No Turning Back

by Freddie P Peters

  He had brushed the letter off as the after-effect of the life-threatening situation they had found themselves in. Nancy was not convinced. She wished she had spoken to Pole at the time but it had felt like a betrayal of Henry’s confidence. And now it was even more difficult to speak to Pole about it.

  The taxi slowed down and Nancy replaced the pad in her satchel. The three armed police officers looked suitably impressive from a distance. Pole had called Commander Ferguson. She was expected. She paid the cabbie and moved at a slow pace towards Mark Phelps’ parents’ home. She kept telling herself that if Mark really was serious about the case he needed Henry’s help.

  If.

  Nancy stopped for a moment. The terraced house looked peaceful, the small front garden well-kept and welcoming, a typical prosperous family home. Nancy crossed the road and presented her driving licence to the two policemen guarding the house gate. She was allowed through the garden gates and presented the document again to the other armed officer before ringing the doorbell. The chime of the bell sounded cheerful and out of place. This was not a home that invited drama or pain but a cosy place built for the joys of family life.

  A plain clothes policewoman appeared at the door and let Nancy in. She asked Nancy to wait in the hallway, no doubt checking Mark was up to receiving a visitor. Nancy’s eyes scanned her surroundings. Photographs had been hung all over the walls: African animals, foreign landscapes, Masai warriors with their beaded necklaces and spears.

  “Mark will see you.”

  The policewoman’s voice made her jump, its neutral tone felt almost like a rebuke. Had this man not had enough? Nancy fought the desire to turn back.

  She entered a large lounge, warm and welcoming. Mark was facing the bay window. In the garden, despite the cold, his children were playing football with their grandfather. Nancy paused. She could see Mark’s face in the glass’s reflection – bruised and scared.

  “Good afternoon Mr Phelps, my name is —”

  “I know who you are,” Mark interrupted. He moved with difficulty towards the couch. Nancy waited. She looked at the broken man taking a seat and her throat tightened. The conventional “I am sorry for your loss” felt inadequate and unseemly.

  Mark indicated she should sit down.

  “Thank you for seeing me.” There was a genuine feeling of sympathy in her voice. Mark nodded and for a while they both sat without saying more. He was observing her and she let him take time to speak first.

  “So?” Mark’s face barely moved when he spoke, his lips hardly pronouncing the words.

  “You have been told, I’m sure, that I consult with the Metropolitan Police as a former QC.”

  Mark nodded.

  “I have been asked to assist in the supervision of a person, a former banker, who can help with the case the SFO is preparing against the bank.”

  Mark closed his eyes. His hands tightened on his knees.

  “Are you not forgetting one essential detail?” he managed to articulate. His good eye opened wider and fixed Nancy with anger or perhaps even hatred.

  Nancy sat still. She understood suffering, the need to inflict pain in return. Her calmness was compassionate rather than detached.

  “I’d be a fool not to mention it.”

  “Then why have you come here?” Mark’s voice was trembling, any minute now he would unleash his fury.

  “Because I understand that you have chosen to keep going with the case despite what it has already cost you.”

  “Find someone else,” Mark replied without hesitation.

  “We could try.” Nancy paused. “Yes, we could, but I am not sure we will find the person we truly need.”

  Mark attempted to laugh. His face twisted instead in pain, his throat almost choking.

  “The person we are talking about —”, not mentioning Henry’s name seemed less provocative – “used to be one of the best financiers in the City but also —”, she took her time to formulate the last limb of her argument – “but also someone who understands how criminal organisations operate. He knows how to put together a fund structure that is opaque enough —”

  “Find someone else,” Mark interrupted.

  “The people who are good at mounting these structures are seldom caught because they do not implement them.”

  “Must be someone else … arrested?” Mark had hesitated for an almost imperceptible moment.

  “And because very few financiers behind bars will share their knowledge to unravel these funding structures, unless they can cut a deal. If we are talking about those who are free – how many will have the courage to do what you have done?” Nancy’s voice had lost a little of its composure. She too was passionate about exposing the truth.

  Mark’s face dropped onto his chest so that Nancy could no longer read his expression. “I want you to leave.” Mark’s had raised his head just enough so he could speak.

  Nancy gathered her belongings, taking her time. Perhaps he did not mean it? She had detected a shift, she thought. She finally rose and moved towards the door. Her heart sunk in her chest. It was as much Mark’s defeat as hers. He would never unravel this conundrum without Henry’s help.

  “Goodbye,” she said as she reached the door.

  Mark rose slowly and made his way to the bay window to resume watching his children play.

  * * *

  Nancy walked all the way to the main road at a slow pace. Could she have been more convincing without appearing manipulative? She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, the cashmere felt warm and comforting against the bitter cold of the wind.

  She had reached the main road. It was time to speak to Pole again.

  A small patisserie looked promising with plenty of empty tables at the back of the shop. She ordered and settled in the far corner, secluded. She took out her BlackBerry and paused. Hesitation was not helpful when it came to running a case – she could be measured, considerate, open-minded but today she felt the flux of the situation, a situation she could not control.

