The Bell Ringers

by Henry Porter

  ‘You talk about remote surveillance,’ said Temple. ‘Don’t you have anyone on the ground keeping tabs on these people with their own eyes?’

  ‘You will understand that there are many calls on the Security Service’s watchers, prime minister. Up to now we have tended to keep an eye on the group at High Castle intermittently, believing them to be disaffected but not ultimately a menace. We’ve been testing the water by placing intensive surveillance on an individual for a week or so then moving on, allowing the automatic monitoring and scrutiny systems to take over. But we do have someone on the inside.’

  ‘That’s more like it.’

  ‘We expect to hear from her today. We believe that she, like the others, is due to collect a package that Eyam asked her to store for him.’

  ‘So you know what’s in the package?’

  ‘No, because she has never looked inside it and we have only just managed to acquire this woman’s services. She has been able to retrieve the package without raising suspicion, the same reason we have not heard from her over the last day.’

  ‘But you’ve got other names from her?’

  ‘Yes, and some important information about the coroner’s clerk, Tony Swift, who is clearly responsible for orchestrating the fraud of David Eyam’s death. He has gone missing too, but the coroner is now being interviewed.’

  ‘I thought we had control over the coroners’ courts these days,’ said Glenny, who had belatedly sat down and flung an arm around an adjacent chair.

  ‘We do,’ said Shoemaker, ‘but I gather in this case it was thought prudent to give the coroner a free rein in a public hearing so that there could be no suspicion that David Eyam was murdered on the instructions of the British government.’

  ‘You see,’ said Temple to Cannon with a note of hurt. ‘We make a commitment to openness and transparency and people abuse it.’

  Cannon grunted, not in agreement with Temple, but at his delusion.

  ‘Where are we on Kilmartin and the woman he was going to see?’ asked Temple.

  ‘Yes, Kate Lockhart,’ said Ferris with a glance to Shoemaker. ‘Eyam’s friend and it now emerges sometime lover. Kilmartin has yet to be in touch but we know that he met her at a remote country church outside the village of Richard’s Cross for twenty-five minutes yesterday.’

  ‘You observed this?’

  ‘No, a tracking device was fitted to his car when he was at Chequers. Previously we were relying on the Automatic Number Recognition camera network. We assume he gave a lift to her afterwards because she had not been seen at Eyam’s cottage, and that they departed south together. The car did not stop until it reached London last night at ten.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  Ferris frowned. ‘The car is in a car park in the Bayswater area. There is no record of Kilmartin having an address in London. The short answer is we don’t know.’

  ‘What about his phone?’ asked Glenny.

  ‘Switched off,’ said Shoemaker.

  ‘And hers?’

  ‘Also switched off.’

  ‘Well, get hold of him somehow,’ said Temple. ‘Let’s have him in this afternoon after my statement to the House. Is there anything else I should know about?’

  ‘Mr White is planning to see the Lockhart woman if she can be tracked down,’ said Ferris, who was discreetly consulting the screen of a smart phone beneath the Cabinet table.

  ‘He mentioned to me that Oliver Mermagen had made an approach,’ said Temple. ‘He seems to think he can prevail on her in some way. Maybe she can be turned. It seems unlikely but I’ve no objections. If he does meet with her, presumably you can keep watch on her from that moment.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ferris, who had stopped scrolling through his emails and was reading one message intently.

  ‘Good, let me know if anything important happens.’

  Cannon raised his hand from the Cabinet table. ‘What about the police, prime minister? Surely this is the time to bring them in. They can make arrests on the basis of everything that is known about Eyam and this man Swift, who is clearly guilty of distorting a public process.’

  ‘That is all in hand, Philip,’ said Glenny. ‘The police will be making arrests.’

  ‘But surely there will be some kind of statement expected from the government?’

  ‘Not at this stage,’ said Glenny.

  Ferris put away his phone and pushed his chair back. ‘Prime minister, I wonder if I might . . .’

