ThornScope_Federation of Europe

by KC McLaren

  Both of their thoughts were interrupted by Pete.

  “They shouldn’t have tried to rush me,” Pete said to no-one in particular. “I told them to stand down. There was no need for this,” he said standing over the dead bodies, hands down by his sides.

  The two bodyguards lay motionless at the feet of Pete. The PM was also standing, his back towards Jonathan. He seemed frozen in time, not moving. Just standing. Lost.

  “You are a traitor,” the PM angrily shouted at Pete. “You’ve murdered three good men in cold blood. What happened to you?” he pleaded. “Four years, four years with me. I trusted you with my life,” in his anger, The PM begun to march over to Pete.

  The captor turned away from Jonathan. “Stay where you are Mr Prime Minister,” the captor commanded, “he may not shoot you, but I will. Go tend to the girl, I wouldn’t want Beckett upset before we leave.”

  The PM hesitated but turned around and walked over to Sara.

  “You,” the captor turned his attention Pete. “You can’t stay here any longer, you’ll have to come with me. Get Marks gear, all of it,” he said pointing to the dead associate’s body on the floor. “They are already on the way up, we don’t have long. We are going to the roof. MOVE IT, NOW!”

  Pete hesitated. “I can stop here, I’ll do what I can to stop them entering and give you time to get away.”

  “Why the hell did you not inform us the PM was on site?” The captor replied. “Never mind, forget it, I don’t have time for your cock ups too.” He turned away and added, “Unless you are thinking of putting a bullet in your own head, you’re coming with me. If you wish, I can help you with that,” the captor raised his gun up towards Pete.

  Pete hurriedly walked over to where Marks lay on the floor and took hold of the backpack. He turned to the Prime Minister, “I’m not the traitor. You’re the one that is handing our country over to the EU, giving up our sovereignty one euro at a time. I warned you not to come here today, I pleaded with you. You can’t stop what is happening, we will take what is rightly ours. We will put Britain back onto its seat of power. You think ThornScope will protect you? You have no idea.”

  “Enough! Keep your mouth shut. Get Marks gear and let’s get the hell out of here now,” the captor shouted.

  Jonathan played the words over and over again in his mind, ‘You think ThornScope will protect you?’ What did that mean? There was nothing on the planet that could penetrate the security, fire wall and safety triggers of ThornScope. The image of the computer screen in the café from earlier in the day popped up in his mind. He thought he had recognised the code that scrolled down the screen. Oh my God! The code. Had it come from ThornScope? It looked different, he was sure of it. But nothing seemed real anymore. Jonathan closed his eyes searching through the events of the day. So many fragmented pieces not coming together. What was he missing?

  The captor grabbed hold of Jonathan again pushing him forward. “Get moving, Beckett.”

  Pete, the traitor, followed behind carrying the dead associate’s kit. Jonathan took one last look around the room. Alan on the sofa, sitting up now, looked confused, but seemed fine. His main concern was for Sara, whilst her breathing seemed steady, she had made no sign of coming to.

  His mind raced along trying to think of a way out of this. Could he try to delay things, stop them going to the roof. And why the roof? From what he understood, there was no way they could escape, either up or down.

  They walked out of the lounge area and Jonathan continued towards the lift.

  “Not there Beckett,” the captor stated. “Over to the fire exit, we are going to the roof.” He then removed both the explosive device and cable tie from Jonathan’s hands and looked at him. “It was never turned on.” he winked again.

  Clever bastard, Jonathan thought. He watched as the captor took the device and placed it on the doors of the lift. Then flicked a switch and set, what Jonathan presumed to be, a timer to three minutes.

  “Just to give anyone a little surprise if they come this way. If you are thinking of doing anything again Beckett, don’t. When my associate attended to your girlfriend and your good friend, Alan is it? He placed explosive devices on them. They will disarm themselves in fifteen minutes. Be warned, I can, and will if required, detonate them before then.”

  He pushed Jonathan and turning him roughly moved him to the fire exit. Jonathan realised there was nothing else he could do but comply. As they ascended the stairs Jonathan heard a series of explosions.

