by Sam Nash
The indomitable Mr Chambers, swung the great coat from his shoulders, flinging it at his lackey. Fletch threw it over the guard rail, with his own, and then returned to his imposing, folded arms stance as before.
Chambers strutted a little, attempting to unnerve me. I dug my fists into my trouser pockets and leaned against the banister railings, tapping my foot. The only threat here, was a potential beating from Fletch, and I am made of stern stuff. It wouldn’t kill me. I saw no evidence of weaponry. No guns or knives, unless Tawnie had a small arsenal alongside her compact and lippy. I convinced myself that all I needed to do, was to talk my way out of trouble.
Mr Chambers glared at me, then squinted, and then returned to glaring. I tried to keep my expressions as neutral as I could, which was tricky, given the circumstances. The man was an imbecile, who clearly learned all his negotiation skills from watching The Godfather.
“Lord Sedgewell.” He began.
I decided that this would be the one time to retain the use of the title, if only to anger him. “Indeed.” I replied, careful not to sound too affable.
“My daughter tells me that you are refusing to cooperate. That you took advantage of her kindness and then left her in the lurch.” He moved in close to my face, but he was straining up to look me in the eye.
“What can I say? Tawnie has been abundant with her kindness towards me, but I was called away on urgent business.”
“You led her to believe that you were satisfied with our aims and willing to spearhead some of our campaigns.” His sour breath was hard to ignore. I did not reply at once. The pause allowed him the dignity of backing away, relieving me of his odour. My approach would need careful couching so as not to antagonise him into setting Fletch loose from his leash.
“Am I to understand that you are unable to launch these campaigns without me? Am I that crucial to your cause?” My inference was clear. I had all the power, and would outrank him by a considerable amount if I were to join his nasty little cabal. I watched him grapple with this information as if he had failed to recognise it before.
Now he had another quandary to settle. Draft me onto the upper echelons of the ‘philanthropists’ above him, or fail to draft me and displease his senior members. Neither would secure a positive outcome for him personally. He chose to snap back.
“Of course, you are not crucial. No one is that important. I couldn’t care two cents whether you join us or not…” His strutting resumed, while he ruminated over his next actions. We all waited, watching him pace, and sweat and pace some more. “Why did you pick this fucking sauna for this meeting?” He barked at Fletch.
“It has its own furnace, sir. Very useful for um… disposing of… things.” Fletch announced. He flexed his upper arm muscles while repositioning his stance. He did not need to prove his superior strength.
“Hmm, good thinking.” Chambers turned back to me. “And you will not reconsider your position? Even with the potentially massive financial gains you’ll get?”
I shook my head, but kept my eyes on Fletch. They obviously had no idea of the size of Phebe’s fortune, or the brooch and fob watch that gave me some discomfort in my trouser pockets. That was useful intel, at least.
“So be it. Tawnie, come with me. Fletch, make it clean and tight. Leave no traces, you hear? Make him the next Lord Lucan.”
Tawnie grabbed her father’s coat and skittered after him, while Fletch rounded on me. This I had not predicted. In my conceit and arrogance, I had convinced myself that I was too valuable to kill. That I may be to the generals of Tawnie’s group, but I am a liability to Chambers himself.
I held up my palms to Fletch, imploring him to listen to reason. “Come on now, Fletch. Is this what I get for welcoming you into my home?” He ignored me, creeping forward, but not at a threatening pace. I figured that he might be open to a deal. I tried another tack. “I can give you a tremendous fortune. You could live out your days in luxury… travel the world, play the markets, a yacht on the Caribbean, whatever tickles your fancy. What do you say?” I could see him considering my offer, calculating the likelihood of retaliation from his current employers.
I stepped backwards in response to his advances and as I did, one of the chutes on a giant hopper activated behind me. A great clunking noise preceded the gush of yellow powder onto the floor. Someone else was in the warehouse. I hoped it would shake Fletch into abandoning his mission, but he continued forward.
Moments later, another clunk and more powder billowed from a second hopper, spilling in massive heaps that moved and shifted under the force of the flow. Dust clouds plumed into the air, making us cough and blink. A third and fourth chute opened, until mountains of icing sugar and cocoa piled high in cascades of falling powder. The atmosphere was thick with nauseating sweetness. I edged closer to the fire escape.
Fletch stopped short. “You won’t outrun me, old man. I can just as easily snap your neck out there as in here.”
Another squeaky door seal popped, as David came into view on the raised gantry behind. In his hand, he held out a flickering steel Zippo lighter. All at once I saw his plan and understood.
“Now, Dad, run!”
I turned and sprinted towards the exit as David threw down the lighter into the cloud of airborne powder and backtracked through the high door.
The explosion forced me into the bars of the fire exit, knocking the wind from my lungs but allowing me safe passage outside. I picked myself up from the asphalt and moved as far away from the building as the fencing would allow. The flash flare of the initial blast caught Fletch from behind. I could see him writhe in charred agony just feet from the door, as the secondary flames engulfed his body. The entire warehouse interior roared with the inferno.
