‘Not a chance in hell,’ growled the General. ‘She finishes university first.’
Dan put his hand up in surrender and tried to look innocent. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, General.’
He was saved by a familiar call through the house. ‘Come and get it!’
‘That woman,’ said the General shaking his head, ‘would have made an excellent colour sergeant.’
Dan drained his drink, stood up and stretched. Bending down, he scratched the dog behind its ears then followed the others towards the dining-room.
***
His stomach full after another enormous dinner cooked by the General’s wife, Dan opened the back of the four-wheel drive vehicle and pulled the heavy metal box of dismembered bomb parts towards him. Chris took the handles at the other end, and between them they lowered it out of the vehicle to carry it across a wide yard towards a large barn with double doors.
One of the doors was already ajar. Dan and Chris slipped through the opening, breathing heavily with the weight of the metal container. They walked towards a low bench to one side of the barn, and lifted the box onto the surface.
Dan stretched his back and turned. The barn had once contained stabling for horses along its eastern side, whereas the western side had housed a tack room and office. Since the General had undertaken his new cause, the horses and tack had been moved out to new stables built on the other side of the main house half a mile away, and the barn converted into a large open workshop.
Along the sides, steel shelves had been built against the walls of the barn, their surfaces covered with metal parts, wires, and various boxes with labels on the front of them listing their contents. A floor-mounted rack system held an assortment of rifles, while near the door, several workbenches were laid out – including the one Dan and Chris were using to conduct their research into the new explosive device they’d been working on.
Two men sat at one of the other workbenches, each meticulously cleaning an assault rifle. As Chris made his way back to the house, Dan wandered over to the two men, nodded and sat down at one end of the table.
‘More toys, Hatton?’ he asked.
The older of the two men nodded, his grey-flecked hair glinting in the overhead lights. ‘Yeah.’
Dan looked around the motley collection of guns on the table. ‘How long were you out there for this time, Steve?’
The other man glanced up, his young age masked by the years of combat in his eyes, a look Dan himself was well aware of.
‘Six months. Didn’t get extended this time,’ he said. ‘Back for six weeks then I head off again.’
‘Where exactly did you find this stuff?’ asked Dan.
Hatton glanced quickly at the man next to him, and then back at Dan. ‘Can’t say.’
Dan grinned. He knew damn well the marines had a tendency to bring souvenirs back from their tours of duty, and the men in front of him were no different. He guessed a few of the rifles would end up in private collections.
He turned as another four-wheel drive vehicle slid to a halt in front of the barn, and Anna climbed out, running towards him.
Dan stood up, frowning. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘There’s an urgent call for you,’ she said, handing him a mobile phone. ‘He wouldn’t say who it was.’
Dan reached for the phone. ‘Hello?’
‘There’s a plane at Phoenix waiting to bring you back to London,’ said a familiar voice.
‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ll explain when you get here. What are you doing?’
‘Working with General Collins.’
‘Wrap it up, hand it over, do whatever you need to. Get here as fast as you can – you’re now working for me,’ David Ludlow barked. Now the head of a covert agency formed to protect the United Kingdom’s energy security, he still behaved as he had when he was Dan’s commanding officer in the British Army.
The phone went dead. Dan looked at it in the palm of his hand, his heart hammering in his chest.
Time to leave.
Chapter 4
London, England
Dan peered out of the small window in the fuselage as the Airbus A380 dropped out of the holding pattern it had been in for the past twenty minutes to begin its final approach into Heathrow. Heavy grey cloud filled the air while large globs of water clung to the glass, streaking down it as the aircraft continued its descent.
He’d slept surprisingly well during the flight. The usual terror-inflicted nightmares brought on by his past as a bomb-disposal technician in the Middle East with the British Army had been kept at bay with careful use of the airline’s free alcohol policy.
The cloud broke and he watched as the countryside passed beneath them. The aircraft lined up over the M4 motorway then followed the concrete expanse of the road to the outskirts of London before banking and lining up for the busy airport. A metallic scraping from below the fuselage emanated through Dan’s seat as the under-carriage was lowered.
He closed his eyes, ignoring the grey skies. Thirteen hours ago, he’d been sitting in the air-conditioned confines of Phoenix airport, waiting for his flight to be called.
The aircraft shivered as it passed through a last-minute air pocket, the turbulence bumping it over the change in wind direction. The pilot made a correction to the aircraft’s descent then lowered it to the runway. A slight bump, a roar as the reverse thrust fought with the wing flaps to slow the aircraft, and they were down.
Dan loosened his watch, shook it off his wrist and adjusted the time. Eight o’clock on a bitter Thursday morning in one of the most over-crowded cities in the world.
Fighting his way through the crowds in the arrivals lounge, Dan grabbed his old kit bag from the carousel, walked through Customs and out to the taxi rank. He jumped back as a black diplomatic car drew up to the kerb next to him.
The back window wound down and a familiar face peered out. ‘Put your bag in the trunk. I’ll be shot at dawn if you get mud on these seats,’ said David Ludlow, and wound up the window.
Dan grinned. He threw the bag in the trunk and opened the back door, sliding in next to David. The car eased away from the kerb and powered through the traffic.
Dan turned to face his erstwhile superior. ‘Is the department providing a free taxi service now?’ he asked.
‘You wish,’ said David. ‘I’m on my way to a briefing with the new Minister for Energy. Figured I’d bring you up to speed on the way so you can hit the ground running. We haven’t got a minute to lose.’ He pulled a briefcase from the opposite seat onto his lap. Flicking the two brass catches, he opened the case and reached in, taking out two manila files.
‘Okay, what have you got?’ asked Dan. He stifled a yawn, and rubbed the rough stubble which covered his face after the long journey.
‘We’ve got two problems,’ began David. ‘First, you and Mitch are joining me at a Committee hearing with the Prime Minister behind closed doors tomorrow morning to explain what happened last time we worked together.’
‘Committee hearing? Sounds serious.’
‘It is. Both the Prime Minister’s office and the Ministry of Defence are demanding reassurances from me that I know what I’m doing and why we didn’t alert them there was a bomb heading their way.’
‘Would they have believed us?’
David shrugged. ‘Notwithstanding the fact we had to move fast and couldn’t afford to wait for them to make up their minds whether to believe us, or sign however many pieces of paper to get us the sort of back-up we’d have needed for an assault on a ship at sea, we are accountable for our actions.’
‘Hell of a thing to come home to.’
‘I realise that, but you’re going to have to help me explain why a civilian – you – became involved in the first place. Otherwise, I’m not going to be able to use you to help me investigate the other issues I’m dealing with.’
Dan stared out the window. Sleet dashed the glass surface. Pedestrians hurried along wet footpaths, th
eir umbrellas buffeted in the bitter wind that whipped through the city streets. Grey clouds cast a darkness over the capital, and Dan immediately wished he was back under the winter sun in Arizona. He blinked and turned his head to stare at the tinted glass that separated them from the vehicle’s driver. ‘What’s the second problem?’
David was silent as he looked out the car window. He drummed his fingers on the leather upholstery, lost in thought, before he spoke. ‘One of the Government’s key advisors on the latest North Kent coast LNG expansion project has gone missing.’
‘When?’
‘Last night. The man’s a genius apparently, and forgetful at the best of times according to his wife, but the fact she spoke with him less than two hours before he was due to meet her at a restaurant for their wedding anniversary raised concerns.’
‘She reported it to the police?’
David nodded. ‘This morning. The news filtered through a couple of Government agencies before it reached us. It’s recorded as low priority as a matter of precedent in the event he does turn up based on his past habits, but we’re keeping an eye on the situation just in case.’
Dan looked across at the other man. ‘If you’re going to be put out of action by a Government Committee tomorrow, why are you pursuing this? Don’t you want to wait and see what happens? You could end up having to hand your investigation over to someone else.’
‘I’m well aware of that – but my concern is the longer the investigation isn’t pursued, any potential adversary of ours is further ahead. I’d rather carry on regardless, as they say.’
‘Has anyone seen a ransom note?’
David shook his head. ‘Not yet, which is why I want you to attend a gala tomorrow night that the British Trade Commission is throwing to coincide with this week’s energy conference, in case the engineer’s disappearance is linked to the project. I want you to keep your ears open, find facts and give me some leads. I’ve got a team of analysts who are geniuses when it comes to looking at financial records, intelligence communiqués and the rest, but I need someone on the ground who can read people and quickly assess situations. You’ll be there in a support role to the security detail for one of the Qatari Sheiks who’s in talks with the British Government, so it’ll give you a chance to wander around the place. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Just watch and listen, then report back to me.’
‘What’s the energy conference about?’
‘It’s the annual World Petroleum Conference – last year’s was held in Houston. Given this country’s own gas fields are nearly extinguished, the Government felt that it would be a good idea to put together a bid to hold this year’s event here in London. We’re already buying a lot of gas from places like Qatar so it’s an opportunity to strengthen those ties with a view to signing a new gas contract within the next two weeks.’
‘Who are we watching?’
‘A Qatari national by the name of Sheik Masoud Al-Shahiri. Iran is trying to muscle in on some of Qatar’s long-standing gas contracts and the Qataris are politely trying to ignore them. It’s really a case of making sure the Qataris aren’t bullied out of continuing their supply contracts with the UK. It’d be an absolute disaster for foreign policy if we lost them and had to start from scratch with Iran. Can you imagine what the Americans would say?’
Dan laughed, despite the seriousness of what David was saying. ‘That’d be an interesting phone call.’ Pausing, he glanced out the window. ‘What are you expecting the Iranians to do?’
‘Since their embassy in London was closed down a few years ago, they’ve been relegated to a section of the Omani embassy. The Government here limits how long each delegation can stay, but the Iranians are always looking for opportunities to ruffle some feathers while they’re here.’ He pointed to the briefcase. ‘In there is a briefing paper about the Sheik’s background, as well as some photographs.’
Dan opened the case, fanning through the pages of information inside. ‘Are the delegates expected at the conference?’
‘No. We’ve banned them from attending the gala but I’m sure they’ll find a way to use it to whine about the latest UN sanctions against them.’
“So, if you’ve got a security detail crawling over the place, why do you need me?’
David sighed. ‘Because it’s the same old story,’ he said. ‘The firm in charge tomorrow night was the cheapest bidder, so it won the contract. None of its personnel have ever done any proper close protection training or have any of your expertise. There’s one bloke who spent some time working for a news team in Libya, but that’s it. The rest have done so-called training courses and think they know the job.’
Dan shook his head. ‘And of course their clients think they’re in safe hands.’
David nodded. ‘That’s why I want you there. The Sheik has brought some of his own security people but the contractors will be running the show. The guy they’ve put in charge is an idiot but I can’t shift him. I can however put someone in there to keep an eye on him.’
‘You mean I’m babysitting the operation?’
David frowned. ‘You’re babysitting their client. Anything that happens to the contractor’s team isn’t our concern.’ He peered out of the car window, and used the sleeve of his woollen coat to rub the condensation off the glass.
‘What about transport?’
‘It will depend on the outcome of the Committee hearing. If we’re still operational after tomorrow morning, we’ll give you a car. If you need to travel out of the country, let my assistant Philippa know so she can organise passports and make the necessary arrangements. You need to phone me daily to keep me updated on your progress as the Prime Minister expects the same from me.’
David leaned forward in his seat and banged his fist on the glass between them and the driver. The driver nodded and steered the car to the left, pulling up at the kerb.
‘This is where you get out,’ he said. ‘Your accommodation is about half a mile from here.’
Dan looked out of the window. The road was a four-lane street with avenues leading from it, lined with three-storey Georgian terraced houses, their doors opening directly onto the footpath. He turned to David, who held out a set of keys.
‘Number thirty-four Eaton Terrace is a safe house we sometimes use. There’s a secure line connected, a small office – you’ve got exclusive use of it for the duration of this investigation. The pass code for the door is your birthday. Change it after you enter the building. Put these documents in the safe once you’ve finished reading them. Make sure you’re at the Select Committee hearing an hour before the press is due to arrive so we can avoid a scene.’ He reached into his coat and drew out a plain manila envelope which he handed to Dan. ‘Your credentials for the conference centre tomorrow night are in there. Mitch will be in touch – Philippa sorted out his travel arrangements so I don’t know when he’s going to get here. I want you two to work together to find out what’s going on.’
Dan grinned. Mitch Frazer was another member of the bomb disposal team he and David had belonged to during the British operations in Iraq at the turn of the century, and another acolyte in David’s shadowy new world of politics and espionage.
‘Just like old times then.’ He took the key. ‘Who stayed there last?’
David shook his head. ‘Can’t say. He didn’t stay long – he insisted on moving to a friend’s house south of the river. He left that one in body bags.’
Dan raised his eyebrow. ‘Plural?’
David nodded. ‘Plural. Housekeeping said it was a bitch to clean. Needless to say, we arranged for that property to be sold. I think some sort of retired rock musician lives there now.’ He shrugged.
Dan shook his head in disbelief, took the briefcase and climbed out, collecting his kit bag from the trunk. As he slammed the lid shut, the car sped off and flashed its brake lights as it turned left, away to Downing Street.
Dan scanned the street for any signs of trouble. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and walked
away from the kerb, head down against the sleet, his eyes flicking left to right as he searched for anything that seemed out of place. He walked quietly, listening for the sound of footsteps behind him.
At the end of the street, he turned into the avenue and repeated the exercise. He passed the house and continued to the end of the street before he stopped and leaned against the wall of a large square brick Georgian building on the corner. He glanced back up the street, then to his left towards the main road.
A bus splashed past, Dan catching a glimpse of only three passengers on the lower level of the red double-decked vehicle. The inside of the windows were steamed up, with the people inside mere shadows.
He turned and began a slow walk back to the house.
‘Home sweet home,’ he muttered, jogged up the concrete steps to the front door of the house, turned the key and punched in his security number.
Chapter 5
Closing the front door behind him, Dan heard the locking mechanism click back into place, and began to explore his new temporary home.
The building was three storeys high, typically Georgian in design, with a basement sectioned off from the street outside by heavy wrought iron bars. Hitting a light switch to the left-hand side of the front door, Dan glanced around at his immediate surroundings. The hallway and lower level of the house had been decorated in neutral tones with carpeted floors. A staircase to the right of the hallway led up to the next storey.
To the right of the front door, he found a large study with a mahogany desk, a leather chair each side of it, and a window that faced out to the street. Net curtains provided privacy from the street. Dan strode over to the window, glanced out, then pulled the thick velvet curtains closed and turned to face the room. A laptop computer and printer sat on the desk. He noticed a modem near the wall behind the desk, its red light blinking in anticipation. A three-seat sofa stretched along one wall, facing a fireplace, while the back wall housed a large bookshelf that bowed slightly in the middle from the weight of the books lining its shelves.
Under Fire: (A Dan Taylor thriller) Page 3