Timebomb : A Thriller (9781468300093)

by Seymour, Gerald

  ‘If your “expertise” …’ Lawson’s tongue rolled contemptuously on the word ‘… is unwanted it could be because of its irrelevance.’

  ‘You’ve already asked too much of him.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘The effect on him of what you’ve done may last with him for years, psychiatric disorder brought on by the trauma of stress.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Damn it, you pushed him there.’ Shrinks’s voice rose. Never had before. Couldn’t have recognized himself. ‘You are responsible, only you, for driving him into a condition of the syndrome from which he may not recover. Even with the best supportive intervention and the best counselling this could be a long and potentially unpredictable business. But I see no indicators of you losing sleep over the inflicting of long-term damage on this man. And now he’s screwed you. What bloody irony. You pushed him that far, into the arms of those brutal creatures, and he has rewarded you by turning his back on you. Try this one. “Sow the wind and reap the whirlwind.” That’s about the limit of your achievement, Mr Lawson. You’ve played God with a man’s mind, his decencies and loyalties, and I doubt you’ve noticed.’

  There was a hoarseness in his throat, a dryness. What upset Shrinks most was that Lawson seemed not to have been jolted by his outburst. No grandiose threats of ‘never working with us again, chummy’ had been made; no conciliatory waffle about ‘Let’s sit down, get this off our chests and look for what’s best.’ Nothing. Lawson looked through him as if he did not exist, and as if his tirade had gone unheard.

  He looked to the others for support, but they wouldn’t meet his eyes. Then Luke Davies took Katie Jennings’ hand and spun her. Shrinks saw that, and thought Luke Davies didn’t care a fig what he saw.

  Luke held the hand firm. He said, ‘Can you think of anything useful you can do right now?’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Can you think of somewhere, other than here, you’d rather be?’

  ‘Anywhere.’

  ‘It’s where we’re going.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It has the failure smell about it. A bad smell.’

  She said, ‘I know about smells. It’s what constables experience. The old biddy hasn’t been seen for a month, and nobody’s thought to report it until there’s the stink, and we break the door down and go in first. Rats may have beaten us to it, and the maggots are hatching. That sort of smell.’

  ‘Come on.’ He tugged at her arm.

  For a moment her heels stuck, dug in. ‘Is that a good enough reason?’

  He hesitated, then blurted. ‘Absenting myself from failure is a part of it. Another part is being away from here and with you.’

  He saw her eyes open wide, and then there was a mocking grin. He liked that mouth, no makeup, and the myriad little veins in her lips. She didn’t answer, but let him lead. He ran his other hand through the shock of bloody ginger hair that stood him out in any crowd. He wasn’t good with girls, women, never had been … The American in Sarajevo, Frederika, had been something of a convenience to him and he to her. There were girls, women, in VBX and there might be a meal after a film, but nothing had stuck. He took his mobile out of his pocket and held it up so that Adrian or Dennis or Shrinks would see it, stepped out and she didn’t pull back.

  They walked on a forest track, and a tractor’s wheels had gouged it.

  They headed for ‘anywhere’ and had no idea of where the track would lead. Far in front of them they heard the harsh whine of a chain-saw. She hadn’t spoken, but her fingers were in his.

  The sun came through low, dropped, the birds had quietened, and their footfall was silent on the carpet of the forest floor. He saw the lines of trees, birch and pine, and sometimes they were bright lit by the sun shafts and sometimes they were dark and held secrets. It was where that woman had been. He remembered the painting in the kitchen, the photograph of her and her whitened hair, the child in her arms. Almost, Luke Davies would have been frightened to be among the trees – beyond sight and reach – on his own. He was not alone, had Katie Jennings with him. She hadn’t spoken, but she had that smile, not the grin, and a sort of recklessness went with the smile.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’m thinking beyond my station. I’m thinking of Lawson.’