There was nothing I could do but watch, as his screams faded to a whimper, and then ceased. For all my Hippocratic promises, I have to admit that I felt nothing. He was set to murder me as though I was a nothing more than a farm animal. My son chose my life over his.
Thinking back though, it does disturb me that I could be rendered so callous in such a short space of time. The deaths of the Charities plagued me until I was willing to risk my son’s life on the off chance that they were alive and trapped under water. Now it seems I am impervious to killing in order to preserve my own life.
“David…” I said, rushing to greet him as he appeared around the corner of the building. “I knew there had to be another way out or you would not have ignited the powder.” I could not help but hug my brave boy.
“Yeah, another escape route down a set of steps at the side of the warehouse.” He held me at arm’s length, checking me over for injury.
“Trust you to think of using combustion principles of friction within powders.” I smirked.
“Elementary physics.” He grinned. “Come on, the car is just up the street.”
David led me to a gap cut into the chain link fencing at the canal side, and holding the wire flap up for me, I ducked through. On the other side of the fence, he reached into the tall grasses next to the tow path and retrieved a heavy duffle bag that clonked with a deep metallic sound. I frowned back at him, the noises piquing my curiosity.
“Supplies for our trip. Came in handy quicker than I anticipated.” He jiggled the tools inside the bag, and then slung it over his shoulder.
“It was you then? I couldn’t see the driver of the red car I waved to on Fleet Street, but you saw them take me?”
“Uhuh. I struggled to keep up with the Audi, without that thug spotting my tail. Jeez he knows some convoluted routes through London.”
We doubled back on ourselves where the towpath cut through to Wharf Road and scurried to the Ford. The black mushroom cloud and superheated gases expanded above the warehouse. Clumps of burning embers drifted in the breeze, threatening to set ablaze every building in the district.
“We need to hurry. The emergency services won’t be long with a smoke signal that big.” David said, throwing the
bag of tools into the boot of the Ford.
I clambered into the passenger seat, dusting off a mixed sheen of sugar and cocoa powder from my face and hands, and examining the extent of contusions to my arms. David hopped in beside me and stamped his foot on the accelerator.
“Are you alright, Dad?” He looked at me with the baleful eyes of a penitent soul. “Are you hurt? I should never have set up the explosion, it was a bit…overkill. I should have fought him instead.” His forehead furrowed with concern.
“Hey, hey…stop that. I will be fine. I am not made of porcelain. Besides, and I mean no disrespect, but Fletch would have made mincemeat of you. We would both be roasting in the factory furnace if you hadn’t acted as you did.” A ponderous silence infilled us, as David concentrated on driving, and I reflected on the loss of another life. We sped through the industrial district into a residential suburb, and out onto the A1 heading North.
We stopped briefly in Islington. I stayed in the car so as not to draw attention, while David darted between supermarkets and clothes shops, cafes and chemists, procuring all the items he thought necessary for our trip. Juggling coffees and sandwiches in the cup holders on the dashboard, we continued our journey to the outskirts of London, where we joined the M1 motorway at Colindale.
Despite our best efforts, we still hit the rush hour traffic spilling out of Watford, Hemel Hempstead and St. Albans. I could tell that David was beginning to tire, rubbing his eyes and clicking his neck vertebrae with sharp twists of his head. I offered to take a shift driving, but he declined, determined to take care of his old dad.
We hit a jam south of Luton for a time, and another near Toddington. I used the time to show David the items from Phebe’s bank box. He turned the fob watch over in his palm, squinting at the inscription in the dimming evening light.
“Well, that’s not much help, is it?” He said, with more than a hint of defeat in his tone. “I thought that she would have at least directed us to something tangible.”
“I know. There is the possibility that she wanted to make sure that Anthony Knight couldn’t use his considerable influence to force Boare and Co to open the bank box before we could. If he knows about the watch and brooch, I doubt he would have any more clue about them than we do.” I said, returning the items to their respective hankies and tucking them into my travel bag.
“I thought his only interest was in finding and manipulating you. Why would he be bothered about what you received from Phebe?” David said, responding to the subtle signs of movement in traffic ahead by putting the car into first gear and readying the handbrake.
“It was just a thought. Maybe I am over reacting.” We continued for another hour, before David agreed to my suggestion to stop for the night. I was desperate to peel off my filthy clothes and get into a warm shower. A decent meal wouldn’t go amiss either.
Following the coloured symbols on the aging A to Z, I directed David to the slip road, off the M1 at junction fifteen. There were few hotels marked on the map book in the area. I found a cut through that took us on a near straight line to our destination, misjudging the capacity of the road entirely. With our headlights set to full beam, the narrow lane wriggled through the tiniest village, with the hairiest bends in the road you have ever seen. At one point, I felt sure we would be shunted off the road by a vast combine harvester, but David’s quick reactions steered us from danger and into a layby.
With our hearts racing, we completed the cut through intact, and cruised through to another tiny village, with more hairpin bends in the road. Here at last, we relaxed. Safe in the knowledge, that no one could have predicted our presence.