  “The PM’s cavalry is coming up the stairs,” the captor shouted. “Get a move on, those explosives we planted on our way up won’t deter them for long.”

  He turned to Pete. “In that bag you are carrying, there are flash bangs and smoke grenades. Get them all out and throw them down the stairwell. Don’t stop till you run out or we reach the top. Do it now.”

  Pete scrambled nervously for the back pack, fumbled around for the devices, in the process dropping one that rattled down the stairs. He got another two out, took out their pins and threw them down between the banister railings and stairwell. He stepped backwards, the first one detonated followed by the other. A flash of light ripped upwards towards them. They all scrambled up another two flights of stairs.

  In the huffing, panting and rat-run, Jonathan watched as Pete again took out two more devices. He took the pins out and lobbed them over the railings, smoke instantly rose as the grenades exploded and dropped through the air.

  Jonathan’s instincts still wanted him to slow everything down, help the rescue teams, whoever they were, to gain ground. He wanted nothing more than them to get them up the stairs, to get him the hell out of this nightmare. His logical side though argued against his instincts telling him they would breach the penthouse looking for and securing the safety of the PM first.

  His captor pushed him harder to run and skip steps, taking two, three at time whilst Pete threw whatever he could find downwards. The rising smoke was now getting rancid, the smell inflaming Jonathan’s nostrils, the explosions making his ears ring again. He could feel his eyes streaming with tears, his lungs shouting out wanting to take more air with Jonathan resisting the temptation. It was getting hard to breathe. He thought, if this lasted any longer there would be no need to slow anyone down, he felt his legs giving up the fight against the stairs. His captor though was having none of it, he pushed him harder.

  Jonathan could hear him shouting something but could not make it out above the roar of the bangs. The captor gave him one last almighty push in the back, he felt he had just been hit with a baseball bat. The pain didn’t from the back it came from in front of him as he hit the fire exit hard. It opened, and he fell to his knees. The cold air of the night brought him back to his senses. His lungs screamed at the oxygen, pulling it through his mouth, gulping it in burning his throat worse than the smoke.

  “Don’t move. Stay where you are. Don’t inhale through your mouth, inhale through your nose. It will make it easier for you,” said the captor.

  Jonathan was on all fours, trying to control his breathing and not to spew up. He forced himself to turn around sitting on his backside, placing his hands behind his back to steady to himself. Through the tears and the coughing, he could see the captor pulling Pete through the fire exit, closing the door. He placed something on it. Another explosive device? Jonathan no longer cared, his body was giving up. He looked up into the night sky his brain and lungs still demanding fresh oxygen. What the hell is that now? A turbulent wind caught on his face forcing him to close his eyes, a high pitch sound blasting his already painful eardrums, a whooshing, beating sound above him.

  “Get up, Jonathan,” the captor shouted at him, grabbing him by the arms, forcing him off the ground. He was in no shape to disobey. Again the captor was pushing him, willing him to run. Running to where, his mind kept asking. The noise was now overwhelming, lights came on from somewhere in front just above him, blinding him, forcing his arms to come to protect his eyes. He felt his was in a cyclon
e forcing against the wind to keep on his feet. He opened his eyes again and could just make out what was causing the cyclone and the noise.

  “What is this?” he demanded.

  “We are going for a helicopter ride, Jonathan. See the sights of London. Get moving,” the captor said shoving Jonathan again, he noticed Pete was a lot further behind than they were. Had he covered that much distance in such a short time?

  The lights from the helicopter turned away from them as it settled a few feet above the roof of the apartment complex. Jonathan tried to get one of his feet onto a step but faltered putting his leg through the gap. He felt hands on him, pushing and pulling him upwards into the cabin. Dragging him forcing him to sit putting something around his waist that locked him into the seat. The captor got on board just behind him. Someone gave him something, it looked like a rifle of sorts. Hands came across Jonathan putting a harness around his waist then clipping what he thought was some rope onto it. He looked beyond out onto the roof top and saw Pete running towards the helicopter. The engine of the helicopter rose in tone, the whooshing of the rotors louder, faster as it lifted upwards.

