Apex (Ben Bracken 2)

by Robert Parker

  My accomplice seems to float from room to opulent room, ghosting with a half smile, taking in every polished, spotless detail. The immaculate ivory architraves, the vast beds with deep silken bedding, the fresh white roses adorning every side table. I hope she likes it. When she gets back to the main living space, which adjoins the two bedrooms on walls either side of a couple of low chesterfield sofas, a red chaise longue that could be from a museum and a coffee table so slick that I feel I could play air hockey on it without the need for any actual air, I stand looking out of the window, over a shallow line of treetops, over the Thames. Once again, I am faced with the London Eye, the rushing water, and the exact spot I was arrested, as if to keep me grounded.

  She stands next to me, and waits.

  ‘Please pick a room,’ I say. ‘We’ll be here just for tonight, so please enjoy it. I don’t think I could afford two nights, so I’ll try to get everything done today. Please stay here until I ask you otherwise. I’ll leave some cash, so please order room service, and... whatever you want. The point is.... I know I can’t make up for what I did last night, but... I hope this can be start. I hope in some way I can give you a little of that London dream you always hoped for.’

  She remains quiet, so I start to head for the bags on the chaise longue, destined to leave her to it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. I look up at her, and see that she is looking at me in the eye for the first time since last night. She looks wounded, but gracious, and beautiful for it too. Her iciness has softened a degree or two, and her shoulders have loosened their wrought tension.

  ‘Your welcome,’ I say, as I reach into my bag to pull out my phone. ‘I need to go find somewhere to take a look over at the Holiday Inn, see who they sent after us-’

  The suite phone rings, an old traditional trill, splitting the atmosphere in two. Zero people, apart from the receptionist who I bought off, and the butler, who I perhaps should have tipped, know we are here. I was going to let Jeremiah know when I eventually got a handle on the lay of the land here, but I haven’t even got round to that yet. Amina and I exchange questioning looks, each asking the other wordlessly if the other was expecting a call. It takes me moment or two to find the phone - there, back in the foyer, on a stout dresser, and I grab it.

  ‘Yes?’ I say, tentatively.

  ‘Hello there, my friend,’ a warm male voice intones. ‘I know you may be alarmed by this call but please don’t be. My name is William Grosvenor, and I am a big admirer of what you have been up to. This phone-line isn’t really the place to go into too heavy a detail, but if you would meet me downstairs for a coffee and a bite to eat, I’d love a chat with you. You have nothing to fear from me, nor does your lovely friend.’

  I look at Amina as he mentions her, and as I do she understands how far from alone in this city we really are. Her eyes flash fear and she disappears into the suite. Our bags were only down for two minutes before someone reared up to say howdy one way or another.

  ‘I’m buying of course,’ the man calling himself Grosvenor says, ‘and I assure you that I mean you no harm whatsoever. But you are suddenly a very important man, in what seems an unenviable position. I believe I can help you, and if you’ll give me long enough for you to sip a latte I’d love to talk it through with you.’

  I don’t know what to say. I’m a man of action, not verbal negotiation. What does this Grosvenor want and how the hell does he know we are here?

  ‘What guarantees can you give me?’ I ask.

  ‘I can guarantee very little, aside from the promise that I have the absolute best intentions regarding your wellbeing, your friend’s wellbeing and the future wellbeing of this country.’

  ‘I’ve come across a lot of people who’d say the same thing recently. If, for any second, I don’t think you are acting that way, I won’t hesitate to end our conversation in a way that will be most unfavorable regardingyour wellbeing. Understood?’

  ‘I don’t doubt that for a second. Can I send anything up for your friend? On me of course?’

  ‘That might go down well-’

  ‘A full English,’ interjects Amina, on the same phone line we are speaking on. She must have sneaked to one of the bedrooms and picked up a phone. ‘With tea and toast.’

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ replies Grosvenor. ‘English breakfast tea, or does something else take your fancy?’

  ‘That’s fine, thank you,’ she replies.

  ‘Please call me William-’

  I hang up. Take a deep breath, then pick up again, listening to the silence.

  ‘Amina?’ I say, hoping she is still holding the phone in the bedroom.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m nipping down for a minute. If anyone other than that butler appears at the door with a full English, don’t you open it.’

  ‘OK,’ she says.

  I hang up again, and head for the door. I’m glad someone is picking up the breakfast tab. I’ve got a feeling this short stay here at The Savoy will be a costly one, in a lot more ways than the usual.

  *

  The Savoy main restaurant takes what I expected and still manages to raise the bar even higher than I had imagined. And just as I cross the threshold, I am accosted by a penguin-suited jobsworth who actually puts a hand on my chest and says: ‘No chance’. My synapses fire and put the early motions underway into snapping his arm at the elbow joint and handing his flopping limb back to him, but before I can a voice I recognize interjects.

