Absence of Mercy

by Joe McCoubrey

  Thompson took the lift to the second floor and strode down the corridor to Alan Doyle’s office, waving the sheet as he pushed through the door. “Hot off the presses!” he said, with more than a hint of pride.

  Doyle studied the image for a few seconds, before glancing back to Thompson. “Pass these around to every member of the team, but hold off on general circulation until we hear back from Mike.”

  “Where he is?”

  “It seems,” Doyle smiled, “that our illustrious leader has been summoned to a rather high level meeting of suits. Talk about a fish out of water! Forward this to his phone in case he wants to use it.”

  Cabinet Office Briefing Room A, which provides the initials for one of the British Government’s emergency committees, COBRA, is not a particularly auspicious room. Housed in the first floor of a suite of offices at Whitehall, the forty-foot long room is largely unfurnished, save for a large conference table that runs down the middle and has a seating capacity for up to twenty-four attendees. The floor is covered by a rough hemp carpet that matches the bland chocolate colour of wood panelled walls, into which are recessed a ribbon of small lights running around the perimeter, about four feet below the high ceiling.

  If it were not for the other wall adornments, a visitor would have been forgiven for thinking they had stepped back in time to the Victorian age of the room’s original construction. A bank of computer screens, which provided live video feeds and satellite imagery, completely covered one wall, and small pop-up monitors ran down the centre of the conference table. The twenty-first century had well and truly arrived at Whitehall.

  The Government has a number of emergency committees that deal with how it will react to crisis situations, such as extreme weather, fuel shortages, health pandemics, attacks on the nation’s financial systems, and public disorder. Each of these committees has use of its own briefing room, but the most important by far is the one that meets in Room A and is tasked with monitoring and reacting to all manner of terror threats. Today, as usual, the committee was chaired by the Prime Minister.

  The buzz of conversation ceased the moment he strode into the room and walked to the head of the table. He nodded at his two most senior Cabinet colleagues, the Home Secretary and Foreign Secretary, and then swept an acknowledgement around the table at representatives of the military, at the heads of MI5 and MI6, at the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, at the two most senior officers of Scotland Yard’s Anti-Terrorism Unit, and then at the bureau chiefs for the Maritime and Coastguard Agency and the Revenue and Customs Smuggling Division. Finally his gaze fell on Mike Devon.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced, “we have a new face in our midst today. Allow me to introduce Mr Devon, who is here on behalf of General Sir John Sandford. Most of you will know that four days ago Sir John was the target of an assassination attempt, an attempt that has largely to do with why this meeting has been called. I gather Sir John is making a splendid recovery and we send our best wishes. In his absence Mr Devon has been cleared to act on his behalf and to relay any information the General might be able to help us with.”

  He smiled briefly at Devon. “I think it would be best if our guest filled us in with everything he knows.”

  It was the moment Devon had been dreading. He had had less than an hour to concoct a plausible account as to why a private security firm such as LonWash should command the attention of COBRA and spark the lifting of the nation’s security threat to its highest level. Uppermost in his mind was the General’s admonition to protect the ethos of the agency at all costs.

  He cleared his throat and began speaking. “I work for Sir John’s company. We have security contracts across the world, dealing mainly with private enterprises, although occasionally we work with other governments on sensitive internal issues, usually involving investigations of their own law enforcement agencies. These latter contracts are all notified to and cleared by the Foreign Office.”

  The Prime Minister interrupted. “Mr Devon, we are all aware of the extensive portfolio of Sir John’s work. Indeed, it is one of the reasons he is such a respected and trusted member of this committee. There is no need for you to set a background for us, just bring us up to speed on the events of the past week.”

  Devon was grateful for the intervention, knowing the PM was as anxious as he not to let the spotlight shine too brightly on the activities of LonWash. “Thank you, Sir. Five days ago one of our operatives was shot dead here in London and this was followed closely by the attack on Sir John. We uncovered an assassination list containing the names of all our senior personnel, and at first we believed we were being targeted by some individual or group that may have been disgruntled by some of our past operations. However, we now believe that the attacks were designed to divert our attention away from a potential terrorist threat to this country.”

  There was a gentle murmur of voices, broken by the strident voice of Peter Ramsden, the head of MI6. “Why would someone attach any importance to your agency in the protection of our nation?”

  Devon had already rehearsed his answer. “I agree, Sir. The idea would otherwise be preposterous, but we believe it’s possible that we previously encountered these individuals who might have been fearful of us raising a flag if we spotted anything unusual that connected to them. There is also the fact that it would have been anticipated that Sir John would have asked MI5 and MI6 to help him track down the assassins, thereby also distracting resources away from their usual activities. I understand Sir John was in the process of doing just than when he was gunned down.”

  “Yes,” Ramsden acknowledged, “I was due to meet with him the following morning.”

  Devon continued. “Our enquiries over the past few days have led us to believe the assassination list is nothing more than a smokescreen. There’s no doubting the veracity of the list, or the very great trouble and expense that someone has taken to activate it, but, in our opinion, it is still nevertheless a smokescreen.”

  Ramsden interrupted again. “I’m guessing your hypothesis is that only something very big would warrant such an elaborate, pre-planned attack on your people. But why should this involve the country? Could this be nothing more than a pre-emptive strike on your organisation by someone you’ve rubbed the wrong way”

  “You said it yourself, Sir,” Devon retorted. “We’re just not big enough or important enough for that degree of investment. Why hire a whole army of assassins and provide them with only a small window within which to complete their tasks? In any other circumstances it would be seen as rank amateurism, if it not were for the effort that was clearly expended in putting all this together.”

  “It still seems a bit flimsy.” The voice belonged to Matthew Harding, the renowned Scotland Yard terrorist hunter. “I mean, we’re preparing to move to a state of high alert based on a lot of supposition.”

  The response came from the PM. “The answer comes in two parts. First, General Sandford is adamant that a clear danger exists. We all know the General’s track record for accurate assessment of situations such as this, and if he believes we are in danger of imminent attack, I for one will not be taking any bets against his being wrong.”

  He paused as if to choose his next words carefully. “I am sorry to say that the second, most compelling reason for concern is that we learned this morning that Sir Norman Melrose has been implicated in whatever has been going on.”

  There were audible gasps as delegates looked at each other in bewilderment. The PM waited for the noise to settle. “All we know so far is that Sir Norman appears to have been coerced into supplying the list of names to the assassins. At present he is helping to put together a photofit of the man who inveigled him into this plot, but I’m arranging for him to be transferred to Scotland Yard this afternoon.” He looked directly at Matthew Harding. “I expect you to uncover every detail of his involvement. In the meantime, let’s take stock of where we go from here.”

  The next two hours proved fascinating for Devon. It was an oppo
rtunity for him to witness first-hand how the combined wheels of civil governance worked. And he was mightily impressed. These people left nothing to chance, taking their discussion from conjecture on the nature of the threat, to specific ways and means of countering all eventualities. Nothing was ruled out, although uppermost among their concerns were the possibilities of potential high-level, political assassinations, and the use of conventional or chemical explosions.

  The time was divided between detecting the threat and nipping it in the bud, and the steps that needed to be taken to prevent large-scale casualties in the event that their detection efforts failed. It was determined that GCHQ, the Government Communication Headquarters at Cheltenham, would take the lead in trawling back through its cyber-surveillance work of the past week in the hope of picking up something that might have been overlooked. Air and freight manifests of the past seven days would also undergo a thorough recheck, as would passenger arrivals in all major airports. Every known terrorist suspect or supporter would be rounded up and interrogated, and every police informant would be activated to look out for and report suspicious activity. The logistics that were about to be employed were mind-boggling.

  It was agreed that security would be stepped up across the capital, necessitating the use of extra plainclothed and uniformed officers to work alongside civilian guards at airports, train stations, ferry terminals, the docklands, and yacht marinas. Department stores, along with public facilities such as museums and tourist centres, would be ordered to introduce bag checks. Finally, it was agreed that emergency vehicle stop-and-search powers would be activated.

  The citizens of London were about to face delays in just about every aspect of their daily lives.

  Chapter 28

  DEVON WALKED THROUGH the revolving door and stepped onto the pavement outside the Whitehall office block, grateful for the blast of cold air that helped to clear his lungs. He was about to hail a taxi when he heard a voice behind him. He turned to see MI6 Chief, Peter Ramsden, walk in his direction.

  “A moment of your time, Mr Devon, if you don’t mind.”

  Devon tried to get a read of the man’s face, but couldn’t detect any animosity. “What can I do for you, Sir?”

  “Let’s drop the formalities, shall we? Just call me Peter. That was a pretty impressive performance you gave in there, but don’t think I was fooled for one minute by the way you downplayed the role of LonWash Securities. I know you boys swim in bigger rivers than you would like the rest of us to know about. I need you to cut the crap, and tell me exactly what’s going on here.”

  Devon was taken aback. He had no way of knowing how much Sir John had worked with this man, or how much he had taken him into his confidence. One thing was for sure, and that was that he was not going to allow himself to be tripped up. “I’m not quite following you.”

  Ramsden laid his arm gently on Devon’s shoulder. “Let’s grab a coffee,” he offered, pointing at a small cafeteria at the corner of the street. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll do the talking.”

  Five minutes later they were seated at a window overlooking one of London’s busiest thoroughfares. Ramsden waited for Devon to take his first swallow of Cappuccino. “I know your organisation is rather more than a private security company. I am aware that Sir John has the ear of the PM and has been involved in things that, shall we say, would normally be under the purview of my own organisation, and others I won’t even mention.”

  Ramsden paused to take a sip of his coffee. “I don’t need you to confirm or deny anything. Good God, man, give me some credit for occupying the position I currently hold. Do you really think your agency has been operating unnoticed, or that I wouldn’t know about some of your more high-profile engagements, which I have to say have led to some spectacular successes? Yes, I know more about you than you would imagine.”

  Devon slammed his cup onto the saucer and stood up. “I’m not listening to any more of this. I’ve got nothing to say, so if you don’t mind I’ll leave now.”

  Ramsden smiled. “Relax, Mike. I’m not here for a pissing contest. The old General has always played square with me. He has been good at keeping me in the loop and making sure I was never embarrassed by having to explain things after the horse had bolted, so to speak. I’m grateful for the number of times he gave me a heads-up on some pretty nasty situations, and even on occasions allowed us to take public credit for things that were resolved entirely by your agency. Unfortunately, he is now out of the picture, temporarily I hope, but I need to know that in his absence I can trust you to do the same as he would.”

  For once, Devon was lost for words. He slid back into his chair, unsure about how to proceed. He decided for the moment to stick with his script. “I have no way of confirming what was discussed between you and the General. I’m just a foot-soldier who carries out orders and keeps his mouth shut. I think I’ve already proven by my attendance today that we will co-operate fully with all agencies, and that we have nothing to hide. Anything else you think might is going on will have to be taken up with the General.”

  The smile left Ramsden’s face and for the first time he looked genuinely agitated. “Get down of that high horse! Don’t play smug with me, boy. I know all about you. Hell, you used to be one of us. I know your record, which is pretty damned impressive by the way, and which is why the General headhunted you for his organisation. I’m not looking to rock any boats here, but you should know that neither am I prepared for any lone-wolf actions, or for your people to be getting in our way. We are now all agreed that we are facing a dire threat, one which will require every one of us to be pulling in the same direction. If I think for one minute that there is even the slightest possibility of obstruction by you or your people, I’ll throw you into a cell and let you rot until this thing blows over.”

  Devon stared at the man opposite before doing the one thing that neither of them expected. He burst out laughing.

  “You think this is some kind of joke? You think the special relationship the General enjoys with the PM will somehow stop me from doing what I know to be right?”

  “Forgive me,” Devon interrupted. “It’s just that your little outburst reminded me so much of the General. That’s exactly the way he would have reacted to my stonewalling, and I can see why you two would have gotten on. In many ways, you are both cut from the same cloth.”

  Ramsden relaxed. “So you admit you have been stonewalling?”

  “Only insofar as the bigger picture is concerned. In respect of this particular operation I have been ordered by the General to work closely with you and the other heads to make sure we nullify this threat. You have my word that we will not hold back on anything.”

  “That’s more like it. Now run me through what you’ve got so far.”

  Devon outlined the events of the past five days, starting with the discovery of the assassin list in Austria and ending with the early-morning arrest of Sir Norman Melrose. He was careful to leave out details of the surveillance mechanisms used, but did disclose the agency’s involvement in the deaths of the assassins.”

  Ramsden acknowledged the report. “I’m grateful for your honesty. I knew there was something fishy about the way the Germans took credit for killing a known terrorist in Frankfurt, not to mention the unexplained death of an international assassin in Edinburgh last evening.”

  Devon was impressed by the breadth of Ramsden’s knowledge. He made a mental note to never underestimate the man.

  “Anything else?” Ramsden enquired.

  Devon reached into his jacket to retrieve his iPhone. “Forgot to turn this back on. I’m waiting to hear how our sketch artist got on with Melrose.”

  If Ramsden was curious about why Melrose was in the custody of LonWash instead of being handed over immediately to Scotland Yard, he didn’t show it. He waited for Devon to let his phone run through its start-up sequence.

  “Here it is. I have an e-Fit photo of the man who Melrose says blackmailed him into betraying our agency. We will
of course forward this to you and other agencies for immediate circulation. Perhaps you could get someone to co-ordinate running this through all the facial recognition databases?” He handed the phone for Ramsden to look at the picture.

  “Good Lord!”

  “Devon sat up straight. “What is it?”

  Ramsden emitted a short whistle. “No need to bother with all that. I’d know this face anywhere. Used to be one of us.” He turned the phone’s screen back to Devon.

  “This is none other than Carl Stratton.”

  Chapter 29

  CONTAINER SHIP Captain Charlie Wilson paced the living room of his small apartment, his eyes red from a combination of sleep deprivation and frequent bursts of sobbing. He knew he was coming apart at the seams, but struggled to find a way out of the crisis of conscience that had plunged him into the pits of despair over the past week. He looked down at an old Mark VI Webley revolver lying on the table, and wondered if his father would have had the guts to do what he couldn’t. The weapon had been used with distinction by Albert Wilson in World War Two action throughout a fierce campaign in Italy, but had not been fired in anger since his demob in 1945.

  Charlie had continued to clean and maintain the revolver out of respect for his father, never expecting to one day fill the cylinder again with the .455 cartridges that were stored in a locked drawer of a small writing bureau. At the weekend, Charlie had opened the gun’s break-top mechanism, filled all six chambers, and held the barrel against the side of his head. His hand shook as his finger tightened on the trigger. He closed his eyes, steadied his breathing, and fell to his knees crying. He couldn’t do it. Three further attempts over the next four days produced the same result.