The Hornbeam Tree

by Susan Lewis

  Pushing back from the table, Tom reached for one of their better burgundies and started to open it. ‘Based on this, I’m going to suggest two different articles,’ he said, already going through it in his mind, ‘one for Europe, Asia and the Arab world, with the focus on P2 and the use of a staged terrorist plot as part of an election strategy, the other for the States, leading with the “cataclysmic event” that advanced the neo-con cause beyond even their wildest dreams.’

  Elliot was nodding and holding out glasses for Tom to fill. ‘It’ll make sense for you to handle the States,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the rest of it.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘It’s Thursday evening now, we’ve got no food, so I say we stick to our plan to go to Beaujeu for dinner, then make a start on everything first thing tomorrow. It’ll give us time to discuss it tonight, then sleep on it before we get going. We should still be ready in plenty of time to submit edited highlights by Saturday.’

  ‘Which is a reminder,’ Tom said, ‘that we still don’t know which editors are up for it. Are there any other emails with that one?’

  ‘It was the only one that came through,’ Elliot replied. ‘We’ll check again when we get back, but Laurie will know how important it is to get that information to us, especially now, so she’ll be on it, no doubt about that.’ He raised his glass, and saluted Tom. ‘To you, my friend,’ he said, ‘and the greatest story of your career. Of anyone’s career.’

  Tom grinned. ‘We’re in this together,’ he responded. ‘I couldn’t have come this far without you, so let’s drink to going the rest of the distance and staying this side of freedom.’

  ‘Not to mention the Styx,’ Elliot added wryly, and laughing they clinked glasses and drank.

  It was seven o’clock in the morning, Washington time, as the Special Operations Executive gathered in a secure office of the Eisenhower Building, close to the White House, to discuss the information that had come in overnight. Clearly seizing the British reporters’ computers had paid off big time, for they confirmed that the worst-case scenario was on the brink of becoming a reality. Radical measures now needed to be agreed upon as to how to effect control of the situation.

  ‘Is there anything yet on Chambers’s location?’ Deborah Gough asked, setting aside her copy of Laurie Forbes’s email containing the damaging amendment.

  ‘Nothing confirmed,’ the CIA analyst told her. ‘The Brits have been operating on the assumption he was still in the country, but we’ve just heard they’re reassessing.’

  ‘Based on what?’

  ‘On the fact that the journalist, Elliot Russell, has close links with an ex-member of the SIS who could account for the tip-offs, and who apparently has a home in England’s West Country, and a private plane. As Chambers was last known to be in that area, there’s a good chance he’s been flown out of the country, probably to France, though I’m told that the aircraft’s capacity would allow for a much greater distance.’

  Allbringer’s expression was not pleasant as he said, ‘So what you’re telling us is, he could be anywhere in the damned world by now.’

  ‘We have all possible resources on this, and the Brits are confident they’ll have the net closed by the end of the day.’

  Deborah Gough’s patience was running thin. ‘You’re coming at this entirely the wrong way,’ she told them bluntly. ‘We’re never going to find them in that time when we don’t even know which country they’re in, so we need to take a look at what we do have and how best to utilize it.’

  All eyes were on her.

  ‘First we need to get the Brits out of the picture,’ she said. ‘The leak’s clearly at their end, and since our own resources are more sophisticated …’

  ‘Not strictly true, not in all areas,’ the analyst told her.

  Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘Well I’m not going to get into a pissing contest,’ she snorted. ‘We need to get our hands on Chambers and Russell, preferably within the next twenty-four hours, so now I suggest we agree on exactly how that should be achieved. I say we start with the women …’

  ‘Actually,’ the FBI chief came in, ‘just prior to this meeting I was handed a recording of a telephone call between Laurie Forbes and Nick van Zant, the reporter who’s soliciting European editors. I think you should hear it.’

  Deborah Gough’s fingers were tightening around a pen as she watched him go over to the bank of hi-tech equipment that covered one wall and slot a small cassette into a player.

  ‘The call took place last night at eleven p.m. British time,’ he told them. ‘The voices are clear, as are the implications.’

