by Daniel Cole
The commissioner ignored the tone:
“Well, that is good news,” he said. “When it’s all over, though, you must drop by. I know he’d love to see you. He’s been worried sick.”
Baxter was a little uncomfortable with how personal the conversation had suddenly become.
“Well, my partner’s here,” she lied, leaving the room.
“Do pass on my regards when you go visiting, won’t you?” the commissioner called after her as she escaped to the kitchenette to make herself a coffee.
By mid-morning, Saturday, the temperature had soared to a sweltering 6 degrees Celsius thanks to the blanket of dark cloud that never seemed to stray too far from the capital. Miraculously, Baxter managed to find a space on the main road. They were parked a hundred meters from the Sycamore Hotel, Marble Arch, which according to several of the recovered suicide texts would be the venue for Green’s final gathering.
“Oooo! They’ve got a screening room,” announced Rouche as he flicked through their website on his phone. He looked out at the hotel. “D’ya think anyone’s watching it?”
“Probably,” replied Baxter. “We’re here for external exits, access, and vantage points only.”
Rouche puffed out his cheeks. “Only one way to find out.”
Baxter grabbed his arm when he opened the car door to climb out:
“What are you doing?”
“Exits, access, and vantage points . . . Can’t see much from here.”
“Someone might recognize us.”
“You maybe. Not me. Which is why I brought you a makeshift disguise from the flat.”
“Apartment,” she corrected him.
“Apartment. I hope you don’t mind.”
He handed her the baseball cap he had found on the coat stand.
“It’s a three-part disguise,” he explained when she looked decidedly unimpressed.
“Happen to bring me anything else from home?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
He looked blank.
“Anything at all . . .” she pushed him.
“Oh, your pants! Yeah.” He smiled, producing a carrier bag of underwear.
She snatched it off him and tossed it into the backseat before getting out onto the pavement.
“Part two of the disguise: we’re in love,” said Rouche, taking her hand in his.
“And part three?” huffed Baxter.
“Smile!” Rouche told her before mumbling: “No one’s gonna recognize you then.”
Special Agent Chase struggled to restrain his colleague.
“For Christ’s sake, Saunders,” shouted Baxter. “Do you have any idea how much paperwork you create every time you get yourself punched in the face?”
The Homicide and Serious Crime meeting room was populated with the team of territorial Met detectives, SO15 officers, and jet-lagged FBI agents who would be involved in Sunday’s operation. Baxter had been briefing the various teams on her external assessment of the venue.
Overall, the meeting was going much as expected.
MI5 had sent along a token agent, who had quite clearly been instructed not to disclose a thing but to report back with in-depth details of what was being discussed, in what must have been one of the most blatant acts of espionage ever employed. Rouche, as the sole representative of the CIA, was attempting to discreetly hand Baxter the loose pair of underwear that had fallen into the bottom of his bag.
Fortunately, no one noticed apart from Blake, who looked absolutely crushed.
“That conference hall should be covered in cameras by now,” Chase told the room, to the nods and mumbled agreement of his men.
“And how do we know it’s not being watched?” asked Baxter impatiently. “How do we know they’re not going to search the hall for cameras or bugs or meathead FBI agents hiding behind the curtains?”
Chase ignored the laughter from the other side of the room:
“They’re crazies, not spies!”
The MI5 agent looked up from his laptop as if someone had called his name, affirming the general consensus that he was probably the worst secret agent in the business.
“Crazies they may be, but crazies who have managed to coordinate attacks on two different continents without anybody being able to stop them,” Baxter pointed out. “If we spook even one of them . . . we could lose all of them. We stick to the plan: passive surveillance on the five entrances, the hotel’s CCTV routed through to facial recognition here. We plant a fake porter or receptionist armed with a high-powered microphone in case we can’t get anybody in there. The moment we get confirmation that Alexei Green’s inside, we go in.”
“And if Green’s a no-show?” asked Chase challengingly.
“He’ll show.”
“But if he doesn’t?”
Then they were screwed. Baxter looked to Rouche for support:
“If we’re unable to verify that Green’s in attendance, we hold until the last possible moment,” said Rouche, “and then we raid the hall as planned. If we can’t get him there, we’ll get to him by questioning his roomful of accomplices.”
“Quick question,” blurted Blake, cup of tea in hand. “The bit about getting someone ‘in there.’ What’s up with that?”
“We need visual confirmation,” said Rouche, simply. “He’s the FBI’s most wanted. Anyone who’s seen a paper knows his face by now. It’s likely he’ll obsure or change his appearance.”
“Granted, but you can’t actually expect one of us to just waltz inside, with absolutely no idea what’s going to happen when those doors close, to sit in the middle of an audience made up purely of murderous psychopaths?”
The room fell deathly silent.
Rouche looked back at Baxter, stuck, consenting that perhaps it didn’t sound the most inspiring plan when put like that.
She just shrugged: “Anyone got any better ideas?”
Session Six
Wednesday, 11 June 2014
11:32 A.M.
