Patience that had eluded him for most of his career in banking was becoming an essential ally. Henry crushed the paper cup in one swift gesture and dumped it with the others in the rubbish bin.
Henry turned to survey his surroundings. Big K was in a conversation with an ex-FSB agent, the intelligence service that had replaced the KGB after the USSR was broken up in 1991. They had discovered a common passion: chess. And Big K had assured Henry he was receiving prime information about the Russian mafia and their appetite for cocaine; so much for being a reformed con.
“You are doing a market survey inside HSU Belmarsh?” Henry had laughed.
“Man. If the guy has got info.”
“Yes, but nothing comes for free in this world. You told me that. What will he want in return?”
Big K had punched Henry’s shoulder in slow motion.
“My man Henry is learning the ropes,” Big K had chuckled.
Henry turned towards the small enclosure in which the rowing machine was placed. He checked the book; no one had reserved the slot starting before his but there was definitely someone using it. He waited against the wall for the inmate to finish. The grunts that came from inside the enclosure stopped. A few swear words for good measure. The gulps of someone drinking water (no Lucozade at HSU Belmarsh – Lord knows what a sugar rush would do to some of the inmates, Henry thought) and the man was out.
The rowing machine was free.
Henry entered the enclosure, adjusted the seat and bent forward to lock the resistance in position. He straddled the centrepiece, sat down and started pulling on the handlebar. Someone was leaning against the partition separating the room from the enclosure.
Henry recognised the overpowering scent. The sickly smell of Ronnie Kray’s skin made his stomach heave. Kray’s skin condition after covering his body with tattoos required special ointment, the smell of which followed Kray like a warning. No matter, he was proud of those tats, a celebration of his idols: the famous Kray Brothers. Henry had first noticed the twins’ heads inscribed on Kray’s back at the gym.
“Minnie-me is pushing it a bit far,” Henry had quipped. “One head perhaps but two – the guy who did his tat must have had a stutter.” Big K had liked the joke and his laugh had bounced off the walls of the gym. But there are no secrets in prison and Henry’s little joke had got back to Kray’s ears. Breaking Rule 101 of remaining unnoticeable in jail had been a stupid thing to do and Henry was starting to feel the brunt of it.
Kray stood silent, running his eyes over Henry as he started his session. Henry stopped, adjusted the seat and started to pull again, a slow and rhythmic action that made the machine groan under his effort. He looked straight ahead. Henry had had plenty of similar intimidation attempts when he worked on the trading floor and would not allow Kray to get under his skin. Kray had started humming a low tune that could hardly be heard, a wasp buzzing around, looking for an excuse to sting. Henry accelerated the pace, the machine groaned louder. The hum grew a little keener. Kray had dropped his hands across the low partition; he was slowly moving them inside the space, a progression measured and unstoppable. Henry’s body was now covered in sweat, yet the hum had not stopped. His heart was pumping fast. Could he push himself one notch up?
Should he push himself one notch up?
He increased the cadence, his muscles screamed, the machine protested but Henry did not care. Oxford’s rowing team might have been impressed, not Kray though. The humming gained in intensity. Until suddenly it stopped.
“Have you booked a slot?” Officer MacKay asked.
Kray’s hands had slid back outside the partition wall. He turned slowly towards the guard. “Thinking about it.”
MacKay opened the book and pointed to a slot.
“15:30; put your name down.” He handed a pen to the other man.
“Too late.” Kray turned around, resuming the hum of his little tune. He took his time to walk away.
“Do you have beef with Ronnie Kray?” MacKay asked Henry as he was wiping his face dry of sweat.
“Not that I know of.”
“Good. I don’t want to have to separate you two and send you to the box.”
Henry nodded. The box was not part of the plan.
* * *
“Are you taking the car? Helena shouted from the bottom of the stairs. She waited for a reply before climbing up a few steps and standing on her tiptoes to shout again.
“Mark? Are you taking the car?” She enunciated each word and waited again for a reply, her slender hand resting on the banister for balance.
A door opened and Mark called down.
“Not sure, why? Do you need it?” Mark’s latest acquisition, his last folly before he decided to become a pariah of society, at least the society they were both involved in, was Helena’s favourite car. They had always wanted to drive a Jaguar and now they did. Mark waited with a faint smile for a reply. Helena was looking for an excuse to deprive him of his – their – favourite toy.
“It’s going to rain and I’ll be on the motorway. Going to visit Mum,” Helena said less convincingly than expected. Mark moved to the top of the stairs. He could see his wife; a full head of blonde curls brushed her shoulders. Her face lifted towards him with an irresistible smile. How could he say no? He had another meeting at the SFO, going over his account of events one more time. His face darkened at the thought and Helena read the change in him immediately.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Mark darted down the stairs and caught her before she had turned away. He put his arms around her, a gentle, folding embrace.
“You can drive my Car,” he said brushing a kiss on her forehead. It was the least he could do. Since he had told his wife about the whistle-blowing case the mood in their relationship had changed; perhaps predictably it would take a little time for her to accept what was going to happen.
Helena returned his kiss, a quick peck on his lips, a smile, another peck, a little more insistent. She pushed him away gently.
“I need to hit the road before the traffic builds up.”
Mark lets his hand slide away from her waist, helping her with her coat. The keys lie in a large ashtray, a souvenir from a trip to Mexico they took so many years ago he can’t quite recall the date. He has always resisted her attempts at getting rid of it. Helena opens the door and waves a quick goodbye, with final instructions about food, kids, pets. Mark leans against the frame of the door, watching Helena slip into the car, a schoolgirl walking into her favourite sweet shop. A rush of cold air makes him shiver and he prepares to close the door.
The burst of heat and its force are staggering.
It propels him to the bottom of the stairs. His head hits the wall. The gale that has burst into his home stops him from breathing. It all goes black.
Chapter Five
His faded navy slacks felt tight around the waist. Brett pulled his stomach in, his chest up and took a glance at his image in the full-length mirror of his bedroom. He disliked this shabby look and even more what his trousers’ waistline was telling him. He was putting on weight. He released his breath and walked away from the mirror, unstrapping his Patek Philippe watch. He laid it carefully on a small table he used to arrange the necessary items a gentleman should own: cufflinks, lighter, leather wallet and cigarettes. He would not be wearing or carrying any of these on his trip to North London. The Sheik had asked to see him after a couple of months’ silence. Brett had not needed to find an excuse to see him after all. A good state of affairs but a worrying one too.
Brett sat down on the Louis XV bed, his hands stretched over his thighs, the material absorbing the film of moisture that was forming on his palms. Since accepting the deal The Sheik had offered him a few months ago, Brett had been operating well outside his comfort zone. True, MI6-Steve had been surprisingly supportive. And the deal Steve had in turn offered to Brett for his continued i
nvolvement with The Sheik’s terrorist organisation had been too good to ignore.
“You pull this one off and you will never have to hear from us again.”
Now that Brett had had time to think about it, he was not certain that day would ever come. One did not deal with the head of a new UK terror cell with impunity. Brett had enough contact with the Middle-East to realise that. A new organisation was growing in strength and might well surpass Al-Qaeda in the region. MI6-Steve would know that too. Still, the idea that he might pull it off, as Steve had put it, excited him. The assurance that he would keep the cash he had made from art trafficking and more recently the money The Sheik had paid him, persuaded him too. How long would that money last? Brett would cross that bridge when it eventually came. He had been born into money and the aristocracy – a rare combination. The money had evaporated but the title had remained, a useful tool for a skilled fraudster. Brett clasped his hands, cracked his knuckles and stood up. He grabbed his old, shapeless jacket, pocketed the new burner phone he had just activated and made his way to the tube station. He sent a text to Mohammed, his London contact, as he was walking towards Hyde Park Corner. His phone pinged back. Mohammed had replied. Brett did not bother to check the text. It was clear that the usual routine for meeting The Sheik would be repeated and he could expect the same treatment as before. A large SUV with blackened windows waiting for him a few streets away from Finsbury Park Station. A couple of bulky men in black leather jackets shoving him into the back seat. A blindfold. A journey that circled around the same area a few times in an attempt to make him lose track of his surroundings. The rough frisking on arrival and then The Sheik. Every time another house, another room but the same figure clad in white robes, a crocheted white hat on his close shaven head and a jet-black wiry beard.
The phone pinged again. Brett squeezed the phone in his jacket pocket and muttered an insult. “What does this moron want?” He was on his way and would be, as ever, punctual. Or had the meeting been cancelled? Brett found himself torn between the relief of deferment and the excitement of wanting to know what The Sheik had in store for him. He yanked the phone out of his pocket and started reading.
New meeting location: Manor House tube.
He should have known, a last-minute change of location to destabilise him, perhaps to frighten him too. Nothing would ever be predictable with this lot. Fear was the trademark of all Jihadi groups and he could feel it even in the heart of London. Brett acknowledged the text and hurriedly climbed down the steps leading to the platforms.
* * *
Pole accelerated, using the siren on the roof of his car to attempt to move the traffic out of the way. He went through a red light and DS Andy Todd sitting in the passenger seat closed his eyes. Pole might have smiled were it not for what he knew he would find at the end of his journey.
His mobile, placed in its holder on the car dashboard, was relaying with difficulty his conversation with Marissa.
“When did you last speak to him?” Pole was asking, changing gear again to slow down, blocked this time by a lumbering bus.
“Last night. No, this morning. It was around 3am when he left the SFO office.” Marissa’s voice was barely audible over the screams of the siren.
“I need to join you.” She said several times as the message began breaking up.
Pole increased his grip on the steering wheel, banged his horn and moved up a gear again. “Let me find out first what has happened exactly. Are you on your own?”
Marissa’s voice became garbled again. “No. With —”
“Can’t hear you.”
“In a meeting with Nancy.”
Pole slammed on the brakes in front of the first police cordon at the top of Kensington Park Road. Andy lowered the window, showing his badge to the PC on duty.
“I’m nearly there,” Pole said, killing the siren. He moved his car more cautiously along the street into which he had turned. He could see another police cordon ahead, a couple of officers with dogs and paramedics being held back until the zone had been secured.
“Where are you?” Marissa’s anxiety was real and Pole could not pacify her. For all he knew Mark Phelps could be dead. A dreadful situation the SFO would never have contemplated and for which Marissa alone now shouldered the responsibility.
“First I need to speak to the Counterterrorist Commander on site.” Pole was not ignoring her, but trying to assess the situation.
“Your call,” Marissa said. “I am not going to lie to you. I don’t want to have to handle this on my own if Mark …” her voice trailed.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I can.” Pole was out of his car. He was moving quickly towards the site of the blast. The unmistakable smell of explosive and burnt metal almost choked him. He covered his nose with his hands briefly. The memory of another explosion flooded his mind.
Paddington.
He could see the bodies strewed around, hear the moaning of the victims and picture the police van that was transporting Henry Crowne to the Counterterrorism Command Headquarters cracked open like a discarded nut. Henry had been lucky to survive.
“Guv,” Andy’s voice materialised at Pole’s side. “I think it is Commander Ferguson,” Andy said adjusting his heavy glasses.
“Yes and for once I am not going to grumble at being involved with someone at the Squad I know.”
“Was it the Commander who responded at the Royal Exchange?”
Pole nodded and moved forward. A couple of heavily armed officers moved towards them and were about to stop them when Commander Ferguson’s voice pulled them back. “Let them through.”
“Pole, you again,” Ferguson said waving him in.
“Car bomb?” Pole asked without bothering to greet the other man.
“’fraid so, with someone in the car unfortunately.” Ferguson was moving towards the vehicle, the SOCO team was also moving towards it from the other side of the road, some of them still kitting themselves up for the task ahead.
“We have just cleared the area and allowed the paramedics to enter the house. Some poor bugger is trapped under the door it seems.”
“Is it too early to know who the driver is?” Pole asked, the hand in the pocket of his raincoat squeezing his BlackBerry.
“We have just arrived. But the car is registered to a Mr Mark Phelps.” Ferguson waited; if Pole was involved, he had details on the case that may interest him.
“Is he the person in the car?” Pole asked instead. Ferguson gave him a dark look but volunteered. “Not sure it’s a man.”
Pole nodded, relieved at the thought that Mark Phelps might still be alive and yet dreading to find out the identity of dead person. It was likely to be a relative: wife, sister, daughter? Pole ran his long hand through his greying hair. No matter who this was, the life of the Phelps family had changed forever.
“What’s your involvement in all this?”
“Let’s go into the house. I don’t want to speak to you about it in the open.” Pole was already moving towards the home.
Voices come from inside the house. A man is lying on the ground.
Someone is shouting, “He’s stopped breathing.” One of the paramedics is already doing CPR. A young woman rushes to the ambulance, returning with a defibrillator. Another woman has cut open his T-shirt exposing a bloodied chest. The paramedic applies the pads; the man’s body arches up. The young woman takes the pulse.
Nothing.
The paramedic rubs the pads, applies them to the man’s chest a second time. The body arches again, hangs suspended in mid-air for a few seconds and drops back onto the ground with a thud. The young woman feels for the pulse once more. She nods.
Everyone on the scene has been standing stock still, frozen, joining together in hope for the life of a man they don’t know. Mark Phelps is transferred onto a stretcher and moved into the ambulance.
Pole
and Ferguson move quickly to join the paramedics as soon as they realise Phelps is alive.
“Where are you taking him?” Pole asks.
“Are you family?” The young woman pushes back at the intrusion.
“No. Police,” Pole produces his ID card.
“St Thomas’s emergency.”
Ferguson speaks into his radio. The victim cannot travel unaccompanied. Pole lets Ferguson organise Mark Phelps’ secure transfer to hospital. Andy has already started gathering information; he is speaking to the SOCO team inside the house. Pole is happy for him to do this. He has a call to make.
* * *
The clunk of the lock shutting automatically was for once welcome. Today Henry welcomed bang-up time. For an hour, he would not be expected to interact with other inmates or be disturbed. He walked to the small bookshelf he was allowed in his cell, evidence of his good behaviour, chose a large art book and moved to his bed. He removed his trainers, placed his flimsy pillow behind his back and sat cross-legged in what had become a comfortable position. The book had been well thumbed and yet handled with care. He opened a page at random and started reading. The prison officers were having their lunch but there was always a possibility that one of them, still on duty, might open the latch of his cell door. The spine of the book cracked with the soft sound of a crisp waffle and Henry pushed the hard cover slowly apart. It came off to expose pages that had been glued together. Henry felt along the ridge with his finger and dislodged a small piece of cotton wool. It came loose and a small object slipped out of it.
The netsuke rolled into his hand, no bigger than a walnut. He turned the small piece representing a dog with pups around his fingers a few times. He let it rest in his palm and suddenly squeezed it hard. Its ridges pressed into his skin. He inhaled and slowly let go of the breath. The exquisite piece of art represented everything Henry was longing for: what he had lost, his life outside HSU Belmarsh. He rolled the netsuke around his hand, stroked his fingertips along the back of the dog, appreciating the delicate carving of its nose and ears, the intricacy of the tiny pups suckling their mother. A voice in the corridor made him jump and he hurriedly replaced the object in its cache, squeezing the cotton wool back into position. The book sat in his lap and he waited. A few minutes elapsed. Henry relaxed and started reading Art & Today, one of the best introductions to modern and contemporary art he had read so far. Henry smiled at the picture that his random opening had selected, an installation in New York’s Central Park called The Gates by Christo and Jeanne-Claude, in 2005. His smile dropped. He had seen this extraordinary piece on one of his trips to New York that winter. The pictures in the book did justice to the power of the piece: red gates, tens of them organised into two rows, meandering around a frozen Central Park, where snow lay on the ground, trees were bare of foliage but clad in ice. He had agreed with a contemporary review that their installation made you see a place, a landscape, differently. That day, it had made him notice the beauty, vastness and fragility of Central Park.
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