No Turning Back

by Freddie P Peters

  Typical.

  Brett made his way to Knightsbridge tube station. It was far too early for the shops to be open but a few staff were already starting to arrive. At 7am it seemed Belgravia was only just waking up. Brett’s burner phone buzzed. What now? The sound raised his hopes – perhaps a cancellation.

  Further instructions had come through. Mohammed would be meeting him at the station. The game was on.

  Sitting in one of the deserted carriages, Brett tried to occupy his mind. His nervousness had increased in recent days and the last meeting with The Sheik had been, well, frightening. Brett did not like to admit that he had been scared. It was fine to be fearful in the Middle-East, constantly on one’s guard. He had taken many trips to countries close to war zones to meet his trafficking contacts. Even in countries like Egypt, the UAE or Qatar he had remained careful. But Brett objected to being frightened on his very doorstep in London. Granted, Tottenham Hale was not exactly his neighbourhood. Still London was his stomping ground and he wanted to roam around it freely. He checked his watch. He might arrive early. No matter, Mohammed would be there early too. Brett liked Mohammed, a cultured, mild-mannered man who had become embroiled in the trafficking business to clear debts he could not repay otherwise.

  The Tottenham Hale sign appeared through the window. Brett disembarked and walked towards the tall escalators. On the concourse he looked around him. The once white tiles on the walls looked filthy. Brett moved around the large open space that lay in front of the station. Trees bare of leaves seemed strangely petrified. The few concrete benches were mostly empty. Mohammed was there, hunched over a cardboard cup bearing the name of the local caf. Brett walked towards him and sat down abruptly, making him jump.

  “You’re early.” Mohammed looked startled.

  “So are you,” Brett replied. Mohammed took his own burner phone out of his pocket to send a quick text. “They’re just around the corner. Waiting.”

  “Well, it seems everyone’s early then.” Brett’s stomach rumbled quietly. He did not want to think why. Focus, focus on what’s coming. That’s all.

  The heavy SUV pulled up alongside the pavement. The door opened and the same ritual started: eyes blindfolded, burner phone confiscated, bundled up in the back of the car between two large bodies.

  It took them more than half an hour Brett estimated. A thick-necked man pushed Brett into the corridor. The place was different again. How many people were willing to let The Sheik use their properties?

  Brett snapped back to the moment. Focus.

  The frisking was rougher than usual. Brett let his body go. He hated being touched but he had learned not to resist. Somehow the feel of a relaxed body that seemed non-responsive to the intrusion discouraged the intruder.

  Brett had entered a large room that looked more lived in than the places where he had been taken before. Rugs, thick mattresses covered with colourful throws and large cushions to sit on. The smell of spices and a sweet aroma Brett could not define. He was left alone and stood in the middle of the room waiting – five minutes, ten minutes. Brett finally moved to the mattress that faced the door and sat down. The door opened and a black figure entered, full niqab, hands gloved, bringing tea in a glass silver pot and two glasses. She did not look at Brett, simply laying the tray on the low table in front of him. She poured the tea and left. The silence with which she moved was remarkable, almost gliding, her feet hardly touching the ground. Her long dress hardly rustled, yet her manner felt familiar.

  The smell of sweet tea made Brett’s mouth water; steam rose from the glasses in long lazy coils. A couple of minutes passed. It was excruciating and intended as the perfect way of preparing Brett to succumb to the demands that would be made of him. Brett stretched his hand towards the glass; he was not ready to admit defeat yet. The door opened and Brett hurriedly withdrew his hand. The Sheik entered and sat down without a word.

  “You do not drink?” he asked with a faint smile.

  “I would have, but you arrived.” Brett’s face remained smooth.

  The Sheik nodded, took his tea and sipped the burning liquid. Brett followed in silence.

  “Visconti was a great disappointment.” The Sheik refilled his glass. Brett’s gut tightened, the horror of the pictures he had seen only too fresh in his mind.

  “I have a deal that needs to be delivered quickly.”

  “Armaments?” Brett’s voice sounded wooden.

  The Sheik lifted an eyebrow and broke into a broad smile.

  “I thought you did not do armaments?”

  Brett’s mind snapped back into action. “You mentioned Visconti.”

  “Only that he had disappointed me.” The Sheik’s eyes scrutinised Brett, his posture, his face.

  Brett shrugged. He could feel the sweat gathering at the back of his neck.

  “Visconti had given up on art; arms seemed the next thing to try, I assumed.” Brett moved towards the teapot and refilled his glass. Was this credible?

  “Why would you assume it, and why would that be of interest?”

  “He was a competitor; it’s always good to know what a man like him would do.” The pitch of his voice had risen. He sounded on edge.

  “You have not been a disappointment so far.”

  “I’m not certain I feel reassured.” Brett sounded scared; at least he did not need to fake the way he felt.

  “What do you know about armaments?”

