He paused to compose himself. “Understand this. We will probably have to take risks, we will certainly push ourselves beyond our usual protocols, and if that means we become exposed to our other intelligence agency brothers and sisters, then that’s a call I’m prepared to make right here and now.”
A babble of voices erupted in the room, and Devon signalled for silence. “I know this goes against the grain of our usual protectionist principles, but I’ve no doubt this situation is so serious we simply cannot take the time to skirt around things. We go at this full tilt, and if it turns out to be our last operation, so be it. At least by then we will all know that we did what we could to avert what appears to be a lethal attack on the very fabric of everything we hold dear.”
Silence descended on the room. Predictably, it was Doyle who broke the spell. “We’re all with you, Mike, but so that we’re clear about things, are we dropping pursuit of the remaining two assassins?”
The answer was unequivocal. “Yes, I don’t want to hear them mentioned again. If they come at us, we’ll deal with it, but for now we’ve lost enough time and energy worrying about them. There’s a bigger picture that needs our undivided attention.”
Computer surveillance team leader Tim Halloran leaned back in his seat. “What about this lead we had on the server registered to a Felix Hoffmeier in Vienna? Surely we can’t just let that drop?”
Devon paused before answering. “Thanks for bringing that up, Tim. Part of me says it could be just another red herring, but there’s also a part that says we need to check it out. I think I can spare someone to pay a visit and rattle Herr Hoffmeier’s cage.” He looked at Alfie Cheadle. “Think you’re up to it?”
Cheadle beamed. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”
“My office later. For now, let’s get back on track.”
A pronounced cough diverted Devon’s attention to the rear of the room where Chelsea Horgan was sheepishly holding up her hand.
“You have something to add, Agent Horgan?”
She stood up to make herself seen. “Just before we started into this meeting I got a call from our London station chief to tell us that one of the assassins, Jeff Millar, was flagged on a flight to New York this morning. Because he was an American I recognised from the list, I had already passed on his details in the hope something like this might happen. I had forgotten to mention it previously to you.”
“Don’t apologise,” Devon told her. “What’s happening about picking him up when he lands?”
“The CIA’s NY office has alerted the FBI who are standing by to take him into custody on a number of outstanding federal warrants, including his suspected involvement in the assassination of a Senator in Chicago two years ago. The flight is due at JFK within the next hour.”
Devon smiled for the first time that morning. “Excellent! So, who does that leave us with?”
Doyle chipped in. “The last name on the list is Dragan Boskovic. He checked out of a bedsit yesterday morning, but has disappeared into thin air. We don’t have a clue as to his present whereabouts.”
“Okay, what I said before still goes. We forget him. I’m afraid we have a long stretch ahead of us, so let’s break and get at it.” Devon was about to leave the room when he suddenly remembered something. “Oh, one last thing. You’ll be pleased to know that the General is considered fit enough to be allowed out of bed for a few hours, and I’m told he has been spending the morning using up his full month’s allocation of mobile phone minutes. I’m heading over there now to see him.”
Chapter 26
GENERAL SIR JOHN Sandford was at that moment sitting stiffly in a bedside armchair, draped in a pink blanket thrown over his knees, and hooked up to an IV drip that made it difficult to use his left arm. The early-morning dosage of painkillers was beginning to wear off, but he was determined to put through one last call before the arrival of his visitor. After that, he would reluctantly climb back between the sheets for the four or five hours of midday recuperative sleep prescribed by the consultant physician.
His final call went through to the Prime Minister’s private number in Downing Street. It was perhaps the most difficult one he’d ever had to make. But things needed sorted, and for ten minutes he discussed a range of options before hitting the red off button and pushing his shoulders wearily into the back of the chair.
He lifted his eyes at the sound of footsteps on the tiled floor and raised his head as his oldest friend, Sir Norman Melrose, his direct liaison link to the PM, advanced to the foot of the bed.
“Norm, sorry about the early morning call. I appreciate you coming in at short notice.” He motioned to a visitor’s chair and waited for Melrose to sit down. “I needed to talk to you urgently about what has been happening over the past few days. There have been some significant developments”
Melrose didn’t attempt to hide his agitation. “Johnny, this is lunacy! You know, I haven’t quite forgiven you for going behind my back to the PM to get a carte blanche for your operation, but putting that aside, you need to take a back seat. You’re just not up to dealing with things until you’ve had a chance to fully recover. For that reason I’ve arranged with the PM for the reins to be handed over entirely to MI6. Your agency is being stood down until further notice.”
Sandford’s eyes narrowed and a frown creased his features. “Unfortunately, Norm, I know it would suit your purposes to have me out of the picture. I admit I’m not able to function on all cylinders, but lying in that God-forsaken bed has at least provided me with the time I needed to take stock. I can see clearly now what I should have realised a week ago, but maybe I just didn’t want to believe that a man in whom I have placed my entire trust has stabbed me in the back.”