  Pole and Marissa needed to know she had failed and yet she felt she had made a connection with Mark. For an instant he had seen her point of view. She dialled Pole’s landline number. The voicemail kicked in. She switched to his BlackBerry.

  “Pole.” His tone sounded formal. She was interrupting.

  “Sorry Jonathan, I will call back later.”

  “No, please – tell me.”

  Nancy gave him the details of her meeting. He did not interrupt.

  Unusual.

  “Have I stunned you into silence, mon cher?”

  “It is disappointing, I must say – is there anything that could make him change his mind?”

  Pole now seemed keener to facilitate Henry’s involvement. Perhaps he had spoken to Marissa again.

  “I’m not sure. I thought he hesitated. Something happened fleetingly but then he asked me to leave.”

  “He needs to think it through. We should not have hoped to convince him that fast. Let’s give him more time.”

  “I like your optimism. His emotions are very raw. He needs to let reason speak but it is too early.”

  “Will you tell Marissa?”

  “I will. And will you inform Marsh?” Nancy was expecting one of Pole’s humorous remarks about Marsh’s keen interest in Ms Wu.

  “Let’s wait a little,” Pole replied. Nancy said her goodbyes and returned to a tasteless cup of tea. At least it was warm.

  * * *

  Pole dropped his BlackBerry on the small table.

  “Mark Phelps is not budging.”

  The young man opposite bent forward, elbows on the plastic top.

  “That’s a shame but I have the impression that that is not the end of it?” His light brown eyes read Pole in an uncomfortable fashion. Pole was not used to being on the receiving end of interrogations.

/>   “We’ll have to see.”

  “Crowne has to help on this case.”

  “I understood you the first time around.” Pole’s eyes locked briefly with the brown eyes.

  “I know you understand, Inspector, but you need to do more than understand; you need to help.”

  “As long as ‘help’ does not mean breaking the law, I am good.”

  The young man shrugged. “A little accommodation with the truth perhaps?”

  “What about Marsh?”

  “Not your problem.”

  “Are you joking?” Pole crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I am doing anything but joke, Inspector.”

  Pole stood up. “Unless Marsh is in the loop, I am not doing anything.”

  The young man pulled away from the table; his chair screeched.

  “You might,” he said stretching his arms over his head, “reconsider. Ms Wu, a very attractive woman I have to say, is looking for her disappeared father?”

  “How do you …?” Pole’s shoulders dropped slightly.

  “Know? Never mind that. But how about a good old-fashioned you scratch my back and I scratch yours?”

  Pole did not reply. He could have clocked this arrogant little arse.

  “You know your way back out The Cross, Inspector.”

  Pole grabbed his raincoat and disappeared through the maze of corridors.

  * * *

  The car had stopped abruptly. The driver swore in what Brett recognised was Arabic. His third meeting with The Sheik had yet again been arranged at the last minute. Brett had grumbled about it and Mohammed, his contact, apologised profusely, but what could he do? It was The Sheik asking. Brett had known Mohammed for years and he would not have believed him to be a Jihadist. But Mohammed had been recruited to serve The Sheik and there was nothing he could do except do as he was told.

  The car gained speed once more, driving through the streets of North London. Despite the blindfold, Brett knew they were going around in circles. The underground station at which he had been picked up by the man in the leather jacket had changed once more. More precautions, more checks, his burner phone had been switched off and the battery removed – all this could mean only one thing.

  A large operation was in the offing.

  The car went over what he thought might have been the threshold of a garage door, or onto a pavement, and stopped. Brett was manhandled out of the vehicle, roughly without being violent, just enough to instil fear. Brett played the part, suitably scared, but still with it. The scared part was becoming increasingly easy to act, whereas being with it …

  The blindfold was removed and the large man who had been leading him by the arm through the corridors of the house they had entered indicated a door with a movement of his head. Brett stepped in and found to his surprise The Sheikh already there.

  No greetings necessary.

  The Sheik indicated that Brett should sit. The mattress on the floor was thin and had seen better days.

  “What have you got for me?”

  “As much information as I could gather in the amount of time I had.” Brett handed over his dossier: printed documents, photocopied news articles, photos. Everything he had gathered on Henry Crowne over the years Crowne had been his client and everything MI6 had allowed him to disclose without arousing suspicions.

  The Sheik grabbed the file and started leafing through it, taking his time to read the parts that seemed important to him. A faint smile moved across his serious face.

  “Do you have a USB key with these documents?”

  Brett fished the key from his jacket pocket and placed it on the floor.

  A woman in a niqab entered noiselessly. She placed a tray carrying two glasses and a large brass teapot on the ground. She poured the liquid and disappeared without a sound, invisible. The Sheik extended his hand and took a glass; he was still reading. Brett took the other glass and pulled a face, his fingers scorched by the searing liquid inside. The Sheik was still holding his – immune it seemed to pain.

  “How did you get all that information?” The Sheik asked taking a sip of tea.