  ‘By all means do leave, Jamie; we’ve all got a lot to do.’

  The night went badly. Kate was dropped off in a side street in west London by Freddie after Miff received a message on his laptop. The engine of the high-powered car bringing Eyam through the ANPR mesh that surrounded London had blown up after a chase through Hertford-shire involving two saloons. Eyam’s driver, an associate of Eco Freddie’s from Essex, had shaken off the pursuers at speeds of 130 mph but now the car couldn’t travel above forty mph and they had abandoned it. The driver, navigator and Eyam were holed up in an agricultural shed ten miles north of St Albans. Freddie went off to collect Eyam while Kate, knowing that there could be no official record of her short-term let at the apartment block in Knightsbridge, simply hailed a cab and went home.

  She now had three phones, the third having been provided by Eco Freddie to match the ones distributed among the group at the church. On waking at seven thirty a.m., she switched it on together with Kilmartin’s phone and put her own phone on charge. She made coffee and listened to the BBC’s Today radio programme while taking a bath. Much of the programme was devoted to the developing water crisis and the government’s action. The coverage was linked to the speculation about a general election that had appeared over the weekend. Quoting Downing Street sources, the BBC’s political editor said it seemed unlikely that an election would be called when the government could not predict when the water crisis would be resolved. There was also a firm view from one of Temple’s main supporters, Bryant Maclean, that an election would be easily won in the autumn.

  Kate loaded the washing machine with her laundry and went down to a newsagent nearby to buy a newspaper and a packet of cigarettes. She strolled in the gardens behind the block of flats for a few minutes and then returned to the flat. It was just past nine when she heard one of the phones ringing as she put her key in the apartment door. The face of Eyam’s phone was illuminated. She snatched it up and answered.

  ‘Tony’s been killed,’ said Eyam’s voice.

  ‘Oh God! How?’

  ‘They were hit from behind by a truck loaded with sand last night. They didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Christ, I’m sorry.’

  Eyam tried to say something.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said.

  ‘Chris Mooney was with him. Tony took him because Chris was having doubts.’

  ‘Jesus! He had a family.’

  ‘The truck came from behind and flattened the car. There’s a picture on the BBC website.’

  ‘Are you certain it was them?’

  ‘Yes, apparently Mooney had ID on him. It was found in the wreckage. The police were on his wife’s doorstep this morning.’

  ‘And what about the package?’

  ‘They were on a stretch of road in Berkshire so they had made the collection. We must assume it’s lost or destroyed.’

  ‘Where’s the driver of the truck?’

  ‘Vanished. There were no witnesses. It happened in the early hours.’ He paused. ‘The sand truck used to be notorious in the Balkans as a means of assassination. That’s the type of country we’re now living in,’ he added bitterly.

  ‘How important are the documents in the package?’ she asked.

  ‘Very. Freddie is going to try to get a look at the car. It was registered in his company’s name so he stands an even chance of being able to search it. We’ll see.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘No,’ replied Eyam. ‘But that’s not important.’

  ‘Tony was your friend.
’

  ‘Yes. I loved the man but we’ve got to continue. I am going to have to rely on you now. Are you making the arrangements we spoke of?’

  ‘I will do,’ she said. ‘How did they track yours and Tony’s car?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ve got a good idea.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘They all arrived in London safely. Where are you?’

  ‘In my flat – it’s a company let. Secure and anonymous.’ She gave him the address.

  ‘I’ll see you later. I have things to do.’

  ‘Are you going to be OK?’ she asked, but Eyam had already gone.