  ‘He’s a bastard. He’s a—’

  ‘Let me bloody finish. Now, I’ve never been into your place. Nearest I’ve been is when we were all on the pavement outside. But I’m seeing him going in through the front door, and everybody who works there is looking at him and they know about his failure. I promise you, Luke, I’m not vindictive, but the thought of it is making me laugh. How’s he going to cope with that?’

  ‘Every piece of advice given him has been ignored. Now it’s gone belly-up.’

  ‘I suppose he’ll try and bluster it out.’

  ‘Not with me beside him,’ Davies said. ‘I’m not going down with him.’

  She frowned and the smile was gone, and the laughter. She said, ‘Nothing’s for ever, Luke, is it?’

  He read her. ‘You can move on. It’s not a ball and chain. You pack the bag, go to the station and leave.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And maybe you finish up somewhere you hadn’t planned on. It’s what happens … and you can’t feel bad … and “somewhere” you meet someone else.’

  Her hand tightened on his.

  They walked on.

  Neither his mobile nor hers rang.

  They were near to a railway track.

  Luke Davies sensed death, with him and around him as close as the darkening trees, but she had his hand. The sun slipped, shadows lengthened.

  ‘Should we turn back?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’

  There was a knock and the door opened before she had time to respond.

  She looked up. She tried to remember when last the director general had called in on Christopher Lawson’s office in Non-Proliferation – might have been a couple of months back, might have been three.

  ‘Hello, Director.’

  ‘Lucy, isn’t it? Yes, hello.’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you, Director, I’m sure, that Mr Lawson is away and—’

  ‘You don’t, no.’

  So why had he come to her outer office? Her desk was placed as a strategic barrier and it blocked the entrance to the inner office. A visitor in search of Christopher Lawson could not slip by covertly and bounce her man. She was his gatekeeper and had been for more than twenty years.

  ‘How can I help, Director?’

  He wandered across to the window. Her man, Mr Lawson, might be detested the length, breadth and on every floor of VBX, but he possessed impressive clout. The inner and outer offices allocated him, and her, and the open-plan where juniors worked, had a fine view out on to the river and across it to Millbank. He was at the window and his eye traversed the river, then came to rest on the edifices of Parliament. He turned and faced her. ‘I spoke to him this morning.’

  ‘Did you, Director?’

  ‘Talked to him on a secure line.’

  ‘Well, you’re ahead of me, Director, as I haven’t talked with him since he left – five days now. Wouldn’t expect to. Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘I would, thank you.’

  She was up from her desk, and slipped to the electric kettle behind her. She’d use Mr Lawson’s personal mug, the one with the spaniels on it. It wouldn’t be out of order for the director general.

  ‘You see, he didn’t say very much.’

  ‘Did he not?’

  ‘I expected something more … Some detail. Crisp is what I had, crisp, brisk answers.’

  She spooned Nescafé into the mug, and took the milk from the small fridge.

  ‘I offered him the cavalry. You understand? He was out on the banks of the Bug, a forest behind him and Belarus in front. With him is that tiny little team of increments. I asked when he thought it might happen, a collection by his targets of what he belie
ves is being brought to the river. He said, quote, “Within the next several hours is my estimate”. So I asked if he wanted the cavalry.’

  The kettle boiled. She poured water on to the coffee grains. She held up the milk carton and he nodded. She stirred vigorously. The director general had the reputation of coming unannounced to offices, then wandering the floor space, rambling and musing, not wanting interruption. She believed it was a habit he employed to clear chaff from his mind. She passed the mug, and he ducked his head with old-world courtesy in thanks.

  ‘Where was I? Yes … I offered him the cavalry. You see, we go back a long way. When he was young he had an American as his mentor, and when my turn came as a rookie, Christopher was my mentor. He taught me a mass of detail, also the value of a good nose and its use in sniffing, the value of instinct. I learned to trust him and his instincts. Excellent coffee …’

  He was pacing now, quartering the carpet. She watched and stayed silent. He seemed not to be talking to her but to the walls, the door and the window. With Mr Lawson away, Lucy had been busying herself with his paperwork and had tidied recent papers into the filing systems – he still used documents and the computer memory was for back-up – and the director general couldn’t be accused of keeping her from something that was necessity. She thought him troubled.