“I’m afraid I’m not quite following you, old boy…..”
Sandford slammed his right palm down onto the wooden armrest. “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be. I know it was you who sold out the names of my people, and what’s more I know, or at least I can guess, at what was used to lever the information from you.”
“This is preposterous! Have you taken leave of your senses?” Sir Norman rose and glared down at the General’s frail figure. “I’m not listening to any more of this hogwash.”
“Sit down!” The command in the General’s voice left no room for doubting his visitor would do otherwise. “I have a number of things to say, and you would do well to listen carefully. It’s no exaggeration to tell you that your entire future, including how much time you will spend in prison, rests entirely on my being satisfied about your full co-operation and utmost honesty from this point forward.”
Melrose slumped into his chair, but there was still some fight left in him. “This is absolutely unbelievable. I don’t know what kind of delirium has been induced by the drugs they’re giving you here, but it’s obvious they are the cause of your incredible fantasy.”
“Enough!” The General barked. “Let me take this from the top. I don’t mind telling you that I had almost driven myself crazy trying to work out the traitor in our mist. Then last night it struck me that it really couldn’t have been anyone else. You alone have had unbridled access to my operation, a price I was willing to pay in order to keep the PM happy that he had oversight on what we do and who works for us. It didn’t appear to me to be too great a sacrifice to let a man I have known and trusted for many years to be the one acting as the buffer between LonWash and Downing Street.”
“John, you’ve got this all wrong….”
The General ignored him and kept talking. “When I finished crossing off all the names and was left with yours, I kept looking for an excuse, something that would absolve you. Maybe, you were just the victim of loose talk, or maybe you were careless with a memo, or email, or some such correspondence. I know you didn’t do it for money because you’ve already got more than a single person should ever need. I know you didn’t do it for some kind of ideology, or because you want to reshape the world. Frankly, you’ve always been too selfis
h and insular to stick your neck out that far.”
Sandford was struggling for breath, but he was determined to finish. “In the end it could only come down to one thing. You were compromised, probably because of your known affinity for sex with young boys. There have always been whispers around Westminster, but most of your peers turned a blind eye, probably in the hope that you could keep a lid on it, or at least be ultra-discreet in pursuing your sordid pleasures. I’m betting someone caught you literally with your pants down, and used this to get you to betray everything I believed you held dear.”
The General was winging it. He didn’t know, nor could he prove, anything he had been saying for the past five minutes. He had narrowed a small list of suspects down to Melrose, but everything he had was based on conjecture, supposition and guesswork. He knew, however, that if he confronted Melrose with the right mixture of confidence and bluff he would discover how close to the mark he was.
If there was one thing Sandford had learned over the years it was an ability to read people. He knew all the tells, the often tiniest signals emitted by people who were being evasive or who were simply downright liars. The furrowing of brows, the dilation of pupils, the appearance of red marks on the ears or neck, the swelling of the larynx, and the involuntarily, almost imperceptible, small muscle spasms and shakes that affect hands and feet movements.
Sir John was trained to read all the signs. And he didn’t like what he was reading off the man sitting opposite. “My God, Norm, it’s all true, isn’t it?”
Melrose bent forward and lifted both hands to cradle his head. His voice was little more than a whisper. “Believe me, Johnny, I didn’t want for anything like this to happen. I couldn’t see a way out. I thought it was just the usual things you cloak-and-dagger boys get up to. I thought all he wanted was to understand how your agency worked. If I had known he had intended to target your people I would never have gone through with it.
“Don’t dare try to exculpate yourself from this!” The General was shaking with rage. “Your protestations are embarrassing and, quite frankly, insulting. I have a man dead because of what you’ve done. My entire team and their families have been exposed to the most grievous perils because you sold out!”
“What could I have done?”
“You should have come to me. I would have helped. Now, I’m afraid you’re beyond all help.”
Devon stopped at his home to grab a quick shower, scrape off two days of facial growth, and change his clothes. The house was empty without Emma and young Michael, but he hoped it wouldn’t be for much longer. Something told him this operation was in the end zone, and as he closed the door behind him, he was in a much cheerier mood than he knew he had a right to be.
When he walked into Sandford’s private hospital ward his mood changed alarmingly. He recognised Sir Norman Melrose immediately, although the figure slumped in the chair bore little resemblance to the normally-effusive man who was noted for his loud, almost brash, voice and bombastic manner.
His first thought was that there was bad news about the General, who looked tired and drained and wore an expression of deep sadness as he turned to greet him with barely a flicker of his eyes. But then he detected a tension in the air, the kind of silence that took awkwardness to a whole new meaning. Something had passed between these two men, and whatever it was appeared to have changed the dynamics of their relationship.
The General nodded across at Melrose. “I have found our mole. This is the piece of garbage who sold out our agency.”
“What?” Without realising it, Devon had already crossed the room and was lifting Melrose out of his chair. His hands were encircled tightly on the Downing Street aide’s neck.”