  She lit a cigarette and paced the flat for a few minutes, convinced that the sand truck – like the sniper’s rifle that killed Hugh Russell – was not a means that the British government would employ. It was much more likely that the two killings were organised – if not carried out – by OIS, which was leeching information from the state’s surveillance systems. The important part of the night’s events was that the cars carrying Eyam and Swift had both been targeted. Eyam said he had an idea why that was, which must mean that he suspected that one of his group was a traitor. If there was an informant, he or she must have sent a message after the church meeting because only at that stage would it have been clear which cars Swift and Eyam were travelling in. A simple text with the two registration plates was all that was necessary. Somewhere along the route Eyam’s car had been picked up by new ANPR cameras, whose position hadn’t been put into the system his navigator had been using. Swift and Mooney, who did not have a navigator, must have been tagged from a very early stage in the evening.

  She picked up the knapsack and took out Eyam’s paper on Eden White, which she had all but forgotten, together with the papers Kilmartin had given her – the transcript from the Intelligence and Security Committee and the emails in response to Eyam’s evidence, and also the executive summary from Eyam’s dossier. She put the paper about White aside and sat down to read the transcript and the emails, but then had another idea and reached for her purse. Nick Parker’s business card for Uriconcoins was still lodged amongst her credit cards. She took it out and dialled the number of the part-time coin dealer in High Castle.

  ‘Hit back,’ she said to herself. ‘Hit the bastards hard and low.’

  Parker answered.

  ‘It’s Kate – the woman who was in your shop on Saturday with that piece of film that you stored on your site.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Parker unenthusiastically.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘A mate of mine – Chris Mooney – has been killed.’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘It’s been on the local radio. He advertised his business in the shop. He had a wife and two children. It’s brutal.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I want you to release that film. I believe the film has some bearing on Mr Mooney’s death.’

  ‘You mean . . . Chris’s death and Hugh Russell’s are connected?’

  ‘That’s what I believe, yes.’

  ‘Jesus! What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Put that film on the most public site possible – we need people to see those faces. But wait until you get emailed copies of transcripts and emails from a firm in London. Just get it out there and try not to leave a trail of any sort.’

  ‘This is big.’

  ‘It’s very important, but don’t add any of your own comments. Just let people make up their own minds about this.’

  ‘I’ll wait for your email.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you when I can.’

  Then she dialled one of the partners in the Calverts London office and asked his secretary to collect a package from her address, scan all the contents and send it to the email address written on the top. After that the originals should be returned to her. As she spoke she started making rapid notes on a pad, which she continued when she hung up. With Swift dead and Eyam ill and weak, there was much work to do.

  *

  Kilmartin had, of course, taken copies of the emails and the proceedings of the Intelligence and Security Committee, and it was these that he pushed gently across the desk towards Beatrice Somers with his fingertips. Baroness Somers of Crompton, a title she had chosen after being ennobled for her thirty-year service in SIS during the Cold War, and much else besides, did not touch or look at the papers but fixed him with hooded eyes which in her eightieth year still displayed unnerving acuity. Beatrice Somers was old-school: no memoirs or indiscretion had flowed from her pen since retirement and she had contempt for those that let slip the slightest detail about the workings of SIS. She had been at the top of the service when Kilmartin was a young man and she was still one of the very few people who could make him feel uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat, wondering if she was going to acknowledge what was in front of her, or not.

  ‘You could have gone a lot further in your career,’ she observed, ‘if you hadn’t been trying to be two things at once. You can’t be an academic and an intelligence officer: I always told you that, Peter.’

  ‘You were probably right.’

  ‘Yes. Still, I suppose all of us have to make accommodations with our natures. Talent, character and ambition – you had the first two but not the last. With most intelligence officers it is the other way.’ She shook her head with affectionate despair and the dewlaps beneath her chin and the folds of skin where her cheeks ended at her mouth shuddered. ‘I suppose that you wouldn’t have been happy stuck in the office.’

  ‘That’s certainly true – I had a good career in the field, Lady Somers.’