Shrouded by over-hanging ancient yew trees, The French Plover welcomed its dusty visitors into the vestibule. A small and exclusive establishment, with award winning cuisine. The reception area was most accommodating. Stripped wooden floors, guilt mirrored hallways and fresh flowers everywhere. We reserved a table in their small restaurant for after we had dressed for dinner.
David informed the maître d’ that we did not have formal attire with us, since this was an unscheduled stop. He tucked a folded bank note into the man’s top pocket, which elicited a smile.
“Not to worry, sir. Smart casual will be sufficient. I can lend you both ties, if you feel the necessity to blend in with our clientele.”
I cannot begin to express the relief of feeling clean and safe in our secret hideaway, yet I know that this is a temporary delight. Washed, shaved and wearing slightly baggy new clothes, I walked down the hallway to call for David. He opened the door to me wearing an ashen face.
“Something wrong? Is Mary alright?” I asked, in sudden panic.
“They’re fine, a little too fine. I was just talking to her on the phone. She said she built sandcastles and caught a shore crab in the rockpools today. She sounded tired and content. That man has commandeered my family.” The whites of his eyes glistened with excess moisture. He stared at the car keys on the bedside table. I knew what thoughts were scratching at the door of his conscience. He wanted to cut and run. To collect his wife and daughter and get them away from the intimacies of Lily’s former, and possibly still current, lover.
David’s pain was a by-product of this entire fiasco. I could end it with a single telephone call directly to Anthony Knight’s private secretary. Agree to become a life long puppet in the House of Lords and allow my son to live out his days, happy with his family. But then how could I live with myself knowing that I would be central to the erosion of democracy? Allowing power crazed politicians to bargain their way to higher status and control. To be part of the failed system that awards government contracts to the companies owned by MP’s wives and sons.
My heart ached for David, and I almost caved in as he tottered on the brink of despair, but we have to see this through. Grandma Phebe has the answers, and she spent the rest of her life leaving me a breadcrumb trail to a better life for us all.
I wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Come on, son. Let’s eat. We will press on early in the morning, and by nightfall, we should have the journal in our grasp.”
David glanced up at me, his expression a curious blend of hatred and love. “We don’t have a clue where to look, and you know it.”
“I have faith…”
“Oh, that’s funny. I see what you did there.” He said, without a single hint of mirth.
We dined on quail eggs, fresh salmon and a dill sauce that was pure heaven. A main course of venison, cooked to perfection with glossy roasted vegetables and a simple crème brûlée to follow. A rare treat indeed. I cannot remember the last time I dined so well, and with such incredible company. I suppose it has to be the last time I took my Minnie to dinner, before she got really sick.
David picked at his venison, distracted by the mental echoes from his call to Wales.
“Any clue as to the repercussions from the failed Jeddah talks yet?” I asked, knowing full well that reports were scant on TV before we dined.
“No idea. I suspect they will have a full report on the ten o’clock news.” He gulped his wine down and poured himself another. I asked the waiter for a glass of orange juice, pushing my wine into the centre of the table. I will drive first thing in the morning, for it seems that David will still be over the limit.
“I guessed that your mission was to record the private talks between Kuwait ambassadors and Saddam Hussein…” I spoke in a hushed tone, although tables were widely spaced and the waiter did not hover over us.
David nodded. “You know I can’t really talk about it, Dad.” He ate a honeyed carrot, and then frowned. “It was odd, though. Right from the start I felt there was something afoot.”
“How do you mean?”
“Normally, I am with a group of people that I know well. I have grown to trust their instincts and abilities. It is an efficient team, almost intuitive. This time, I was placed with agents I had never met before, you know… code names only, by the book protocols, that sort of thi
ng.”
I waited for him to ponder some more. He had another bite of food, chewed slowly and swallowed. “There was this weird woman who shadowed me everywhere. I am normally just a backroom kind of chap. Cables, wiring, a bit of safe cracking and security overrides… the whole tech thing, but this time I was sent into the field. She said she was there to protect me, but I felt more threatened by her than wandering the streets of Jeddah.
“The following day, we had just finished dealing with a couple of local assets, when she received an encrypted call over the comms line. For once, I was not involved in its routing, which in itself is unusual. As she listened, she took out her firearm and began screwing the silencer onto the barrel. She was staring directly at me the whole time, and I swear she was preparing to… well you know.”
He took another swig of wine then pushed his plate away. I waited for him to conclude his tale, all the while paring his account of events to my interview with the Defence Secretary in the old War Offices. Anthony Knight, it seems, does not bluff.
David continued. “Anyway, she stood there, with her gun resting against her leg, just listening. I sat with my headphones on, trying to connect to their call without being detected. I looked to other agents, in the hope they would let me in on the intel. The woman said ‘understood’, into her comms and then went over to the window and shook her head in an exaggerated manner, clearly signalling someone out there.”
Realisation hit me, and I felt the chill of my vision creep down my spine. The sniper on the roof, waiting for the signal to shoot. A hit from outside their base of operations could be blamed on local insurgents. No one would accuse Anthony Knight, sitting in a warm office in Whitehall, talking calmly to the Eighth Earl of Sedgewell.