  ‘He’s just fine,’ says Grosvenor, who appears at my side, withering penguin-boy to figurative dust. He is a tall, graceful man with neat grey hair in a merry, slate, three piece suit. His eyes flare light blue and his face carries the austere cheekbones of near-royalty. He moves with measure, purpose, and breadth. I am very sure he is ex-military, judging by the width of his shoulders and the way in which he sets them back to flare his chest out. Possibly in the arena of 65 or so, he looks like the man every single one of my superiors hoped they would become in their twilight years. He shakes my hand firmly, and looks me right in the eyes.

  ‘I understand your mistrust, but for what it is worth at this point in time, thank you for what you are doing for... well, I’d like to say the United Kingdom, but we both know that even the United Kingdom’s intentions regarding this matter seem a little muddy.’

  I don’t know how to answer yet again, worried that anything I say will incriminate me, betray my identity, my activities and my history to... who? I don’t know. I take the bull by the horns, as Grosvenor guides me to a table by the window.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask.

  ‘William Grosvenor. Simply put, I work for the government without portfolio.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I ask, taking a seat, while penguin-boy reappears to drape a serviette across my lap, presumably choking on humble pie.

  ‘I am a cabinet minister, working directly alongside the other cabinet ministers on behalf of the PM.’

  Shit me. ‘I’ve never heard of you,’ I try to say.

  ‘Well, that means I’m doing my job just fine,’ Grosvenor says, snapping open a thin menu. ‘I’d love to find out what’s good here, but an educated guess would surmise that it all is.’

  ‘What is without portfolio?’

  ‘Those ministers in the cabinet all have titles specifying their roles. Secretary of State for Health, Work and Pensions, Communities and Local Government etc, Chancellor of the Exchequer, Lord Chancellor and so forth. And there are a couple of us, much less publicized and out of the public eye, who are cabinet ministers without portfolio. We are appointed there by either the PM himself, or in my case, Her Majesty, and our role is to oversee and advise. For right or wrong, it is viewed that us non-portfolio types are worldly-wise and trusted in a great deal of things and are appointed to assist the Government in that sense. Although, things like that are generally decided in the eye of the beholder, but who am I to argue when people are so complimentary.’

  ‘So you are what... the Prime Minister�
�s agony aunt?’

  ‘It sometimes goes a little like that, yes. Coffee, smoked mackerel, with a poached egg, please. Oh, and a round of brown toast please.’

  I almost think Grosvenor is directing his order at me, but penguin-boy is back for another dose of humble pie with a pad and pen. Silence befalls which I am to fill.

  ‘Actually, I’ll take the same please,’ I say, ‘with some bacon. A lot of bacon. And brown sauce.’

  ‘A Savoy surf ‘n’ turf. I like it,’ smiles Grosvenor. ‘So, without wishing to waste your time, I’ll press on.’

  I look him square. He comes across as a man I could trust in an instant, but I must remain wary. That infernal problem I have with father figures has dumped me in the shit on more times than I can remember, and I don’t want it to happen again when there is so much at stake.

  ‘What do you know?’ I ask.

  ‘I know you’ve had a very eventful few days, and there are more than a few people who are interested in what it is you are carrying.’

  ‘Do you know what it is?’

  ‘The intelligence networks call it Apex, and it is supposed to be extremely horrible.’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ I ask, narrowing my eyes. The answer to this is the one I am especially scared of.

  ‘Not a clue at all, and no one had heard of you until just a few days ago. One thing I do know is that you are not Sean Miller.’ He smiles, this time with understanding.

  ‘You are right. I am not Sean Miller.’

  ‘And if I had both your attributes and the crowd of nefarious parties after me, I wouldn’t be using my real name either.’

  ‘How did you find out about me?’

  ‘We knew of Apex first.’

  ‘Who is we?’

  ‘The government. We knew of you, when our Kirsten started bemoaning the man who was on the run with the very chemical that centers this whole charade.’

  ‘Kirsten?’

  ‘Kirsten Sweetmore, our Secretary of Defense.’

  ‘So this does go that high up?’

  ‘What you are involved with goes as high as it gets. But in those lofty places, opinions are divided. The Secretary of Defense has an idea regarding this Apex, whereas the PM and some others have different hopes entirely.’

  My anger rises. This government knew about this godforsaken substance coming here, which in itself is bad enough.

  ‘I must tell you, my friend, that I am amazed you have come so far. The resources the Kirsten has liberally thrown at your capture, and here you are, a few doors down from Westminster itself.’

  ‘I didn’t bring it to you.’

  ‘I know you didn’t, but I do want to talk to you about seeing whether I can change your mind.’

  He’s just another suit looking for his own taste of power, I think.

  ‘This situation disgusts me. You disgust me,’ I say. ‘You corrupt bastards in your upper class country club at Westminster, wanting to get your hands on this... this abomination... so that you can have your own little taste of power and sway. Each one trying to outdo the other, when the human cost of your actions will be obscene.’

