Latent Hazard

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  ‘Red-hot,’ replied Pete. He paused. ‘Would you want paying?’

  ‘What sort of sum would we be talking about?’ asked Rafi, and Kate shot him a glowering glance.

  ‘The full inside story, handled properly over a number of weeks or even months, would net you a six, maybe even a seven-figure sum for an exclusive. Basically, you could name your price. Is this going to be a very expensive trip for me?’ enquired Pete.

  Rafi looked across at Kate. She slowly shook her head.

  ‘I think it would be churlish not to take the money,’ said Rafi.

  ‘But . . .’ interjected Kate. She looked horrified.

  ‘Seriously. Consider if the money was not for us, but for the hospices helping those with radiation poisoning. They must be overflowing. How about Pete’s paper running an appeal to raise money for the hospices helping those suffering? The appeal could go alongside our story. It would be great publicity for the newspaper and be great for its image,’ said Rafi.

  As he paused to think, Rafi could see Kate visibly relax. ‘If your paper were to start the ball rolling with, say, a £250,000 donation and top it up as more stories were rolled out, I reckon Kate and I would be very happy.’

  Pete looked pensive. ‘I reckon my editor would go with that if I got an exclusive.’

  ‘Where else would we go?’ said Kate with a huge smile.

  They chatted for almost an hour and a half. For the photoshoot, the hotel proprietor arranged for them to be slipped out of the back of the hotel in a laundry van down to a nearby beach where the pictures could be taken in the morning sunshine. They returned using the same means of transport.

  With the story and the photos in the bag, Pete made arrangements to meet with Neil, said his thanks and slipped off to London with his scoop.

  At Kate’s request, the proprietor briefed the journalists and TV crews camped outside that a press conference would be held the following morning, at 11 o’clock in the dining room.

  Kate and Rafi spent the rest of the day chatting and discussing what he might do next and about her career ambitions in the police force. It was settled that he would move in with her for a couple of months before he made any decisions. It was a happy day. He had a future; one which filled him with great expectations.

  They ate in their room that evening, turned in early and breakfasted early the next morning. Rafi tentatively tucked into a small English breakfast while reading the newspapers.

  They couldn’t miss Pete’s article: it ran to twenty pages! On the front page were a smiling Kate and Rafi walking hand in hand, in the sun, on the golden sands by the sea. The trilby hat and the flowing scarf hid many of the scars and bruises, and all things considered he looked remarkably well. The headline under the photo was ‘In good hands’. The article talked of Pete’s breakthrough in tracking down the terrorists’ getaway vessel, Golden Sundance, in Iceland and explained Kate’s and Rafi’s roles in unravelling the terrorists’ plots. The article revealed the work that Kate’s team at the City of London police and MI5 had done in finding the locations of the terrorist attacks. It also described the role of the Air Chief Marshal, the Prime Minister, the Defence Secretary and the head of MI5 during the thwarting of the terrorist attacks – and even mentioned Aidan’s team working with the Chancellor of the Exchequer and the pulling of the financial rabbits out of the hat. There were photos of the hotel proprietor presenting the doctor and his wife with a large bouquet of flowers, as well as pictures of John, Emma, Giles and David.

  The article included one new nugget of information. There was a mugshot of Miti Lakhani. Despite the best efforts of MI6 and the CIA, he had disappeared and the terrorist training camp run by him was deserted. Also, tucked away in the text, was a paragraph alluding to the fact that one of the terrorists had, at the end, tried to save their skin by doing a deal. Rafi smiled. It was another nice way of playing Maryam and the other terrorists off against each other.

  The hotel’s dining room was packed for the 11 o’clock press conference. Pete’s story had whetted their appetite. Before the session Kate received a call from Neil, thanking her for getting Pete to talk to him before going to press. Basically, Neil told them that they could mention practically anything, except for the sleepers, but they should remember that the more they told, the more the journalists would want to know.

  Kate and Rafi sat at a long table covered with a smart white tablecloth and flower arrangements at either end. Bright lights were trained on them.