The tailored white shirt landed in a crumpled ball on the bathroom floor, the warm coffee seeping into the Egyptian cotton. Selecting a replacement from the master bedroom wardrobe, Lucas started to pull it on in front of the mirror.
He sighed at the sight of his paunchy body, an angry red mark across his chest from where the scalding drink had branded him. He did up the buttons as quickly as possible, tucking himself in as he rushed back down to the living room, where a rake-thin man in his mid-sixties was sat tapping away on his BlackBerry.
“I’m so sorry about that,” said Lucas, lifting his chair out of the wet patch on the floor and taking a seat. “I keep doing things like that at the moment.”
The man watched him carefully: “Is everything all right, Lucas?” he asked.
Although there in a professional context, the two men had known each other for years.
“Fine,” he replied unconvincingly.
“I just mean . . . that you seem a little out of sorts, if you don’t mind me saying. Nothing’s prompted our meeting today, has it?”
“Not at all,” Lucas assured him. “This is just something I’ve been putting off for a while. I feel I’ve been remiss in not taking care of it sooner, after . . . well, after . . . after . . .”
The older gentleman smiled kindly and nodded:
“Of course . . . So, this is all refreshingly simple. I’ll just run through the gist of it: ‘I revoke all former wills and testamentary dispositions made by me . . . I appoint Samuels-Wright and Sons, Solicitors, to act as the executors of this will . . . Subject to the payment of debts, funeral, and testamentary expenses, I leave my residuary estate in its entirety to the Great Ormond Street Hospital Charity.’ Blah. Blah. Blah. ‘Lucas Theodor Keaton.’ All sound about right?”
Lucas hesitated for a moment and then, failing to steady his shaking hand, removed a USB memory stick from his pocket. He held it out to his acquaintance:
“There’s also this.”
The solicitor took it from him and looked at it inquisitively.
“It’s just a message . . . to whom it may concern . . . should the time come,” Lucas explained self-consciously. “To explain why.”
Nodding, the solicitor placed the memory stick into a pocket of his briefcase:
“That’s a very thoughtful touch,” he told Lucas. “I have no doubt that they’d want to hear from the person who’s leaving them this . . . frankly staggering sum of money.” The man was about to get up, but then he paused. “You’re a good man, Lucas. Few who have reached your dizzying heights of wealth and influence remain impervious to all of the ego and bullshit . . . I just wanted to tell you that.”
When Lucas arrived for his appointment with Alexei Green, the psychiatrist was occupied with a stunningly attractive woman. Although engaging with her politely, he appeared utterly uninterested in the very clear signals that she was putting out:
“I mean it. Literally the day after I attended your lecture on everyday applications of behavioral neuroscience, I submitted a request to alter the focus of my thesis.”
“Ah, well, you’ve got behavioral neuroscience to thank for that . . . I couldn’t possibly take the credit,” Green joked.
“I know it’s cheeky to ask this, but even just an hour talking with you would be . . .” The woman made an excited squeal, placed a hand on his arm, and laughed.
From the doorway, Lucas watched in awe as she swooned over the psychiatrist, intoxicated by his charm.
“I’ll tell you what . . .” started Green.
The receptionist rolled her eyes.
“. . . why don’t you have a word with Cassie over there and she’ll find us a time to do lunch next week?”
“You’re serious?”
“You’re at that event in New York next week,” Cassie’s bored voice called from behind the desk.
“The week after, then,” Green promised, finally noticing his patient loitering in the doorway. “Lucas!” he called. He had to give the woman a gentle shove in the right direction to get her moving as he welcomed him into his office.
“You know, it’s OK to be angry with the person . . . with the people who did this to you and your family,” said Green delicately.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud, throwing the office into gloom. All of a sudden, the ornate lampshade, oversized chairs, and solid wood desk, which usually gave the room a homely ambience, appeared stale and dead, the psychiatrist, too, merely an ashen copy of himself.
“Oh, I am angry,” Lucas told him, gritting his teeth. “But not with them.”
“I don’t understand,” said Green, a little sharply. He quickly amended his tone: “Imagine that I was the man who had traveled into Central London that day carrying an explosive device with the sole aim of murdering as many people as possible. What would you want to say to me?”
Lucas stared into space while he considered Green’s question. He got up and started to pace the room. He could always think more clearly when he was moving:
“Nothing. There isn’t a single thing I’d want to say to him. There would be as little point in me taking my anger out on him as there would an inanimate object . . . a gun . . . a knife. These people are no more than tools, brainwashed and manipulated. They are but puppets for a cause far bigger than themselves.”
“Puppets?” asked Green, a mixture of interest and skepticism in his voice.
“They behave like wild animals when they’re set loose,” Lucas continued, “drawn towards the greatest concentration of their prey, and we . . . we cluster together in these enormous numbers, unconsciously baiting them, playing the odds that our luck will hold out, that it’ll be somebody else’s turn to die. And all the while, the people actually holding the strings, just like those responsible for our protection, play us all like chess pieces.”
The words looked to have struck a chord with Green, whose gaze was fixed firmly on the window across the room.
“Apologies for the monologue. It’s just that . . . I find it really helpful talking to you,” admitted Lucas.
