken night of pleasure. And I use that word loosely. The history of Westminster is a sordid tale; even Major was a victim of that. I used to think there was something in the water. Now I know, it was the vodka.”

  A half smile. “What was the manuscript?”

  She lit a cigarette and blew smoke. “A book of poetry.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “Literature never was my strong point.”

  “Why did they want it?”

  She looked at him, her eyes piercing with aggression. “I don’t know, I didn’t ask.”

  Mike moved slightly nearer and smiled softly. “The Security Service has been watching you for three days. We know you took a Tube to London Bridge. We know you caught a train to Tonbridge. We knew you were coming here. Fail to cooperate and it’s only a matter of time before the bigwigs queue up to start questioning you. It only takes one leak, a tweet from a worried onlooker, a video on YouTube and you’re looking at a media shitstorm.”

  She laughed humourlessly. “Are you blackmailing me? Or perhaps offering me a deal to save my reputation?”

  “If news of this gets out, it’s the end of your husband’s career. Not to mention all the damage it’ll do to the present government. The Foreign Secretary is already looking at a bottomless pit. The PM is going to need the rest of his Cabinet to stay together.”

  “You care about politics?”

  “No. But I care about the safety of our citizens. The media was already prophesying the next al-Qaeda attack before Edinburgh; now we’re just a misdirected nuke away from a Fourth Reich. The best thing that can happen is for the man responsible for tonight and the man you met at King’s Cross to be captured. At least that will break the chain.”

  “What do you expect me to do about it?”

  Mike looked her straight in the eye. “For starters, how about you tell me in plain and simple terms everything you know.”

  *

  Kit was upstairs on the landing, talking on the phone. Mike appeared at the top of the stairs just as he was hanging up.”

  “Sharon,” he said, slightly awkward. “She does worry.”

  Mike decided to let it go. “I was just having a chat with the minister’s wife.” He laughed spontaneously. “She certainly knows a few stories about Westminster.”

  Kit replaced his phone in his pocket. “They didn’t involve any Chelsea kits did they?”

  Mike grinned. “Not exactly. Though apparently Mr Pickering has long had something of a colourful reputation among the benches. Between you and me I genuinely can’t decide if we’re talking Don Juan or David Blunkett.”

  “Well his wife seemed complicit enough to have been party to recent proceedings. Better yet, the minister clearly likes her enough not to wish her dead, which is more than can be said for poor Mrs Hughes. What about these diplomats?”

  “Interesting. She gave me some names – not that she needed to. It was an official visit, attended by at least a dozen staff. The PM met them the next day. Apparently it was in aid of something called the Chevening Scholarship.”

  “I’ve heard of that. One of my cousins was most put out to have missed out on it. Anyway, what about it?”

  “While the PM’s appearance was rare and unexpected, the timing of the event seems coincidental. However, it does confirm that there were plenty of people to have witnessed their attendance – including, perhaps, the PM. Maybe Maria can find what we need.”

  “You think the diplomats were involved?”

  “Seems at least one of them was party to the blackmail. They were from the correct country, though apparently Bordeaux as opposed to Marseille.”

  “That’s not the first time the city’s been mentioned.”

  “Exactly. At the end of the day, would you take the risk?”

  “Fair point. How’s she now?”

  “Gone to bed, with a G&T and a fag. Thief or not I can’t help feel sorry for her.”

  “Come along now, Michael. Duty first.”

  “Be that as it may, would you be okay if your housemate tried to blow you up after sleeping with him?”

  Kit gave Mike a weird look. “Well, I suppose I’d try to apologise for my drunken behaviour first.”

  Mike smiled. “Anyway, I tried asking her questions about Everard and Randek. I thought maybe once she’d calmed down, she might let a few secrets slip.”

  “And?”

  “She still claims to have known nothing about Edinburgh or tonight. That Randek was a stranger.”

  “Well, obviously she knew nothing about tonight, otherwise she wouldn’t have come in the first place.”

  “True, but if she was in league with Randek and he, or whoever he’s in league with, tried to do her in as collateral damage, it stands to reason she knew something about their past activities. She claims she knew nothing. I think she might actually be telling the truth.”

  “So she’s just looking at five years and the cost of the book then?”

  “If that’s how long the wives of MPs go to prison for. In any case, I got a message from Maria. Apparently our orders are to sit tight till 08:00 hours.”

  “And what after that?”

  “Await further instruction.”

  *

  On completing his journey through Admiralty House, the corridors of the adjacent Old Admiralty Building and down the restricted lift that led to a quiet area away from the noise of the traffic, the Director of The White Hart was a picture of concentration. He used the secret knock on reaching the door and found Atkins, Maria, Phil and Jay all gathered round the round table.

  Maria got to her feet. “Sir . . .”

  “Get me the twelve on immediate standby.”

  “They’re all out on active service. Hansen and Masterson are currently in Kent.”

  “Well, tell them to get ready. Tomorrow, each man is going to be needed for official deployment.”

  “Official . . .” She looked back in disbelief. “What’s happened?”

  “Turns out the old bastard wasn’t completely useless after all. He confessed everything, including the group’s next proposed target.”

  Maria thought she was hearing things. “He confessed?”

  “Put a call out to every man. I’m putting Operation Cockerel into action immediately. The location is Paris.

  “The target: the Musée d’Orsay.”

  22

  Paris, 00:23, Twenty-Four Hours Later

  The train stopped at the Musée d’Orsay RER station at the usual time. Unlike the trains that came before it, the carriages had something of an empty feel about them. A sleepiness had taken over the station, a predictable lull that always occurred between midnight and dawn.

  Most of the passengers were getting on rather than off. The museum itself, though open till late on a Thursday, had been closed for over two hours, most of its visitors choosing to head home early in preparation for a morning at work. Even the
City of Light had a bedtime on weeknights. A tourist hoping to fill the experience of a lifetime with an extra few hours living it up were more likely to get a warmer welcome across the river. Though the station remained lit, the platforms appeared almost ghostly in nature; the silence disturbed only by the gentle humming of the train that became louder before fading as the last carriage disappeared into the nearby tunnel. Being a weeknight, this was its last call at the Musée d’Orsay.

  The next wouldn’t arrive till after 5 a.m.

  As the train headed east towards Notre Dame, the six men who had alighted on to the platform did so with apparently little regard for their surroundings. Four of the six carried bottles of lager or wine, their faces suggesting they had enjoyed their night so far. Nothing about the sight was particularly uncommon. If the reports by the middle class journalists were credible the RER and the Metro were renowned for such behaviour – the cause of it, even. All of them fitted the common stereotype; all were male and a certain type of male: white, well built, not young, but not particularly old either. If the press generalisations were accurate, each would look equally at home swearing on the streets outside the Parc des Princes after an injury time defeat to Marseille.

  Or Bordeaux even.

  Leading the six, two men with dark hair carried no alcohol, even to keep up pretences. While the larger of the two was empty handed, the other, instead, had a soft cloth bag around his right shoulder. While the man with the bag was bearded, with thin stubble that matched the length of his hair, the slightly heavier of the two was clean-shaven. They looked at one another as they followed the natural curvature of the platform before heading for a door that was designated Staff Only.

  *

  The arrival would be by boat; that was what Pickering had told them. Aided by the natural cover of darkness, the would-be thieves would disembark on the south bank and make their way to the museum unseen. Execution of the plan was confidently expected to be straightforward without any great problems. The security had been bribed, allowing a small window of opportunity. He didn’t know how high the conspiracy went, only that it was high enough.