  The questions were like cannon fire. First they focused on the recent terrorist shooting and Rafi’s wounds, then the questions backtracked to the lead-up to the Stratford disaster and, finally, they were asked their views on whether before the Stratford tragedy politicians had pushed the boundaries of spin too far.

  ‘It takes two to tango,’ Rafi replied. ‘Irresponsible journalism goes hand in hand with spin. I applaud responsible investigative journalism which questions whether the full truth is being revealed by publicity-hungry politicians. More attention to the minutiae and not just to the big glossy picture would be welcomed.’

  ‘What would you do about it?’

  ‘Perhaps those journalists who cut corners and write things that are needlessly intrusive and damaging should be shunned by their colleagues. Yes, you have a press complaints body, but you know in your hearts what’s acceptable and what’s not acceptable. Persistent unacceptable behaviour should result in offending journalists being ostracised by their peer group. That would be a good start. Perhaps you should beef up your trade body and give it real teeth so it can determine what’s ethical and proportionate, plus give it powers to discipline wrongdoers.’ Rafi stood up, gingerly lifted up his shirt and showed the mass of scars on his flank.

  ‘You don’t want to see lower down! I’ve got these thanks to one man’s desire to publish information about my whereabouts. He ignored requests that this information should be kept out of the press as it would endanger lives. The person in question brought to bear undue influence on an unsuspecting member of the hotel staff. Then he bribed a guest to take unauthorised photos of me, which you’ll have seen in Sunday’s papers.

  ‘I applaud professional journalism: it’s the lifeblood of a free society. I abhor journalism which is only interested in short-term gain and is a means of filling the coffers of the journalists involved and their bosses. You might like to ask the gentleman standing amongst you what his thoughts are.’ The cameras turned on to a sheepish-looking individual. He stood silent and said nothing. No apology was forthcoming.

  Kate stood up. ‘As he has nothing to say, I propose we call it a day. Rafi and I came here for a holiday to recharge our batteries. It’s not turned out as we had hoped. We’ve only four days left before we return to London and it would be much appreciated if we could have that time to ourselves.’

  Against a barrage of further questions, they left through a side door, picked up their coats and headed for the fresh air and the solitude of the windswept beach.

  The last four days of Rafi’s convalescence went by far too fast. They chatted and laughed as if they didn’t have a care in the world. It was a happy time. On Sunday, it was with sadness that they packed before their drive back to London. It felt like the end of the long holidays and the impending return to school.

  Back in London, Monday morning felt strange. Kate set off for work early and Rafi was left in her flat alone. It was the first time for ages that he hadn’t been with her. He missed her.

  It was a sunny day; spring was in the air. On the spur of the moment he decided to look at Stratford and the new wall around the exclusion zone. He took the underground straight through to Old Street station and walked east towards Hackney Road. After about half a mile Rafi came upon a sign by the roadside. He was entering a restricted area. This was, he assumed, the beginning of a buffer zone. Not far ahead of him he could see a military roadblock in front of a fifty-metre strip of cleared derelict ground. Past this were a three-metre high, heavy-duty steel me
sh barrier and the beginnings of a brick wall. Beyond that he could see piles of rubble, empty properties and, incongruously, a number of newly planted trees.

  As he stood taking in the enormity of the dispossessed area, a soldier came across.

  ‘This is a restricted area, sir. You should turn around and make your way back to the other side of the buffer zone.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Rafi said. ‘I was only trying to fathom out the true size of the exclusion zone.’

  ‘I understand that if you take the underground up to Hampstead or Belsize Park and walk to the top of Parliament Hill you can get a good overall view.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Rafi returned to Old Street tube station and took the tube across to Hampstead. The journey brought back memories of the lead-up to his arrest; it all seemed eons away.

  He was soon back on his old home ground. It felt strange; he was revisiting a chapter of his life that had been closed. He had left the keys to his flat at Kate’s. As he walked down Well Walk, past his building and on towards the Heath, he wondered what his redecorated flat looked like. He shrugged his shoulders – that was for another day, he told himself.