  ‘He’s a difficult man to read, Christopher is. Anyway, I’m giving him the offer of cavalry support. We could get to him, within a couple of hours, the best of the Polish agencies, a unit of their military, perhaps American Special Forces based in-country. Certainly the whole team from our Warsaw station could be there mob-handed. If he’s right, if his assessment of danger is correct, then – and I told him – “Failure is not acceptable.” Did he want the cavalry? A rather brusque answer: “Nice offer – no, thank you.” I ask myself, why is Christopher not prepared to share the load of responsibility?’

  He finished the coffee, put the empty mug down on her desk.

  ‘It was a blunt refusal. Why would he have declined help and the chance of boosting his role as an interceptor? My difficulty is that I can see only one reason … I’m going back a few days to when he came to see me. He told me of his suspicions, hunches, and laid it out. More circumstantial than evidence. Very frankly, if it hadn’t been Christopher, I would have rejected the propositions I agreed to. That one reason, refusal of the cavalry, has a simplistic answer that is increasingly nagging at me, irritating me. Does he believe it himself, this threat? Does he believe wholeheartedly in this conspiracy?’

  Her chin dropped, her mouth gaped. She found control. ‘I really wouldn’t know, Director.’

  ‘Is it just a figment of his imagination? Did I not examine it with due rigour? Does he not want support because the arrival of fresh teams would lead to a lorryload of witnesses to his fantasies? Well, I suppose we’ll know soon enough. He’ll be a laughing stock if he’s failed, if it were never about to happen, and I doubt that a seasoned friendship would be sufficient cause to save him. So kind of you, Lucy, to make me coffee. I have to say that where I’m going is towards blaming myself for indulging him.’

  He was gone. The door closed after him.

  Herself, she had never doubted Christopher Lawson. She pushed herself up in her chair, gained a few extra inches of height and could see over the window-ledge to the river. It flowed dark, brown and steady, and she wondered what the river Bug was like, whether it was fiercer or calmer. It had been Lucy’s intention to ignore a message that had reached her that morning, offering a chance to meet at a particular place and time. Now she checked it again. She would be late, at least a quarter of an hour. She stood, tidied her desk, looked through the glass door at the gloom of Mr Lawson’s empty inner office, and her jaw was set in defiance. She locked the outer door after her, went down the corridor and past the open-plan area of Non-Proliferation towards the lift. She passed staffers but none acknowledged her. She had no friends at VBX, could not have done. She worked for Christopher Lawson.

  Alison, the liaison officer, said why she had asked for the meeting, and thanked the older woman for coming. She had been about to leave the café, had finished two espressos, had gutted her newspaper, front to back.

  The woman grimaced. ‘You’ll get no tales out of school from me, or anything classified. I came because I admire and respect Christopher Lawson and have felt privileged to work for him for more than two decades. I came because he spoke well of you, because he is about to be ridiculed and his superiors have lost faith in him.’

  She hadn’t intended it, but a wan smile crossed Alison’s face. She thought she recognized that degree of loyalty, the same as that of the small dog her parents kept.

  ‘You identified an undercover whom Mr Lawson took over. The undercover is leading him, and Mr Lawson is following in his wake with his team, and you had doubts: if you had kept your mouth shut, we might not have identified the undercover, so you may have put that man – and he’s only a face in a file to you – into circumstances of extreme danger. You are agonizing … Should you have involved him? Is Mr Lawson a fit individual to run the undercover?’

  She nodded, couldn’t disagree with the précis of her concerns. It was a Greek-owned café. At other tables there were mechanics, bus drivers and some mail people just off duty. It wasn’t a place where VBX officers and support workers came, and she reckoned that the location gave her credibility, that the personal assistant would talk here, not spend the minutes looking over her shoulder.