  As the playback started, everyone was still. Laurie Forbes’s voice was the first to come into the room.

  ‘Nick! At last. Where are you?’

  ‘Brussels. I got your message.’

  ‘We’ve been waiting to hear. How’s it going? Who’s on board?’

  His voice was tight as he said, ‘Something came up, so I didn’t get started until yesterday.’

  ‘Are you kidding? Why on earth didn’t you tell us you’d been held up? We could have sent someone else.’

  ‘Laurie, I know this story means a lot to you and Elliot, but don’t expect it to mean the same to me. I had contacts of my own to see, for a story of my own.’

  There was a brief pause before her angry voice said, ‘That’s no excuse for not keeping us informed, and you know it. For God’s sake, Nick, we have to get this off our hands and into print as soon as possible. It’s getting really tight now, so what are the chances of having a decent line-up by the weekend?’

  ‘At this stage, almost nil. You’ll have to delay.’

  ‘But I don’t know that we can.’

  ‘I don’t know that you have a choice.’

  ‘Nick, please tell me this isn’t personal …’

  ‘I’ll treat that with the contempt it deserves,’ he sneered. ‘You’ll have your editors and their private emails by Monday, Tuesday at the latest.’

  ‘Well, clearly the important point here, gentlemen,’ Deborah Gough stated, as the FBI chief removed the cassette, ‘is that Mr van Zant has very obligingly bought us some time. So now I would return us to my earlier recommendation, made during our last meeting, that we hold him – and Max Erwin – until we’ve pinned down Chambers’s location. Already too many editors have been informed of the impending story, and whilst a few can be persuaded into a change of mind, allowing the list to grow would be just plain foolish.’

  ‘If we’re talking about arrest, we’ll need charges,’ the FBI chief told her, ‘and I wouldn’t recommend the counter-terrorism route at this stage.’

  ‘Of course not, and I’m not talking about arrest. I’m merely suggesting a little hospitality at a secure location, such as the farm for Max Erwin, and the München estate outside of Frankfurt for van Zant. Unless someone has a better idea.’

  ‘Have you considered the kind of blowback we can expect if two prominent journalists just vanish off the scene?’ Allbringer demanded bitterly.

  ‘It should only be for a couple of days. Not long enough to cause any undue alarm.’

  Allbringer was still far from happy. ‘I think we’re going down a very dangerous path here,’ he said darkly. ‘If we take out Chambers …’

  ‘Nothing’s been decided yet,’ Gough cut in, ‘the repercussions and ramifications of such an action are still being analysed and constantly updated. And don’t let’s forget, the evidence of his complicity in an act of terror is currently in his hands, so there should be no difficulty in connecting him with his own noose.’

  Allbringer’s face was paling with anger. ‘And what about Russell?’ he demanded. ‘This email confirms he’s actually with Chambers, so do we give the order for him to be taken out too?’

  ‘If necessary,’ Gough responded with no hesitation. ‘Assisting a suspected terrorist to avoid arrest is a crime in itself, and carries its own penalty as does …’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ Allbringer exploded. ‘They’re members o
f the press. US and British citizens …’

  ‘… as does harbouring a fugitive,’ Gough pressed on, ‘and I’m sure there are several other more serious charges we could level his way too.’

  ‘We’ll never get away with this,’ Allbringer told her. ‘This isn’t the way to go …’

  ‘When you sit in this chair is when you get to call the shots,’ Gough reminded him sharply. ‘Until then, I’m accountable to my superiors, not this committee. If you have a problem with that, Mr Allbringer, may I suggest you step down now.’

  Though he would have liked nothing better than to walk, Allbringer stayed right where he was, for he didn’t want to add to the suspicion that he, with some help from the Brits, was behind the leak of information to Chambers.

  Gough continued to speak. ‘Our own press campaign is ready to go just as soon as I receive word. I’ve spoken personally to several editors, so they know it’s coming, and the instant they receive anything from Chambers they’ll forward it straight on to me. For the moment I’m recommending that we remain low key on the warrant for his arrest, because we certainly don’t want the rest of the world’s media helping us to find him. That should mean, when the explosion comes, we have everything well under our control.’ She looked around. ‘Is there anything else we need to discuss, gentlemen?’

  There was a general negative grunting, so starting to pack away her pens, notebook and the email from Laurie Forbes to Elliot Russell, she said, ‘OK. Let’s reconvene at the same time tomorrow to assess progress, unless something happens to warrant an earlier meet. Until then our priorities are to move aside the Brits and assume full control – I will speak to Sir Christopher and Michael Dalby personally to inform them of this decision. Meantime, let’s start finding ways to exploit the assets we have, namely the female contingent of this operation – not forgetting that Michelle Rowe is apparently pregnant. I’d consider that a sizable ace, wouldn’t you, gentlemen?’

  ‘So that’s it, there’s nothing more we can do now, except wait,’ Laurie declared, as she stood aside for Michelle to go into the flat ahead of her.

  ‘And pray,’ Michelle added, as she shrugged off her coat and hooked it up in the small lobby where Laurie hung hers.

  They’d just returned from Canary Wharf and the newspaper offices where Laurie used to work, before she’d become a producer. It was the safest place, she’d felt, to use a computer, for once inside the thirty-five-storey tower block and soaring away in a crowded lift, it would be extremely difficult for anyone following to know which floor they’d got off at, never mind which computer they’d used. So now Elliot and Tom had been warned that the Special Operations Executive was aware of how much they knew, and that Nick wouldn’t be delivering a full list of editors until Monday or Tuesday.

  ‘They’re not going to be pleased,’ Michelle commented, slumping down on the sofa. ‘In fact, I wouldn’t want to be in Nick’s shoes when one of them comes to tackle him. What was he thinking?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Laurie replied. ‘He said it was nothing to do with me, but I’m not sure I believe him. He was really angry last Sunday. He might have seen this as a way of getting back at Elliot.’

  ‘If they’re tracked down before Tuesday, he’ll have managed to get back at Tom too,’ Michelle remarked acidly.

  Laurie shot her a look and sank down on the sofa.

  Softening her tone a little, Michelle said, ‘How do you feel about him now?’

  ‘Absolutely furious,’ Laurie answered, ‘but awful for how much I’ve hurt him.’ She smiled wryly. ‘If only it were possible to have them both.’

  ‘That sounds as though you’re still not sure about Elliot.’

  Laurie sighed heavily. ‘There are moments when I’m so far from being sure I almost have to wonder what I’m doing here,’ she said, wrapping her arms round a cushion.

  Michelle’s eyes twinkled. ‘Could it possibly be because you love him, in spite of it all?’

  ‘Yes, I think that would be it,’ Laurie conceded. ‘But I hate the person all this is turning me into – insecure, jealous, suspicious … And now, would you believe, the arch-bitch has apparently decided to set up residence in London, so she’s going to be right here, in my city, on my territory. Ugh, it makes my skin crawl just to think of her being so close. Let’s change the subject. I don’t want that woman in my life, and I certainly don’t want her in my head. So shall I make some tea? Or would you prefer something stronger?’

  Michelle sighed and kicked off her shoes. ‘I’d love the second, but should probably stick with the first,’ She answered, stifling a yawn. ‘Oh God, this is making me so tired, but at least I’m not throwing up, so be thankful for small mercies. Any messages from Katie?’

  Seeing a blinking light on the machine, Laurie pressed the button and carried on making the tea as they replayed. Nothing from Katie, but there was one from Chris, asking her to call him at his London gallery as soon as she got this message.

  ‘Is that the Chris who helped Tom?’ Michelle asked. ‘The pilot?’

  Laurie nodded and picked up the phone. ‘I thought he was still in Cornwall,’ she said, dialling his number. ‘I wonder when he came back. Hi, it’s Laurie,’ she said when he answered. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ he confirmed lightly. ‘Rachel and I were wondering if you’d like to come round for a bite to eat this evening. Michelle too, if she’s still with you.’

  Surprised that he knew Michelle was there, she said, ‘Sure, we’d love to.’

  ‘Good. Bring a few things and stay the night. You won’t have to worry about driving back then.’

  Understanding there was probably more to it, Laurie merely said, ‘OK. We’ll be there around seven thirty?’

  ‘Seven thirty it is.’

  As she put down the phone Laurie related the conversation to Michelle, adding, ‘My guess is, he’s heard something and doesn’t want us to be here alone.’

  ‘Well, we are sitting targets,’ Michelle remarked, ‘and speaking as someone who’s had experience of being leaned on heavily, I wouldn’t care to repeat it.’

  ‘Having been there myself, I couldn’t agree more. So what do you say we abandon this tea and turn up at Chris and Rachel’s early? I’m sure they won’t mind, and as I’ve just announced seven thirty to the listening world, it could lessen the risk of us being waylaid somewhere en route.’

  Michelle was reaching for the phone. ‘Give me a moment to check on Katie, and I’ll be right with you,’ she said. ‘Can I give her Chris’s number? Or no, she has my mobile, she can use that if she needs to get hold of us … Hi, Katie. It’s … I’m talking to a machine,’ she said, and waited for the bleep. ‘Hi, it’s me. Hope you’re OK. Call when you can, let me know how everything’s going. My mobile’s on. Love you,’ and after waiting a few more seconds just in case Katie picked up, she rang off. ‘I hope she’s all right,’ she murmured, as she put the phone back on its base. ‘She’s seemed quite distant the last few times we’ve spoken.’

  ‘That’s how we want it while all this comes to a head,’ Laurie reminded her. ‘She needs to be way out of the firing line now, because there’s a very good chance it’s starting to turn nasty, and God knows she’s got enough on her plate without having to worry about the friendly Feds turning up to ransack her house again. Or worse, to take her hostage as a means of forcing Tom to come out from where he is.’

  Michelle smiled. ‘Anyone who takes my sister hostage would be stupid indeed. A single mother, dying of cancer? They’d get hit so hard they’d regret any brain activity at all, never mind the idiocy that made snatching Katie Kiernan seem like a good idea. No, I’m not worried about them taking her hostage, because they really aren’t that stupid, I’m more concerned about how low she’s seemed since Sunday.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  IT WAS A little after six on Saturday evening, almost dark outside, and starting to turn cold as Katie slid a scrumptious-looking lasagne into the oven, then set ab
out clearing up the mess she’d made preparing it. It was a while since she’d gone to so much trouble over a meal, which wasn’t doing much for her already beleaguered conscience since it reminded her of how neglectful she’d been of Molly these past months. Not that Molly had complained about the food she was served, but Katie wondered if she secretly missed the way they used to cook together on Saturday evenings, light candles, rent a video and snuggle up with a box of chocolates to laugh, or scream, or have a good sob at the latest film. There was a chance she’d outgrown it anyway, and felt relieved to be released from her mother’s weekend rituals, but just in case, Katie had decided to resurrect this one in an attempt to recapture their closeness and show Molly that things didn’t have to change yet. In fact, she’d started the ball rolling that morning, when she’d suggested they make one of their shopping trips into Bath, but Molly had immediately protested.

  ‘I want to go shopping with my friends,’ she’d cried. ‘I’ll feel stupid going with you, and anyway, you always make me buy things you like instead of what I like, and I’m fed up with it. I’m grown-up now, I can choose my own clothes.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Katie had responded patiently. ‘I just thought it would be nice to do something together, but I can see your point, so I’ll give you the money and you can buy whatever you like.’

  Molly had eyed her suspiciously.

  ‘Go on, take the money before I change my mind,’ Katie had insisted.

  So off she’d rushed, presumably with Allison and those other two girls she was far too thick with, and had come back an hour ago with several bags, scarlet cheeks and an attitude that was every bit as wary as the one she’d gone out with. One wrong word from Katie and it was clear she’d go off like a rocket, so quite how Katie was going to get the subject round to what they needed to discuss, she was still struggling to work out. However, the lasagne – Molly’s favourite – together with scented candles around the sitting room, a crackling log fire in the hearth and a couple of romantic comedies might make her a little less inclined to shoot off through the door the instant Katie attempted to talk.