  Twenty minutes later he was standing on the top of Parliament Hill, 100 metres above the exclusion zone whose scale beggared belief. It was a miracle that the relocation and decontamination process had passed off without there being any major incidents.

  Rafi strolled down to Belsize Park tube station, past the Royal Free Hospital. The sign to the oncology department sent a shiver down Rafi’s back as he fleetingly envisaged the many people contaminated by the nuclear waste and their sufferings.

  An hour later he was back in Kate’s flat. Physically exhausted, he settled down, read the papers and had something to eat. Whilst he missed Kate’s company, he had always enjoyed having time to himself. Over the next couple of weeks he recharged his batteries and enjoyed the freedom of having nothing particular to do. His hair regrew sufficiently to cover the scar on his head and for him to stop wearing a hat in public. All his wounds had healed and he was beginning to wonder what he should do next. Of one thing he was certain: he would not be going back into fund management.

  Yes, there had been several phone calls from prospective employers trying to entice him to work for them. The golden hellos on offer were mouth-wateringly large, but his heart was no longer in that line of work.

  Rafi decided he was in no hurry and would give himself another month or two before starting to job hunt.

  One evening, before Kate had returned from work, the phone rang. It was an ebullient Saara.

  ‘Rafi, would you believe it? I’ve had a job offer I can’t refuse.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘The Chancellor of the Exchequer invited me to Number 11 for a working lunch. It was just me, the Chancellor and four of his Treasury suits.’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ replied Rafi.

  ‘They want me to run a team which advises on the allocation of Research and Development grants spent at UK universities. Dealing with renewables, hydrogen fuel cells, energy efficiency, clean carbon technology, carbon sequestration, under sea storage and—’

  Rafi interrupted her, as the list seemed endless. ‘That sounds right up your street.’

  ‘I know, isn’t it great? I’d be involved with all the areas that could give the UK economy a competitive edge post-nuclear power.’ Saara chuckled. ‘I liked the sound of the job but I told them I had loyalties: my existing research work and Steve. And that I was very happy in Birmingham. You know what? The Chancellor started smiling. He said I made an excellent negotiator. He then floored me. He said that Steve’s research had caught the eye of those at Imperial College and that they’d be asking him to work with them on secondment. Plus, he can bring his research team with him. The Chancellor has spoken to my vice chancellor who thinks it’s an excellent opportunity for us both! Basically, I was well and truly stitched up. But, Rafi, I wasn’t pleased to find you were part of the fit up.’

  ‘Pardon?’ he replied.

  ‘Well, they told me that Jeremy had spoken to you and confirmed that Steve and I were most welcome to use your flat on a long-term basis, as you were now living with Kate.’

  ‘Of course you are, and it explains why Jeremy out of the blue asked me about you and my flat.’

  ‘I’ve talked it through with Steve and the move is on. Isn’t it fantastic?’

  ‘I’m really happy for you. I’ll send you a set of keys,’ said Rafi.

  ‘I’ll be working at the Treasury and will have a workstation at Number 11. And they’re practically tripling my salary. It’s outrageous; I’m going to get paid shedloads to do something I love.’

  ‘It’s about time,’ said Rafi.

  ‘Rafi, are you sure it’s alright for me to use your flat?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Steve says he’s looking forward to living somewhere without rising damp. By the way, how much rent should we pay?’

  ‘How about what you were paying in Birmingham?’

  ‘Surely that can’t possibly be enough?’ said Saara.

  Rafi heard Kate unlocking the front door.

  ‘Sis, don’t worry. Enjoy the flat and let’s chat again soon. I’ve got to go now – Kate has just got home.’

  ‘Bye and thanks,’ replied a very happy Saara.

  Part 9

  They’d been back in London for almost four weeks. Thursday had been a quiet day. Rafi had cooked supper, which was being kept warm in the oven, and he was sitting with his feet up reading the evening newspaper. He looked up at the clock. It was almost 9.30 p.m. Kate had rung to say that she would be a bit late, so he was not worried.

