I ran along the platform, barely conscious I was being watched by clusters of curious smokers standing in the four corners of the courtyard next to the entrance to each of the building’s four wings. The wooden planking ran to within ten feet of the entrance. The top of the gates was curved but smooth and had no spikes. I heard a shout behind me, turned and saw, not Omar, but a security guard climbing out onto the scaffolding. I finished my run and hurled myself across the gap, seizing the top of the gate. I grasped it first with my right hand, then with both. After that, it was a simple and often-practised obstacle course manoeuvre to swing my legs sideways and upwards and slide myself between the gate and the arch. I was down to road level in seconds, with only a minor graze in the process.
I sprinted out into the road, straight into the light traffic. There was a taxi heading towards Fleet Street. I didn’t so much flag it down as hurl myself in front of it and dare the driver to run me down. I was inside it before the cabbie could argue and I told him to drive towards Greenwich, mainly to give him the prospect of a decent ride and cut off any argument.
I couldn’t get to my own car. It was in a basement car park near my flat but there was no sign yet of any pursuit or of any police cars answering the inevitable emergency call. I made a quick decision. As we approached the Strand, I said ‘take a right. I want you to drop me off at HMS Belfast.’
The driver muttered under his breath at having the ride shortened to almost nothing, but he didn’t argue and turned the cab down towards the river.
HMS Belfast is a Second World War Royal Navy cruiser, moored now on the Thames near Tower Bridge as a tourist attraction and museum. Next to the moorings is an arcade of fashionable shops and restaurants - a new redevelopment which linked the once infamous tenements to the river.
‘The end of the arcade,’ I said, ‘there’s a café just beyond it’
‘You mean Bob’s?’
‘Yes. That’s it. Turn into the alley next to Bob’s, thanks.’
Bob’s café was a relic of the district’s past, an old waterman’s haunt that had somehow been spared the developers’ gentrification. There was a wall behind it, dividing the alley from one of the storage yards at the back of the shops and restaurants on the southern side of the arcade.
As the cab turned into the alley, I thrust money though the glass to the driver, opened the door and got out. There was a discreet entrance, just beside Bob’s and within minutes, I was inside the shopping arcade, without having passed the security guards at the main entrance. It was thronged with tourists and there were groups of sightseers following guides with marker flags on sticks, as well as lines of people queuing at the stalls which sold everything from hot dogs to souvenir models of ships. I had a pre-prepared bolt-hole on board the warship, one of several I had prepared for use in situations like this. One of my oldest friends, a naval historian called Rory Hartnett, supplemented his academic income by acting as museum curator and historical adviser and he had a cabin on board. Rory rarely used it, but it was left secured as there was some valuable computer and printing equipment inside and he had given me a key.
There was a long queue at the gangplank leading up to the warship itself. The line was moving very slowly and I could see I hadn’t a hope of getting on board in less than half an hour, without jumping the queue. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, but I didn’t really have much choice. I hurried past the queue and went straight to the ticket kiosk, ignoring the stares and irritated mutterings of those in line.
‘I’ve come to collect some material from Rory Hartnett,’ I said, showing a permanent visitor’s pass Rory had given me.
‘No problem,’ the young woman said, ‘you know where his office is?’
‘Yes, on the quarterdeck, second level.’
I climbed the companion ladder, pushing ahead of a group of Japanese tourists and found the office. It was at the end of a row of exhibits, including the ship’s sickbay, bakery, galley and dental surgery, which were furnished with life-sized models representing crew carrying out their naval tasks.
I unlocked the cabin and slipped inside. There, I knew I was safe for the time being, but only until Belfast closed down for the night. That gave me a few hours breathing space to make a plan.
I closed the cabin door and went to the sink. I needed to look at my hip to see how much damage there was, but before I could look, my cell phone bleeped. It was Kate.
‘You’ve been followed,’ she said without preamble, ‘they’ve got you blocked in.’
The words were a complete shock, like ice water thrown in my face. For an instant, I just couldn’t see how I could have been found so quickly, but Kate gave me the answer before I asked.
‘Right after the fight, the old white-haired guy made a call on his cell. Must have been to tell his driver to go after you. The driver followed you as soon as you left the building. They followed by car, the woman’s I think. A red Alfa, and I followed them.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Can you see the quay from where you are?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you see a grey BMW near the main visitor gang plank?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s theirs. The Alfa is near the arcade.’
‘Is the man I fought with them?’
‘No, he’s gone to be patched up. But the cops are here.’
She laughed suddenly. ‘You’re sort of fucked, but don’t worry I’ll get you out. Can you stay hidden for fifteen minutes?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’ Kate said, ‘can you see the starboard side, looking out towards the river?’
I quickly crossed the cabin and looked out of the other porthole.
The Belfast was moored with her bows down river, facing away from the Tower of London and Tower Bridge. On the starboard side, mostly concealed from the tourists, was a narrow set of steps, covered by an awning. It led down to a platform at the bottom which served as a landing stage. Close by them was a similar set of steps, but bigger and open to the sky, which appeared to be used for delivering supplies. There was a companion ladder leading down to it, but it was barred, with signs warning that it was both dangerous and off limits to the public.
‘Yes, I can see,’ I said.
‘See the ladder down to the river?’
‘Yes.’
‘Watch for a red speedboat. I’ll be there I as fast as I can,’ she said and closed off the call.
I ran back to the other porthole.
A police car had drawn into the walkway beside the arcade. It pulled up behind the BMW and Vossler and Simpson-Carr got out. Then a second police car arrived. Altogether were there were five uniformed officers and I watched them approach the ticket office but they didn’t come on board. Instead there were hurried conversations at the foot of the gang plank. It was not difficult to figure out what was happening. Vossler and Simpson-Carr did not want to attract too much attention. There were photographers everywhere, both amateurs and some professionals taking pictures of tourists using the vessel as scenic background. Any one of them could tip off the press if a full-scale police search of the cruiser was mounted. Instead, a sailor in Chief Petty Officer’s uniform was summoned. After talking to Vossler and one of the policeman, he hurried back up the gang plank and called together the naval stewards and civilian security guards who controlled the crowds on the deck. The urgency of everyone’s movements could mean only one thing: they were being given my description and a search was about to begin.
I needed to get out of the cabin. If I was found in an enclosed space, there could be no possible escape. I slipped through the door and edged round a gun turret which blocked me from view from two sides. There were tourists milling around everywhere, but no-one took any notice of me. They were too busy photographing the installations and each other.
I wondered how Kate could possibly get there in fifteen minutes, yet I had to trust her; I had left myself no choice. It was a very long time since I had made such a stupid, ba
sic mistake. If I had let myself be followed like that when I first joined the intelligence service, they would have kicked me out of training school and told me to become a librarian. Right now, my only hope was that the description, passed from Vossler, by Chinese whispers through the Chief Petty Officer to the stewards and guards, would not be very detailed and that would slow the search.
I looked over the rail, but there was no sign of a speedboat. The only vessels anywhere near were two glass-fronted cruise boats doing lunch and dinner trips along the Thames and an unsightly high-sided rubbish barge which was chugging slowly past. Then I noticed that two deckhands on the rubbish barge were leaning over the rail on the far side of the barge. One of them was smiling and both were watching something out of sight below their own forward rail. As the barge drew level with HMS Belfast, they stood back and waved. There was a swirling flurry of water and an elegant red speedboat swung out from behind it. Creating a high curving wake, it accelerated to come alongside the cruiser then slowed sharply to bring itself next to the service ladder.
Sensing something was wrong, one of the stewards shouted to the Chief Petty Officer, to come and take a look. I knew I had only a moment to get down without a confrontation. It was fifteen feet down to the next level. I eased myself onto the rail and as Kate slowed the speedboat and prepared to draw alongside, I jumped. The steward shouted and the Chief Petty reached the chain barrier at the same moment. I body-charged him hard, sending him careening down the deck. I hurdled the chain that barred the service deck and raced down the steps. The speedboat was alongside but was bobbing about in the swell. One more jump, and the timing had to be right. I landed, more or less on my feet, in the tiny aft well, then I felt the surge of acceleration and just had time to grab the rail, before the boat sped away into the open water of the Thames.
Chapter 5
An hour later I was staring at the most vulgar interior I had ever seen on any vessel anywhere: the main stateroom of a motor yacht called ‘Ocean Dream.’ There was a dining table with a crystal top, a bar with zebra-skin stools, and a white quarter-grand piano, surrounded, in the grossest taste, by full size plastic palm trees.
‘More like Ocean bloody nightmare,’ I said.
Kate grinned. ‘Great isn’t it. Does wonders for my sea cred.’
After the leap onto the speedboat, we had stayed on the river for only a few minutes. Kate had veered into a grubby commercial dock belonging to a river waste disposal company, where we picked up a battered Honda Civic. We had driven for half an hour through a maze of East London streets and when I was finally satisfied we weren’t being followed, she had driven full circle to St Katherine’s Dock, a fashionable tourist and pleasure-boat mooring area, just up river from Tower Bridge. Instead of going into the complex through the main entrance, we had driven to a row of lock-up garages. Kate had opened one of them, using a security code, driven in and parked the Honda. From there, we had gone through a series of tunnels and ended up, without seeing daylight again, on board the Ocean Dream.
‘It belongs to Max Jefford,’ she said.
‘The son of Orville Jefford, the media tycoon?’
‘That’s the one. It’s his shagging palace. Officially, he’s MFWK – Married, Faithful With Kids. Unofficially, he’s London most eligible adulterer. He bought this complex – the flats and the boat - and had it redesigned so he could bring his girlfriends here in total privacy.’
‘Are you one of them?’
Kate laughed.
‘Hell, no. I’m not a zebra-skin bar stool woman. And before you ask how I know the door code, Max tried to seduce me, I said no, but we became friends.’
‘Bit unusual?’
‘I guess so, but Max isn’t the needy type. He’s never short of girlfriends and he’s also a surprisingly nice guy. He became one of my sponsors and offered the use of ‘Dream’ for meetings with my shore team.’
‘Are any of them likely to turn up?’
‘No. They only come when I invite them.’
‘What about Jefford’s girlfriends?’
‘They aren’t given the code. Don’t worry, you’re secure for the time being.’
I wasn’t so confident but I didn’t argue. I needed time to make a proper assessment of the situation.
‘Right now, we have to sort out your wound,’ Kate said.
I said I didn’t think it was serious but Kate insisted on an immediate check.
‘Go clean it up and I’ll see what Max has in the way of first-aid kits,’ Kate said, ‘I’m a pretty good amateur doctor.’
I knew I was probably as good an amateur doctor as she was but I didn’t argue. I found a small bathroom, which was as luxurious and characterless as a five-star hotel and took off my torn shirt. There was a fair amount of blood. The wound was on the hip, just below the belt-line. It looked messy but didn’t feel serious. The dart had gone right through the skin over the hip and straight out the other side. Now that the adrenaline had stopped coursing, it was painful and slightly stiff but there was no real restriction of movement.
I started to clean it up then Kate arrived, carrying a small green hold-all, marked with a white cross and an expensive-looking white shirt.
‘Trust Max,’ she said, ‘best first-aid kit money can buy.’
She examined the wound and finished cleaning it up.
‘Bit of disinfectant and a pad and you’ll be fine.’
She looked more serious suddenly.
‘There’s some stuff back here you need to see,’ she said, ‘come take a look.’
‘What at?’
‘I’ve just logged in. The web’s going crazy. I’m afraid you’re already entertainment for the wired masses.’
We went back to the stateroom and Kate led me through to a smaller cabin which was set up as an office. ‘I keep some kit here,’ she said.
She pointed to the screen of a silver Apple Powerbook. ‘By my reckoning, UpstairsBackstairs had video footage twenty minutes after you left Bush House.’
I knew that like all Foreign Duty Editors, Kate was skilled at keeping an eye on blogs and news websites. UpstairsBackstairs or U-B as it was commonly known, was currently leading the pack, and unlike the mainstream news sites, any old bit of gossip or rumour was featured as ‘breaking news’ .
Their technique was simple. They broke a story with whatever fragments they had, then they invited the world to become ‘citizen reporters’ and post whatever they knew, or thought they knew about the story. U-B kept it in some kind of rough shape by doing update summaries and inserting headlines. There had recently been a rash of articles in the mainstream press condemning the technique and asking whether it heralded the end of conventional journalism, in favour of a world where anyone could print anything. The result, predictably, had been huge publicity for UpstairsBackstairs and postings had reached phenomenal levels.
On its main page now there were already three different video clips of the newsroom fight, under the heading: ‘Mayhem in the BBC World Service Newsroom - Editor Goes Berserk.’
Kate manoeuvred the track pad and clicked on each one in turn. It was not good news. One sequence showed me in close-up trying to batter Omar’s head against the floor. Another showed me hurling the tea-urn at him. A third, shot from an odd angle, made me look as though I was about to annihilate Olivia, the guide dog.
‘It all makes me look like the aggressor.’
Kate looked thoughtful. ‘Well, you kind of were, weren’t you.’
‘Not really,’ I said, ‘there’s history between us. A fight was inevitable.’
Kate looked at me squarely. ‘So let’s hear it, this history.’
‘It’s a long story,’ I said. ‘And I’ll give you all of it. You have my word, but first I have to go out.’
‘Out where?’
‘North London.’
‘Aren’t you safer here?’
‘Probably, but there’s some stuff I need, and the sooner I get it, the less chance I have of being spotted.’
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‘Can I come with you?’
‘No, better stay where you are and monitor all this crap.’
The real reason I didn’t want her to come was that I had no right to compromise the people I was going to meet by letting Kate see them. If I took her and left her in the car, she would not be as safe as she, hopefully, was on board ‘Dream’.
‘Before I go,’ I said, ‘I need to be absolutely sure you won’t go out. Not even for a few minutes. It could be really dangerous. You have to trust me on that.’
‘And you have to trust me. I’ve already figured this is no game.’
She handed me the Honda key and told me the door code.
‘I’ll be back in hour, two at most,’ I said, ‘then we’ll talk.’
I found the Honda and drove it out of the underground garage. As soon as I thought I would have a clear mobile signal, I pulled into a side street and switched the Sim card in my iPhone to one that was, in theory, not traceable. The call I had to make was to an old friend, Major James Dallman, a Royal Artillery officer, currently posted to the Ministry of Defence in London, Dallman had collaborated with me in an emergency plan for eventualities like this one.
I’d always known that if ever my BBC cover was blown and the Security Services turned nasty, I would not be able to use my cards or my flat or my own car. I had given Dallman £2500. The deal was that in a crisis, Dallman would make twice this amount - £5000 - instantly available and I would repay the balance as soon as possible. We had also arranged that I would take over Dallman’s car at a moment’s notice, on the understanding that he would rent a replacement vehicle on his own credit card and charge the cost to me later. In the final part of the arrangement, Dallman had given me a secure space in his attic to keep a cache of emergency supplies. Dallman was the ideal man to make the arrangement with for two reasons. First, he was a prosperous man, not hugely wealthy, but with a big enough private income for all this not to cause him any problems. Secondly, though we were good friends, we didn’t see each other often enough for his Willesden Green flat to be on any watcher’s list of contact addresses.
The Saxon Network Page 4