  Jonathan was transfixed on the pitiful running figure as the explosion on the fire-exit flashed and roared. The blast of the wave came up to meet Pete flinging him forwards onto the ground. He got up and ran. The fire exit opened and men poured out into the night their guns raised towards Pete. Jonathan could hear muffled sounds above the roar, a man shouted, ‘Take him alive, and don’t shoot…’

  The captor raised the rifle up, aimed and fired. Pete’s head snapped and jerked backwards, he was no longer running. Jonathan could see men raising their guns up and towards the helicopter ready to shoot. A man in tactical gear was in the lead, aiming at the captor, but lowered his rifle. Another ran up to the tactical guy, and Jonathan saw him push his rifle upwards. He recognised him, it was another so-called agent, the one with the British accent from Oxford Street. He was obviously no British Rail Policeman.

  The captor turned to Jonathan. “They won’t shoot. They know you are on board. By the way, I lied about the sightseeing.”

  He pulled something out of his pockets, a small canister and sprayed it into Jonathan’s face. “This is also for your own good, Beckett.”

  Jonathan tried to speak but only darkness came to him, his eyes grew heavy as he watched the lights of Canary Wharf fade into an empty dream of despair.

  Chapter 34 | Have a rest

  EGIL FINSTAD, MI5 SUPER-AGENT, as his colleague decided to call him, did not feel super at all. It was getting late, very late, and sleep would have to wait.

  “You’ve not said much since getting in the car,” his colleague, Jason said.

  “It’s been a long day, Jason. And it’s going to get even longer,” Egil replied. In his mind, this had become one of the strangest days of his career. Whilst the plot unravelled, questions still needed to be answered, a lot of them.

  It had taken three hours to mop up, cover up, clean up and get the hell out of the penthouse. God helps the poor bastard charged with explaining the complete fubar events with the Prime Minister and this Jonathan Beckett kidnapping. Not least trying to explain that the explosions at 1 Millharbour were nothing more than a gas leak. How do these people come up this shit?

  Well at least one thing, his career was safe, for now. And it seemed he had been promoted by the PM. He’d love to see the expression on his boss’s face, the Director General of MI5.

  In a brief, entertaining few hours, he had gone from being MI5s Public Enemy No.1 to having responsibility for the Prime Minister’s safety alongside one directive. Get Jonathan Beckett back, at all costs. As the PM put it, the UK’s sovereignty depended in it.

  The first priority though of getting the Prime Minister away and out of the penthouse proved to be obviously difficult. By all accounts, he should not have been there in the first place, at least not in any official capacity. After hurried conversations, and nearly the arrest of Egil, the PM shocked him by outlining what had happened, had been happening. The problem became compounded with his security detail been wiped out. Even worse, the head of his team had been part of the wild conspiracy. Something the PM desperately wanted to keep under wraps. And even after the PM had brought Egil up to date, he still could not fully comprehend every part of it. Never the less, the task of removing the PM from the scene had been completed. Very few would ever know the PM had been at the penthouse in the first place.

  Before tackling anything else, Egil wanted to get cleaned up. He felt like he had gone twenty rounds with Mike Tyson, and then some.

  “You know the one thing that concerns me more than anything else, Jason?”

  “Yeh, what’s that dude?” he replied.

  “If what the PM is saying is true, then MI5, you, me and the lot of us should all find new jobs. I just can’t accept that such a conspiracy, an underground movement, has been operating on our patch. We’ve had no clue about it at all,” Egil stated with anger in his voice.

  “It does seem rather farfetched. I am sure the higher ups have an idea,” Jason replied mockingly.

  Egil turned to Jason, “It’s the higher ups I am more concerned about, who sent us out on errand boy duty this morning? Jacobs, that’s who. From what the PM said, he can’t even trust half of his own cabinet, and I can’t trust Jacobs as far as I can throw him.”

  For rest of the ride they drove along in silence. As they pulled up to Egil’s apartment building, it was already getting close to midnight.

  Jason slowed the car down to a stop then turned to him, “You better tread careful, Egil. Jacobs is not a man to underestimate, and if he is involved, you can bet a pound to a penny, he has others in MI5 who are following.”

  “That’s the point, Jason. Who can we trust? The PM thought I was wide off the mark suggesting Jacobs somehow had a hand in all this.”

  “You’ll figure it out Mr Super-Agent. You always do. If it makes you feel better, I’ll take a polygraph for you,” Jason replied smirking.

  Egil looked back at Jason, shaking his head. “Bugger off, will you? If it were up to me, I’d have the PM take one first before you.”

  “Oh my,” Jason replied, “I feel a man-hug coming on.”

  “Let me remind you,” Egil said tapping his coat pocket, “I still have this gun with me. No bloody man-hugs. Now seriously, bugger off, get changed and pick me up in an hour. It’s time you did some real work for a change.”

  Egil got out of the car and before he closed the door said, “You still got that burner phone with you?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Use it. Nothing seems to be what it is in this bugger’s muddle. Don’t use MI5 comms for anything important, even when you come back to pick me up.”

  “Copy that boss, and don’t forget, Egil. You know what they say about the spy business.” Jason replied.

  “Yeh, go on then, tell me Mr Bond.”

  “Not everything is as it seems.”

  Shaking his head again, Finstad closed the car door, turned his collar up on his overcoat against the light rain that had replaced the snow. He walked up to the front entrance, the door opened up.

  “Late night for you Mr Finstad,” the concierge said welcoming Egil into the apartment block and holding the door.

  “Thank you, Scot. Yes, a long day to be sure,” Egil replied.

  He ignored his mailbox and took the stairs slowly, with his apartment only being two flights up he never bothered with the lift. The headache though, which had not abated much in the last several hours, suggested the lift may have been wiser. At his front door he took his keys out and let himself in.

  At last, back home. He mused it would be nice, especially after today, that someone waiting on the other side would have a nice stiff whiskey ready for him, someone friendly and warm. But his lifestyle had never been conductive to any long-term commitments when it came to women. He thought of Jason and his redhead girlfriend – sucker, it will only end in tears. He had watched a lot of gu
ys in both his army days and MI5 go through painful and messy divorces. The glamour of being an intelligence officer was never as cracked up as portrayed in the movies. “My name is, Bond, James Bond,” he said to himself out loud in a perfect Sean Connery accent.

  When it came to woman, the course of action for Egil was fairly straight forward, just don’t get too serious. Casual relationships were much easier to play around with and it had never been hard to find woman who wanted to be with him – temporarily. Shame one wasn’t around now, he thought.

  As he hung his overcoat up and took off his suit, Egil shrugged off the thoughts of women. He felt the gun weighing down the coat and took it out of the pocket. Jason had given him a holster, but as yet not bothered with it. He walked into the bedroom and threw the gun onto the bed. Then wandered over to the ensuite and turned the shower on full blast and waited for the steam to rise. He took the rest of his clothes off leaving them on the floor and got in.

  The power of the water felt good and hot, massaging his body, taking away the strains of the day. His mind played out the afternoon events eventually coming back to the thoughts of Jacobs and Jonathan Beckett. What was really going on? Was Jacobs involved in one of the most daring conspiracies in the history of the UK? To overthrow the government and establish a police state? And all by using this Jonathan’s Beckett’s source code, our own security net, ThornScope? It sounded something straight out of a John le Carré novel.

  After getting out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and sat on the end of the bed. At least the headache had eventually subsided. He noticed out of the corner of his eye the red light blinking on the cordless phone on the bedside dressing table. As he went to pick it up, it began to ring.

  “Finstad,” he answered.

  “Egil, thank God you’re finally home. I’ve been calling you for the last two hours,” said an agitated male voice.

  “Bill, is that you?” asked Egil. Sir William Montgomery Edmondson, the Home Secretary, indirectly Egil’s boss and more poignantly, Egil’s godfather.