  There was a clatter downstairs as Kate opened the front door, bounced up the stairs and greeted him with a hug and a lingering kiss.

  ‘Sorry I’m so late. Supper smells good. Thank you for waiting.’

  ‘I hope it’s still edible.’

  He noticed Kate’s cheerful demeanour. ‘Did you have a good day then?’

  ‘Yep, it was quite something. It seems I’ve been promoted. You now see before you Detective Chief Inspector Kate Adams!’

  Rafi listened to her story of how she’d been dumbstruck when she’d been called into a meeting with the commissioner. ‘Emma is being promoted into my job. Jack, who did all the work on the terrorist sleepers, is taking on Emma’s role and Peter Ashby is to become their sidekick. According to the commissioner, that left him with a bit of a problem as to what he should do with his newest detective chief inspector! I didn’t follow what he was saying until he said, “Yes, Kate, the appointments board has approved your promotion. It puts you as the youngest DCI in the City of London. Congratulations.” I was dumbfounded.’

  Rafi leant across and kissed her.

  ‘But that’s not all. The commissioner carried on and added, “As to what we are able to offer you, we were wondering whether you and Rafi would care to join Ewan, the PM’s permanent secretary and me for a meeting. Could we pencil in 3 o’clock tomorrow afternoon? If Rafi can’t make it, let Beverly know and we’ll rearrange it.” I left feeling light-headed,’ said Kate. ‘I was only promoted to detective inspector last year. I seem to have missed a large number of rungs on the ladder.’

  Rafi gave her another kiss. ‘Fantastic! This calls for a celebration. It’s what you deserve. I’d love to see your family’s faces when you tell them the good news.’

  He walked through to the fridge and from the back pulled out a bottle of sparkling white wine, scooped up two glasses and walked back into the sitting room. Kate had kicked off her shoes and was sitting on the sofa with her feet curled up under her.

  ‘Look what I found in the fridge.’ He passed the bottle to Kate. ‘You can do the honours.’ There was a loud pop as the cork flew up and made a small dent in the ceiling.

  Rafi put a glass out to catch the effervescent wine as it bubbled out of the top.

  Kate filled her glass. Rafi stretched his arm out and she poured
an inch of the liquid into his glass.

  He raised it. ‘A toast: to you, the most talented policewoman in the City!’

  Rafi looked into the eyes he loved so much and took a sip of the sparkling wine. It tasted different from what he’d expected. The little bubbles danced on his tongue.

  Kate raised her glass and took a long swig. ‘I’ve a confession to make: this isn’t my first glass of champagne this evening,’ she said with a chuckle in her voice.

  Rafi smiled. ‘You deserve being made a fuss of. What exactly does your promotion mean?’

  ‘Heaven only knows! I suppose they want me to move somewhere, which is why they’ve asked for you to be there.’

  They chatted over the well-cooked supper. Kate was buoyed up with the excitement of the news. As far as what the future held, all would be revealed tomorrow. They left the dirty plates where they were and retired to bed.

  Kate was up and out of the flat early the next morning. Rafi tidied up and spent a leisurely couple of hours reading the papers. He was feeling rested. The terrors of the previous month were a thing of the past. He left in good time, dropped into a florist on the way and headed off for the meeting at Wood Street. He arrived almost fifteen minutes early and went up to the fourth floor office to look for Kate. To his surprise, he found Emma sitting at Kate’s desk and opposite her was Jack.

  ‘Hi there, I came to have a last look at where I was imprisoned and to convey my congratulations to the two of you.’ From behind his back he produced a bouquet of spring flowers, which he handed to Emma. ‘Congratulations and well done.’

  Rafi turned to leave but Emma stopped him at the door. ‘You can’t get away that easily.’ She placed her arms around his neck and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘You look after Kate, or else I’ll come and sort you out. Got that? She’s a very special girl.’

  Rafi felt a firm tap on the shoulder. ‘This is what you get up to when my back is turned: making out with my best friend! I should have guessed that the two of you had a soft spot for each other!’