“Stop, Mike. We need him alive to….”
Devon turned to see Sandford stumble out of the chair and fall across the bed. He let go of Melrose and raced around to his boss. He gently lifted the old man and cradled him in his left arm as he reached out to press a nurse station call button on the panel above the bed.
The General squeezed Devon’s arm. “Take this man into custody and sweat him for everything he knows. Get him in front of a sketch artist and make sure he co-operates fully.”
“Don’t worry, Sir, he will, but right now you need to take it easy.”
Sandford ignored him. “I spoke this morning with the PM who knows all about this. He has instructed you to continue in my absence, but he wants you to link up with MI6. This thing is too big for us to go it alone. Give them what you have, but be careful to protect the ethos of LonWash. The PM has agreed to lift the terror threat to its highest level, and has promised you all the resources you need. There is to be a meeting of the COBRA security committee at noon today. You will attend in my absence….” The General’s voice began to fade and his eyes fluttered closed.
Just then, two nurses and a doctor ran into the room and pushed Devon aside. They laid Sandford carefully across the bed and hooked him up to a battery of monitors. The doctor turned to Devon. “Don’t worry, he’s just exhausted. If you really want to help him, please stay away for a few days to let him fully recover.”
Devon nodded and reached out to grab Melrose by the collar of his jacket. “On your feet. We have a lot to talk about.”
He frogmarched his prisoner out of the room, turning back to glance briefly at the pulses of light that were creating steady peaks on one of the General’s monitors.
Chapter 27
THE MARCH OF technology has propelled sketch artistry to dizzying heights in less than a decade. Enhanced computer software is producing 3D high-definition, photo-quality e-Fits that are now replacing the old pencil outlines, at least in the eyes of the public, as one of the most valuable tools in the armoury of law enforcement. But lurking behind these dramatic images can still be found the skill of the individual artist - men and women whose craft continues to be relied on by the new generation of programmers.
Malcolm Thompson was one of those artists who found it easy to make the transition from paper to screen. Leave him alone in front of a computer and he could produce amazing results by marching a mouse in and out of the sidescreen toolbox as he methodically constructed all manner of human faces. However, Thompson never started anything without first grabbing a sketch pad and his little box of carbon crayons and pencils.
A large block of paper was resting on his knee as he sat across from Sir Norman Melrose, ready to begin his latest assignment in a small office on the third floor of the LonWash Securities building. The crayons and pencils remained on the desk in front of him. Thompson needed to establish a general baseline before continuing.
He had learned long ago never to rush a subject into trying to conjure up facial images. What was needed was a patient approach. He preferred always to get a general description of the subject, concentrating on ethnicity, height, general build, age range, and impressions of fitness and health. Answers to those questions provided him with a general outline of a face that was either gaunt or plump, lined with age or worry, or perhaps showing signs of energy and vitality.
Now came the building blocks, the time to add detail. Thompson started with the hair. Short? Long? Wavy? Curly? Flecked with colour? Above or below the ear? Spiky? Styled to the left or right? The gentle questions kept flowing.
What about the eyes? Did they seem large or small? Were they dark- or light-coloured? Were they framed by heavy eyebrows? Did they appear narrow, or did they sparkle with moisture?
As he moved down the face, the questions developed the same pattern as Thompson teased out every memory of facial construction. Nose, lips, cheeks, chin. Finally, he looked to factor in details of any distinguishing features, such as scars, pock marks, birth spots, blemishes of any kind. Was the subject clean-shaven or did he have a stubble? Was he wearing glasses or earrings? The last question always made Thompson chuckle, remembering as he did the old days when ear, nose and lip piercings seemed to be the exclusive domain of females.
It was only when Thompson had completed his
checklist of questions that he reached across to grab a pencil and begin massaging it lightly across the page. He worked in silence for twenty minutes, pausing only to swap pencils, or lift a crayon, or use his finger to smudge across the lines he had created. Finally, he stood up and walked away from Melrose to sit behind another desk. He fired up a laptop and began frantically moving a wireless mouse across a large plastic mat. He found it too cumbersome to use the small rectangular finger-activated trackpad on the laptop console.
After thirty minutes he leaned back on his seat and gestured for Melrose to join him. He used his left leg to hook a seat close to the corner of the desk, waited for Melrose to sit, and swivelled the monitor in his direction.
“Is that the man we’re looking for?”
Melrose was astounded. The image staring at him from the screen was unquestionably the man who had held him at gunpoint in the London hotel room. “It’s amazing. Yes, that is just like him, only he had more flecks of grey hair above his ears, and I don’t think his nose was as big as that.”
Thompson made the alterations, updated the file-save function, and clicked on the printer icon. He selected an initial run of fifty A4 colour prints, rising to lift the first sheet as it was deposited in the collection drawer. Before leaving the room, he nodded at a security guard who crossed to the desk and motioned for Melrose to follow him. He was being returned to a holding cell in the basement.
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