  Grosvenor doesn’t even blink at the affront. I’m sure a guilty man would, given the penchant of guilty men to try to squirrel away their less-than-desirable intentions. ‘I understand why you would say that, but really, I aim to convince you the opposite. The cabinet isn’t aware en masse of this situation, but those that are are split as to what to do here, and believe me when I say that those that think as you do form the majority. The Secretary of Defense has made this a personal mission of hers to procure Apex, whatever the cost, whereas the PM, under the guidance of myself, does not see it that way.’

  ‘Then what are the Secretary of Defense’s intentions?’

  ‘I don’t think they are nearly as sinister as you fear, but nevertheless they are not in line what we would consider noble actions of a democratic government.’

  Our coffees arrive, and we pause, eyes locked, while penguin-boy refreshes our cups.

  ‘The why don’t you get rid of her, if she is acting so far outside of her remit?’ I ask.

  ‘She has a lot of support, for a start. Without meaning to broadcast what this upper echelon of government is dealing with, if she were to be dismissed, a lot of angry and bitter MP’s would rally to her cause. She has proved herself to be somewhat of an expert at currying favor, and her influence spreads across all corners and both side of the House of Commons. It could end up mutinous.’

  ‘But why don’t they just tell them what she is up to? Wouldn’t they understand?’

  ‘Not likely. It would fracture the House of Commons. You’d have some supporting action, some demanding to know the PM’s involvement, resignations and accountability would be called for and something we have all learned in recent times where government is concerned is that the media is never far behind. The government is leakier than an old dinghy after machine gun fire. The story reaches the press, the press spills the beans to the public. I don’t think any of us want the public involved in this do we?’

  Grosvenor sips his coffee while looking at me with eyes that gently seek my understanding, and he has got it. There would be hysteria.

  ‘And not to mention,’ Grosvenor continues, clinking his cup into its saucer, ‘Kirsten Sweetmore would use this undoubtedly to her advantage. She is a media darling, with sympathetic ears in tabloids and broadsheets equally, not to mention in local press and blogosphere. She is an expert, where the press is concerned, at giving a little to further her own interests. The media furore surrounding her dismissal would unleash another volley at the government, which, by that point, would be struggling and suffering.’

  The press. The conspiracy in the south west. Is this her doing?

  ‘Every media outlet I have come across is full of misinformation about the plane crash, and nothing else. Is this her doing?’ I ask.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ Grosvenor says grimly.

  ‘And there’s nothing you can do about this?’

  ‘She has the PM by the jaffers.’

  ‘Christ,’ I say, my respect for government taking another smash down to an all time low. If they can’t do anything about their own members going rogue, what on earth is the bloody point. ‘Why does she want it?’

  ‘Apex?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Power. I think she does have the success of the British government at heart, but she sees Apex as a quick fix tool to get a leg up the ladder far quicker than any of her markedly more male predecessors. She wants the threat of power over all those around and against us-’

  ‘And she doesn’t care how she does it. Lying, conspiracy, murder, dealing with organized crime.’

  ‘Power, no matter the cost. And in bringing that plane down, she has swindled every single name who has come to the UK to take part in that auction for the purchase of Apex, not to mention the mysterious party behind its genesis.’

  ‘Jesus. She has made the British government... unpopular.’

  ‘And in a world where you have rogue scientists creating bespoke super-toxins, and criminal and terrorist elements from all over the globe coming to the UK, it doesn’t strike me as the wisest thing to do.’

  ‘She is making a target out of us. The whole country.’

  ‘There you have it. You understand our concern. Her actions, bringing down that plane, have set off a chain of events that is deadly where national safety is concerned.’

  I’m all at sea, dizziness pitching me this way and that. In pursuit of power, Sweetmore has made Great Britain every terrorist and criminal element worth their salt their number one enemy. We may have to endure revenge attacks for years. What was she thinking?! I remember what Amina said about greed, and how much blood comes with it. God, the prospect is unthinkable.

  ‘However,’ Grosvenor says, ‘you have given us a window. You see, the auction is supposed to be tomorrow night. And this criminal fraternity who are coming to bid on this stuff, doesn’t know it is
missing or stolen, and, judging by the emails from the seller’s camp, neither do they. We don’t know why that is yet, however.There is still time to change this.’

  ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘Give me the toxin. I hate this, but the auction must go ahead. We can’t make an enemy out of Great Britain.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘I am deadly serious. What is worse? A world where the toxin has been purchased happily by a party who disappears quietly into their corner of the globe, or a string of parties who are furious with Great Britain, angry at being swindled. There are a lot more ways to hurt UK civilians than super-toxins. This really is a no win situation as far as you and me are concerned, but we have to look at which of the two outcomes is the lesser evil.’