“Sorry?” asked Green, a million miles away.
“I was saying, I was wondering whether we might be able to increase the frequency of our sessions, perhaps meet twice a week from now on?” Lucas asked, attempting to hide the desperation in his voice. “I appreciate that you’re away next week, though . . . New York, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. That’s right.” Green smiled, still mulling Lucas’s words over in his head.
“You go often?”
“Five, six times a year. Don’t worry—I won’t have to reschedule our appointments often,” Green assured him. “But yes, of course. If you are finding our sessions beneficial, we can certainly step them up. But as you’re making such impressive progress, I wonder whether I might try something a little bit different with you . . . a fresh approach, if you will. Do you think you might be ready for that, Lucas?”
“I do.”
Chapter 28
Saturday, 19 December 2015
2:34 P.M.
In true tradesman style, Special Agent Chase abandoned the van across two disabled parking spaces. He handed his colleague a stepladder before dragging a toolbox out of the back. Dressed in matching overalls, the two men entered the lobby of the Sycamore Hotel and made their way toward the reception desk, where offshoots of tinsel hung limply over the floor like dying ivy.
As they proceeded across the lobby, Chase noted that the first, unassuming signage had already been put out in preparation for the following day’s illicit gathering:
20 December—11 A.M.
Managing director of Equity UK, Jules Teller,
on the effect of the economic downturn on equity prices,
the resulting precipice on which the financial markets now stand,
and what this means to you.
Chase had to hand it to their enemy: who needed an army of ferocious security guards policing their privacy when you could use equity prices and the financial markets as an equally effective deterrent?
Clocking that both of the receptionists were otherwise engaged, they followed signs down a corridor to the modest conference hall. The room was, thankfully, empty. Row upon row of threadbare chairs faced the barely elevated stage. The hall smelled musty, the beige walls making it feel hazy and tired.
If Jules Teller’s mind-numbing equity talk had been a real event, thought Chase, this would have been the place to hold it.
They closed the door behind them and set to work.
Following the disastrous meeting earlier in the day, Lennox had made her position quite clear to her exported lead agent: the investigation may have led them to London, but this was still an FBI case and Alexei Green was at the top of their most-wanted list. His instructions were to disregard Baxter’s paranoid order to stay away from the hotel and set up cameras and microphones inside the hall. The moment they had eyes on Green, Chase and his men were to move in on their target, leaving Baxter and her people to scoop up his fleeing audience.
As an experienced undercover agent, Chase at least acknowledged Baxter’s concerns that the hotel may be under surveillance. He had learned the hard way that it was always better to be overly cautious regarding such matters. As such, he and his colleague carried out a genuine repair to the set of double doors, replacing two of the greasy hinges as they placed their first camera. The entire time, they remained in character, speaking only about the job at hand in passable English accents, just in case anybody was listening in.
Within fifteen minutes they were done. Three cameras and a microphone in situ, four squeaky hinges replaced.
“That wasn’t too ’ard, was it, guv?” Chase’s colleague smiled, the American under the common misconception that all English people speak like they’re about to clean a chimney for Mary Poppins.
“Tea?” suggested Chase, supressing a burp as he patted his belly, method actor through and through.
They packed up their equipment, whistling as they worked, and headed back out to the van.
The Met’s inv
estigation was going nowhere fast.
They had managed to take DNA samples from the keys Baxter had used to attack Phillip East’s killer, but, predictably, these had not matched anyone in the system. A team was still wading through the CCTV footage in relation to the three previous gatherings.
The search for Alexei Green’s patients had so far only turned up perfectly pleasant, scar-free examples of his past and present clients, all of whom maintained that Green was a kind and genuine man who had helped them through difficult times. Several patients remained unaccounted for. Baxter had assigned a team the task of obtaining emergency contact details for each of them, attending addresses in the hope they might stumble upon one of Green’s Puppets.
The FBI had made no secret that they were searching everywhere for Green and his assorted minions. So he had dispersed his army, who would reconvene only once more before unleashing whatever horror they had in store for the people of London.
Sunday’s gathering would be their one opportunity to end it.
By late afternoon on Saturday, Baxter had had enough.
They were going through the motions but all knew that they were biding their time until the following day. She spoke once more to Mitchell, the undercover officer whom she had chosen to enter the conference room. Then, satisfied everything was in hand, she left Rouche with an ex-colleague of Green’s, made her excuses, and headed out to Muswell Hill underneath another dark gray sky.
She parked up beside a familiar tree, but it took her a moment to recognize the once-familiar house behind it, which had sprouted an extra room over the garage and a shiny new Mercedes on the driveway. She could hear drilling as she stepped out of the car and walked up to ring the bell.
A well-presented woman in her early fifties opened the door. She had sparkling blue eyes, which contrasted with her jet-black hair, tied up into a 1950s-style bun. Her dark denim jeans and slouchy jumper were covered in paint, but it looked more like a fashion statement.
“Hello, trouble!” she exclaimed in her upper-class diction before embracing Baxter and planting a rose-red lipstick stain on her cheek.
Baxter eventually managed to squirm out from the woman’s grasp: