No Turning Back

by Freddie P Peters

  Pole moved his chair to get closer to his desk. “You think it’s got nothing to do with art.”

  “Exactly.” Andy clicked his fingers. “What if he decided to change tack. He’d been burnt on the art scene with his arrest. He was done on the art market front but …” Andy’s face had turned pink again and the dimples in his cheeks made him look mischievous.

  “He has a trafficking route he can use.”

  “Maybe he tried to find another market, using that route?”

  “Keep going.”

  “If he knows the Libyan route well because it’s the one he’s used for years, perhaps he wants to be part of the other trafficking that happens on that route.

  “Don’t you think he would have known he was going to piss off the other traffickers?”

  “But maybe he was desperate or —” Andy smiled. “He had a new source from a different place?”

  “You mean not coming from Africa? I assume I am right in saying that Libya is mainly used for trafficking out of that continent.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  “But you already have an idea about the alternative “market” don’t you?” Pole stopped fidgeting with his BlackBerry.

  “My guess – either drugs or armaments.” Andy waited for the effect the last word would have on his boss.

  “Armaments? You mean supplying weapons to people in the UK?”

  “I think so, Guv.”

  “And I think the Visconti case is seriously hotting up, if you can find more to substantiate your theory. Call the NCA. I’ll speak to Ferguson at Counterterrorism Command.”

  * * *

  The trees had almost completely lost their leaves. From the vast windows of her lounge Nancy could look out on the gardens surrounding her apartment block. The sky was low and heavy. She rubbed her arms vigorously with her hands and shivered. It was barely 10.30am but she felt exhausted. The road back to China, to her past, was proving long and hurtful.

  The buzz of her BlackBerry took her by surprise. She turned away from the window, hesitant.

  It could be Pole.

  She crossed the space to the coffee table quickly. Marissa was calling; another ring and it would go to voicemail. “Just this once,” she murmured.

  The voicemail kicked in. Nancy waited. Her finger hovered over the button that allowed her to access her messages. She shook her head. The bitterness of her past was encroaching on the work she enjoyed doing but she had to allow it to surface.

  The art book she had left open on the table, begging to be read, was calling her back to China. Ai Weiwei’s desire to reconnect with ancient techniques of production, praising handcraft associated with Imperial China, had unsettled her.

  She is sitting at a table, a piece of paper, a pot of black ink in front of her and a brush in her hand. Her father is teaching her calligraphy. He is both patient and demanding. She has repeated the same movement to create the same ideogram so many times she can’t count any longer. He has told her about the pressure of the brush on the paper, the inclination of the hand, but above all, the intention – the moment of stillness that precedes the act of creation, the slight hesitation and the movement that gives life to a word. Her father is a modern artist yet the skill of the old helps him to conceive and execute. He won’t compromise – no matter how much the new Maoist thinking is trying to compel him.

  Nancy muffled a cry with her hand and dropped the pen she had been holding absent-mindedly since she had sat down on the sofa. The Chinese ideogram for girl was staring up at her from the first page of her notepad – the first word her father had taught her because it is simple and because it is her. She turned the pad over gingerly, as if it was burning her fingers, torn between the desire to rip out the page, destroying it with a crush, or let the memories of her father flood back in.

  Marissa’s message was now awaiting her, the buzz of her BlackBerry telling her so. Nancy brought her chin down to her knees, huddling them with her arms, it was all too much. Marissa’s call would have to wait. Her artist friend, Susan, had offered to give her lunch and today this is what she would do. To escape once more the echoes of her past.

  * * *

  Marissa had started on her report for the SFO director. She had penned its outline on a sheet of paper and was about to type a new document when she went back to her mobile phone again. She had left a message for Nancy half an hour ago: no reply. The numbers displayed on the screen told her it was lunchtime already. She hesitated – perhaps a little more work before she joined her colleagues in the queue for sandwiches? She checked her messages again as if it might make a text from Nancy materialise.

  Marissa sighed. She pulled together the documents that had spread over her desk during the course of the morning into a well-ordered pile. Her unfinished conversation with Mark was still hanging uncomfortably over her. He had to trust her and to foster that trust she had to be transparent. But how could she release the information about Crowne to him in one go without jeopardising the case?

  “Hello Mark, you are about to work with a terrorist.”

  She extended her arm and reached for another file, on which the title Henry Crowne/HXBK was written in bold letters. She lifted the cover but did not start reading the documents she almost knew by heart. She needed a chat with Nancy and she also needed some air.

  Marissa stood up, approached the window and spotted a faint glimmer in the sky. The sun was trying to pierce through the clouds: she could do with a few rays, even if they were weak, on her skin.

  Trafalgar Square was surprisingly empty. Even the street artists in their Yoda or Pokémon outfits, hovering in mid-air, had given today a miss. She gave her scarf another twist around her neck and turned her face towards the sun, seeking its warmth. She spent a couple of minutes with her eyes closed, trying to imagine she could feel the meagre rays on her skin. A cold gust of wind reminded her it was time to start walking again. She crossed the road and entered the St Martin-in-the-Fields Crypt Cafe. The place looked busy. It was lunchtime after all. Marissa bought a bowl of soup and some bread. It would be enough as she was not particularly hungry today. If she hurried, she could sneak upstairs into the main body of the church to hear one of their free lunchtime concerts. The programme included Debussy’s Clair de Lune, a piece for piano she could play herself.

  The front pews were almost full, a mix of students who had come to support their friends and family members eager to make sure the church was not empty for the performers’ first recital at St Martin’s. Marissa sat in a quieter back row, near one of the great stone pillars that supported the balcony. She lowered her eyes, leaning against the uncomfortable stiff wooden frame of the seats. St Martin’s was a good place for meditation she had found, a quiet space to turn within and seek guidance, so very different from the vibrant church she used to visit with her family on Sundays, and yet a place where she could experience the same joy.

  The music almost startled her, but the meditative calm of Debussy’s piece took her over instantly, her fingers moving with each note the young pianist was playing. She liked his touch, evocative of a breeze – speeding up and slowing down the tempo of the piece following his own inspiration, just the way Debussy had instructed. More Debussy pieces followed and Marissa was transported – the young artist’s playing was so fluent. She wished she could be sitting there in front of an audience, playing the instrument that had always inspired her the most, the piano.

  A vibration in her bag reminded her suddenly that it was midweek and she had an urgent case to go back to. She discreetly slid along the pew and disappeared through one of the side doors. She scrolled down her messages to discover a text from Mark.

  I need a chat and need to do this outside my home – I’m on my way.

  The words punched her in the stomach. She checked the time. The message had been sent forty minutes ago. If she rushed back she might just make it befor
e Mark arrived. She ran down the steps that lay at the entrance to St Martin’s. The crossing light had turned red. She waved frantically towards the car that had started coming her way so she could cross. Her pace accelerated even more once she was on Trafalgar Square; she ran towards the rotating doors of the SFO offices. People were exiting the premises, slowing the doors down, and she had to match their unhurried pace.

  She heard the receptionist call her name. “You have a visitor.”

  When Marissa finally walked into her office, she saw Mark standing over her desk, a file open in his hands and through his fingers she could read the name Henry Crowne penned in large letters.

  Chapter Eleven

  The studio space was beautifully peaceful and yet busy with creativity. Susan had not bothered to tidy up for her friend’s visit and Nancy liked it that way. The colourful and almost tactile drawings her friend was working on had had a soothing effect. Nancy was sipping her coffee, almost ready to listen to the long list of calls that had been queuing for her attention. Her phone buzzed again, a text message followed and a sense of guilt sent a small shiver along her spine. She apologised to her friend, moved to the back of the studio and listened to what Marissa had to say.

  “No,” Nancy blurted. She ran her hand through her thick jet-black hair, hardly able to wait until the end of the message. She dialled Marissa’s number – engaged. She left a voicemail of her own. She was going to the SFO to see her.

  Her friend smiled kindly when Nancy made her excuses. It was urgent and she believed her. Nancy dashed into the first cab she could find. Less than thirty minutes later she was arriving at Trafalgar Square.

  Marissa was waiting for her in the lobby of 2–4 Cockspur Street.

  “Let’s go for a coffee,” Marissa said.

  “The Crypt, St Martin’s?”

  “Good idea. We may need a miracle.”

  They both walked in silence. This time the Crypt Cafe was almost empty with plenty of tables to choose from.

  “This is a disaster,” Marissa sighed, collapsing on a chair.

  “Is he determined not to speak to Henry?”

  “He went mad – almost literally – when he realised who Henry Crowne was.”

  “Had you not mentioned to Mark you might involve someone like Henry beforehand?”

  “I did but I didn’t want to release Henry’s name until we had the all-clear from the Belmarsh governor …” Marissa’s voice trailed. “And then there was the bombing and after that I was not sure it was a good idea altogether.”

  “Is there something else?” Nancy prodded a little.

  Marissa hesitated. “No.”

  Nancy did not pursue the matter. She would return to it later though.

  “What did Mark exactly say if I may ask?”

  “First an incoherent explosion when I entered my office. I have never seen him like that. Months of tension, then the raw grief coming out all in one go. My colleagues almost called Security.”

  “What then?”

  “He refused to work with a terrorist, a coward who kills innocent people, who targets decent folk like him and his family.”

  Nancy fell back in her chair. “I can’t say I blame him for his reaction,” she eventually said.

  “I hadn’t done a great job in preparing him either.” Marissa’s long fingers were pushing a couple of forgotten breadcrumbs towards the centre of the table.

  “We have all been shocked by what happened.”

  Marissa kept playing with the crumbs, not meeting Nancy’s eyes.

  “Is he still prepared to go ahead with the case?”

  Marissa raised her head, surprised. Her large brown eyes lit up and she managed a smile. She recognised the Nancy Wu QC she had known and admired in the past.

  “You’re always prepared to go to the point and never shy away from the hard questions.”

  “Always. And I am glad you remember.” Nancy gave her friend a kind smile. “So, yes, does Mark Phelps still want to testify in this whistle-blowing case against the large UK bank he works for?”

  Marissa swept away the crumbs with the back of her hand. “He does.”

  “Then, I’m afraid, we need Henry to work with him.”

  Marissa remained silent.

  “I understand your reservations. You don’t know Henry and you have never worked with him, but I assure you, if you want to unravel this complex financial structure, he is the best.”

  “Perhaps if you were to speak to Mark,” Marissa ventured.

  “That’s a good idea. You need to remain the person he trusts in all of this. And I am expendable.”

  “It’s settled then.”

  “It is indeed.”

  * * *

  The radio was chattering in the background. Bang-up time had started at 12:45pm sharp, allowing the officers to have their lunch.

  The news bulletin he was listening to was interrupted. Henry’s attention focused a little more on what was being said. A couple of words made him hold his breath.

  Explosion. Bomb.

  The radio presenter on BBC4 was describing an explosion that had happened less than twenty-four hours ago in Notting Hill Gate. Henry sat on the edge of his bed, rigid. The story unfolding on the radio was punctuated by flashbacks. “The Metropolitan Police acting in conjunction with Counterterrorism Command have confirmed that the bomb was planted underneath a car.”

  Henry hears again the deafening noise of the explosion that rocks the van in which he is sitting.

  “Speculation about the target.”

  His body hits the ceiling of the van; everything goes black.

  “The identity of the victim has not been confirmed.”

  The glazed eyes of the dead officer who looks at him but can no longer see.

  Henry stood up in a jump, grabbed the radio and squeezed so hard he heard it crack under his grip. He threw it on the bed. The radio station was almost lost and he could now hear only a few jumbled words.

  He must know what had happened though. His fingers fumbled with the wavelength button, tuning in and out – “act of terror”. The presenter had moved effortlessly on to the next topic. Henry’s body went limp. The question that had been haunting him for years surfaced unexpectedly.

  Was he up to it? Could he join them and defeat them the way he had planned?

  Behind this new bombing was Kamal’s cell. When bang-up time was over, Henry could go and find him and finish him off. He could snap Kamal’s neck like a twig. He knew how to do it. The images played in front of Henry’s eyes, mesmerising.

  Kamal’s face contorted.

  Kamal’s eyes emptying of life.

  Kamal’s body going limp.

  Henry’s breathing had become short, his fists squeezed so hard they hurt, but in that moment pain felt good. He slammed his fist against the wall.

  It was all fantasy, though, for Henry Crowne was no killer. He had learned that on the day of the Paddington bombing but perhaps he could be taught?

  Henry dropped to the floor and lay on its cold surface. He must learn to pretend if he was to fulfil his plan. He must learn to pretend to share Kamal’s belief. But was it too crazy? HSU Belmarsh was stifling but also safe in a strange sort of way. Once he was out on his own, there would be no one to look after his back.

  No Liam, as there had been in Belfast.

  No Nancy, as there had been during his trial.

  No one.

  Henry heard the bolt on the cell door being released and for once wished it had not come so soon.

  * * *

  “I’m on my way to see Mark.” Nancy was walking towards St James’s. The traffic was solid and she would only catch a cab when on Piccadilly. Pole had listened to her account of the latest development without interrupting. He would never say he was enthusiastic about facilitating Henry’s secon
d trip out of HSU Belmarsh but he had seen the results previously and there was no denying it – Henry was impressive when it came to banking expertise. Nancy understood his point of view. If something went wrong during Henry’s transfer, Pole and The Met would be in the firing line.

  “I agree, this is going to be difficult.” Nancy waved down a taxi. She accelerated her pace to reach the place where it had stopped. She was glad she had chosen a pair of comfortable Chanel pumps. She kept speaking to Pole in between giving the cabbie directions. Pole would have to speak to Superintendent Marsh.

  “Give me some time before you speak to The Super. We don’t know yet whether Mark will change his mind.”

  Pole seemed undecided and reluctant to formalise Henry’s trip out of HSU Belmarsh if Mark was refusing to work with him.

  “I am not going to force the issue, Jonathan. I don’t want to get Henry out of Belmarsh at any cost.”

  Pole had hit the nail on the head though. A gentle or perhaps not so gentle reminder that her friendship with Henry could not blind her.

  “I understand the risk to your reputation, too.” She wished she could have had the conversation with Pole in person, though perhaps he would have seen her unease, or perhaps he could hear it in the tone of her voice?

  “The point I really want to make to Mark is that if he is serious about unravelling the financial structure that underpins Bank X’s money flows between it and the Middle-Eastern state in question, he needs an expert.”

  Pole was agreeing, albeit reluctantly.

  The cab was now well on its way to Holland Park and Nancy told Pole she had to go. It was time for her to gather her thoughts for what would be a very uncomfortable conversation.

  She took her yellow pad out of her satchel, started listing the points she had made to Pole and added one she had not mentioned.

  What did Henry’s letter mean?

  Despite Henry’s best attempts at reassuring her, Nancy was still grappling with the feelings that the letter had elicited. Henry was not someone who rambled on paper. For all his faults, Henry was solid and she doubted he had written something to her that was devoid of meaning.