  ‘He is obstinate, aloof, dismissive, sometimes cruel, and he is the most effective intelligence officer in that wretched building. That is who the undercover is working for. He is honourable, he has honour, and that is not a word often echoing through the corridors of our building. I don’t know why I came …’

  There were, she thought, tears welling in the woman’s eyes, little glistening marks of wet, and redness. Alison reached her hand out and laid it on the other’s.

  ‘I came, I suppose, to stand in his corner. Easier to speak to a stranger. The high and the mighty, the brightest and the best have concluded that the mission is flawed. Wishful thinking on Mr Lawson’s part. He’s unwilling to call for more back-up and their conclusion is, therefore, that his confidence in his judgement has gone, and further back-up would merely expose it. He was never more certain, when he left here, of the shipment coming through – never more sure of the critical importance of the agent. For him, it’s all about trust. He would not have trusted the integrity of the back-up offered. It’s his courage that makes him take responsibility – that is, responsibility for the undercover you gave him.’

  Alison offered, now, to go to the counter, get a coffee and a cake or a roll. It was declined. Instead, she learned about Christopher Lawson’s refusal to take a post with one of the new beefed stations in the Middle East, or a position on one of the augmented desks tracking the Islamists and their martyr teams through Europe. She learned about a bomb, and unbridled havoc.

  ‘It didn’t happen, did it? I wasn’t here.’

  ‘Thank you for coming, Lucy. Neither of us was.’

  Alison stood, picked up her handbag from the adjacent chair. A man beside her ate a cholesterol mountain of breakfast and it was late in the afternoon. She eased back the table and nudged the pram a young mother guarded as she smoked and talked with her friend.

  She said, ‘Please, one more question. Is it real, the threat they’ve gone after?’

  The answer was given her when they were out on the pavement and the dusk thickened round them. ‘Others may not, but I believe it’s real. If it wasn’t, Mr Lawson wouldn’t have gone there and wouldn’t have recruited that undercover.’

  They split, went their separate ways. Everything the liaison officer, Alison, had done was in the name of a young man she had never met, but into whose life she had inserted.

  *

  A kingfisher had gone downriver, but had not returned. For a long time, Carrick had looked for it. Storks had flown up the river, but not the kingfis
her. There was nothing else to distract him, and he thought of what he wanted to do.

  It played repeatedly in his mind. It was as if, he believed, he required a target on which to vent the pent-up pressure-cooker grievances. It was what he wanted to do to Mikhail. He saw it in images: walking up to the man and having no fear of him, calling him forward, seeing his surprise at the curtness of the command and seeing him obey, lunging at him, taking on a street-fighter with the tactics of his own gutter.

  And he did not care, not now, what would be the consequences of doing what he wanted – had no more thought of consequences than of helping Reuven Weissberg bring a package across the swollen river. He was a new man, changed, and did not expect the recognition of those who had known him before. He sought respect, satisfaction, and to be treated as an alpha player, and he wore a criminal’s weapon in a pancake holster on his belt.

  The last shafts of the sunlight, and the final warmth from it, were on his shoulders and neck. He heard Mikhail cough again. Maybe something from those thoughts passed over his lips, came from his throat, but Reuven Weissberg looked sharply at him, was puzzled, then glanced at his watch before resuming his study of the river.

  Carrick dropped his hands into the mud beside his hips and heaved himself upright. His back was to Reuven Weissberg and he faced Josef Goldmann, Viktor and Mikhail. He let his right hand drift behind his buttocks and flexed his fist, tightened and squeezed it. He had never had a street-fight, but he had seen them and knew that surprise, commitment and speed were key factors. He felt good, and it was what he wanted to do.

  He took his eyeline on Mikhail and walked towards him. The man smoked, sat hunched and seemed unaware of him. He saw that Josef Goldmann shivered, could not stop trembling, that Viktor had let his head fall back against the bank, where it was steep, eyes closed and might have slept.

  Carrick said, in his mind, ‘Something I want to show you, Mikhail. Over here, now.’

  He repeated it. In a moment he would say it out aloud.