  ‘Don’t be such a silly ass, Peter. Call me Beatrice like everyone else does.’ In a hundred years he would not be able to bring himself to do that. ‘And you have been working for John Temple, I hear.’ She continued looking out of the window. ‘As some form of special envoy?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Yet now you come to me out of the blue with tales of conspiracy and surveillance systems and more acronyms than a person of my age wants to hear. It seems rather disloyal of you.’

  ‘Maybe, but the evidence is very persuasive and the witness, whose name must remain a secret, is one of the most reliable people I know. I offer my personal guarantee on that.’

  She placed her un-ringed left hand on the papers and drew them towards her. She gave Kilmartin one more penetrating look, then put on her glasses and began to read. He watched in awe at the speed with which she seemed to absorb the contents of the pages. Her intelligence was always beautifully camouflaged by a vague manner and her taste for capacious two-piece suits that reached two thirds of the way down her calf. No more than five foot five, she had surrendered to dumpiness at an early age, although her skin and the pale-grey eyes gave some idea of the pretty young woman who had been sent to the British Embassy in Moscow in the late fifties. Her entire career in the field was spent in the communist bloc or in countries threatened by the Soviets. When she returned to the old SIS headquarters at Century House in Lambeth to take up a senior desk job, her colleagues found to their cost that they had made the same false assumptions about Beatrice Somers as the agents of so many foreign powers had done. She possessed a fierce political acumen that had served her well in SIS and was occasionally seen in the proceedings of the Lords and Commons Joint Committee on Human Rights.

  She put down the papers and stared from the window across the Thames. ‘I can do little for you on the basis of this evidence,’ she said.

  ‘It is nothing like the entire case,’ said Kilmartin.

  ‘I have to have more to persuade my chairman.’

  ‘The documents cannot be made available until the committee agrees to hear the evidence.’

  ‘Well, that isn’t on, Peter. I am sorry but I am not prepared to allow this committee to be used. And I can assure you that will be the first thought of my chairman, who is a member of the governing party. I want the name of this witness and as much as you know of what he is going to say
and how it affects the business of my committee.’

  Kilmartin addressed her demands in reverse order and started by making the case for putting the committee in the forefront of the fight for civil liberties in Britain. She was unmoved by this. Her interest only picked up when he expanded on what she had read about Eden White’s penetration of and influence in the highest councils in the land. At length he revealed that David Eyam had faked his own death and had returned to Britain.

  She listened without surprise or emotion, her hands resting together on a cream silk blouse just beneath her bosom, her eyes only once straying to the photograph of a young military cadet in a small silver frame on the windowsill. After forty-five minutes Kilmartin found that he’d allowed an old lady who wasn’t too good on her pins to pick his pockets almost clean. She hadn’t pulled rank on him; she was just damned good at her job.

  However, there was one piece of information he managed to keep from her and that concerned the pictures of children found on David Eyam’s computer.

  Cannon was the warm-up man and the press were having some fun with him about the prime minister’s schedule for the week, which had suddenly suffered a number of cancellations. He insisted that the time the prime minister had made available at the end of the week was to oversee government operations to clean up Britain’s water supply. No, he said in answer to three questions, he could not say whether an election was going to be called because he was not privy to the workings of the prime minister’s mind.

  It was the insufferable vulgarity of the British media that Cannon hated – that and the almost total indolence when it came to research and checking facts. The journalists moved on to June Temple’s reported remark that half the Cabinet were overweight and that they would all make better decisions if they took exercise before the Cabinet meeting.

  ‘What sort of exercise has she got in mind?’ asked a woman from the tabloids. There were more questions: would June be leading the Cabinet in an aerobics class? Given the title of her new book, did she recommend that ministers make love before Cabinet meetings?

  He denied that she had made any such remark and answered no, no and no again. Then he closed his folder and stepped away from the rostrum. A minute later the television lights switched on and Temple arrived with Derek Glenny. Grasping either side of the lectern, the prime minister stood tall and surveyed the representatives of the media with a look of unbowed seriousness, an expression that Cannon thought he did rather well.