  “It’s taken time – almost ten years’ worth of work. I ask a lot of questions and I work with people who can find information too.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “People who specialise in identity theft.” Brett wriggled on the mattress; it was uncomfortable more ways than one.

  “I want names.”

  “It is unlikely the names they operate under are their real names. It might not be very helpful.”

  “That’s for me to decide.”

  Brett squirmed. The Sheik raised his eyes for the first time since he had started reading the documents, the cold stare of a man who had killed many times, without giving it a second thought.

  Brett took a pen out of his inner jacket pocket and started jotting down names on the envelope The Sheik had discarded on the floor. He handed it over and as he did The Sheik’s body relaxed a fraction.

  How interesting, Brett thought, you too are under pressure. This was more than just a terrorist cell seeking to wreak havoc in London.

  “One last question.” The Sheik finished his tea. Brett waited.

  “Would he join the Jihad?”

  Brett’s mind went blank for a short moment. Surely he could not mean?

  “Crowne.” The Sheik’s eyes drilled into Brett.

  “I don’t know.”

  And that was an honest answer.

  Chapter Twelve

  Marissa had spoken to Pole. Marissa had spoken to Nancy. She needed to speak to Mark or perhaps it was too soon. Tomorrow the SFO director would want to hear about “progress”.

  If Mark persisted in refusing Crowne’s help and yet was still determined to be the SFO’s main witness, he had to measure the impact of his decision. Maybe she could convince Mark he did not need to meet the man or perhaps she could simply not tell him he was involved. She discarded the latter idea the minute she formulated it. Mark had to be able to trust her and she and she had to trust herself.

  “I need a walk,” she spoke aloud, an affirmation. Marissa stood up, grimaced and arched back a little, hands on her waist. She looked at the piles of documents neatly arranged on her desk: read with annotations – read, needing further comments – to be read (the largest pile).

  She hesitated. She could take some papers to read at home. She could take a cab to Battersea and walk the rest of the way. She could log in from home. She could …

  “I need a walk.”

  Marissa logged off, dropped a loose paper clip into the stationery holder on her desk, shrugged on her coat and walked towards the bank of lifts. She noticed the reflection of her body in the tall windows of the SFO office, a large form stooped with tiredness.

  Trafalgar Square was impossibly clogged up with cars. She did not bother to wait for the pedestrian light to turn green and moved across the road towards Parliament Square. She took a woollen cap out of her coat pocket, a cosy hat she always carried once the winter had started, and adjusted it on her head. Marissa gathered pace. She thought about which route she would take today, turning towards Victoria; once there she would jump on the 344 bus.

  The walk had loosened her body a little and her mind felt more alert. Marissa had given Mark her word he could choose not to go ahead with the case. The SFO director would never accept this though, not after the string of disappointments (the politically correct term) the SFO had encountered. For her there was the BAE Systems case – yes BAE had been charged a heavy fine. $450 million was a considerable sum but most of it had gone to the US Department of Justice. And what of the employees who made illegal payments on behalf of the company – nothing. The UK had invoked national security and Saudi Arabia was pardoned by Tony Blair whilst he was prime minister. The sale of armaments in return for bribes
– a practice supposedly rampant in the industry – was a case worth fighting for and yet she felt it could have gone so much deeper. She was already on Parliament Square and stopped at the traffic lights, close to the curb, her feet ready to move the second the little man had turned green. She felt the pressure of the crowd behind her, as eager as she was to reach their destination. Marissa stepped back a little. The traffic that was whizzing past felt somehow too close. The pressure on her back surprised her. There was no space left to move. She pushed back more decisively, a couple of men protested. She apologised. She looked around. No one was paying attention to her.

  She was now turning into Old Queen Street and the flow of people eased off. She looked behind her. A couple of women, chatting and crossing the road. Marissa slowed down and her mind drifted back to Mark. Mark in his hospital bed, Mark at his parents’ home, with his children – the images kept coming but did not provide her with any answers. She turned around again – fewer people still. In the distance, a car turned into the street, drove slowly past and disappeared around the bend of the road.

  The Counterterrorism Command offer of protection popped into her mind. What would murdering her achieve? Someone else would take the case.

  Marissa broke into a slow jog. She thanked her American friends for convincing her to wear running shoes on her commute. Her bag was now rhythmically banging against her back. She was only a couple of streets away from one of the main roads. Once at Buckingham Gate she would hail a cab. A car drove past again at a steady pace. Was it the same car? Marissa accelerated her jog into a run, crossed the street as the lights turned red, the sound of car horns following her. She kept going and, as she reached the other side, put her hand up, dashing into the taxi that had stopped.

  The cabbie looked at her in the mirror. “Are you OK, luv?” She nodded, too shaken to speak. She turned and looked through the back window.

  The SUV she thought she had seen driving past her was a few cars away. No, this was ridiculous, the black SUV looked like any other black SUV. She took a tissue from her bag and ran it over her face. The black SUV had moved up and was now stopped alongside her cab, one lane away. She moved forward towards the intercom.