  “Very little.” Another honest statement.

  “Unfortunate.”

  The panic rising in Brett’s gut made it gurgle again.

  “But I am not in need of arms. I will need to move two of my people out of the UK, very soon.”

  “Two people?”

  “Very soon,” The Sheik added.

  “How soon?” Brett was almost happy, people not armaments and out of the UK – good riddance.

  “I will let you know. Be ready.”

  Brett straightened up. It was time to speak about his favourite topic – money.

  “Two million.” The Sheik had read his mind.

  “That sounds reasonable,” Brett managed.

  The Sheik stood up. He moved towards the door and repeated before he left, “Be ready.”

  The door remained open. Brett rose unsteadily to his feet and stood for a moment. Who would be worth that amount? He did not have time to think about the answer. Much to his annoyance he had to use the lavatory.

  * * *

  “Too severe, too funky, too short.” Nancy was standing in her walk-in wardrobe, flicking through the clothes rack. She was meeting Marsh in a under two hours. “This is ridiculous.” She chuckled. “Pole can’t think I am dolling up for The Super and I’m not. Still a good bit of power dressing can’t hurt.”

  She kept going through her outfits, shifting the clothes hangers rhythmically.

  “Ha, voila.” Nancy smiled. “Parfait.”

  Grey pencil skirt, just above the knee with a discreet black and white line woven into the material. She took it off the rail and held it against her. To go with it, she chose a black jacket, with black leather lapel and cuffs, over a simple pearl grey silk top – Vivienne Westwood at her best. She dressed quickly, the way a busy professional woman learns to. She walked to the bathroom, applied some light make-up, fastened her hair with a simple clasp. The final touch was a pair of Chaumet white gold earrings. She was ready to do battle. Marissa was counting on her.

  She heard the ring of her BlackBerry from within her bag and moved swiftly to her bedroom.

  “Bonjour Jonathan,” Nancy’s voice had a smile in it until Pole interrupted.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m about to leave.”

  “I’m sending a car, a police car, to pick you up.”

  Nancy closed her eyes and dropped onto the bed. “What’s happened?”

  �
��Another attempt on Marissa’s life.” Pole’s voice was rasping. “I’m on my way back from the scene.”

  “Is she …?” Nancy felt her eyes prickle.

  “No, sorry. I should have said. She is all right but very shaken though. It was close.”

  “You think I’m in danger?” Nancy inhaled slowly. She cared less about her safety than that of Marissa.

  “You’re working on the case. I’m not taking any risks.” Pole’s voice shook a little.

  “Fine, I’ll wait for the car and I’ll let Marsh know I might be delayed.” Nancy’s voice changed tone. “Were you in the car too?”

  “Well …” Pole hesitated.

  “Bastards – find them.”

  “I intend to.” Not in the mood to tease Nancy for using strong language, Pole continued, “Let me know when you are done with The Super.”

  “Dés que j’ai fini.” French always made Nancy feel closer to Pole, a language that was not the first they had learned as children yet which bound them together.

  * * *

  Marsh was on the phone when she arrived at Scotland Yard. The ride in the police car had been uneventful. Nancy had rehearsed what she would say to The Super in order to convince him about. She doubted though that he needed much convincing in the first place. She let her head roll back against the headrest. Memories of William Noble’s hit-and-run surprised her. Another friend who had almost lost his life in one of the cases she was involved in – a chilling thought. She pressed the release button of the window and let some fresh air into the car. The sharpness of the cold struck her face and made her shiver. The female police officer in the front passenger seat turned around. “Are you all right, Ma’am?”

  “Absolutely. But it’s kind of you to ask.”

  Nancy returned to the question that was preoccupying her. Did Henry have a plan? She was increasingly sure he had. The letter had said it all along no matter what he now pretended. There was no doubt in her mind that he needed to be able to telephone his contact to deliver the UBO in the Panamanian structure. It was vital to the success of the case and if the range of the mobile could be restricted then … She sighed. The female police officer looked at her in the rear mirror. Nancy attempted a smile. So be it – if Henry needed a phone she would help him get it and perhaps be more circumspect. Something she had hoped she would never have to do with Henry.

  It was Pole she wanted to see now. If he was concerned for her, she was concerned for him. How close had it been for both him and Marissa?

  Marsh’s voice had tailed off. He was finishing his call to another member of his reporting line it seemed. Marsh’s voice had risen too many times to remain polite and Nancy was sure she had heard the F word being used almost as often as it would be by the gangs of Hackney. Denise, Marsh’s PA, had kept her company until the great man appeared on the threshold of his office. The Super, in full uniform, as was to be expected, greeted Nancy with profuse apologies, but no, it was she who was late she replied. The exchange of playful courtesies irritated Nancy. It was hard to smile. She felt her face freeze when she first tried. She tried harder and the result must have worked. Marsh was almost blushing.

  “I hear the latest development could affect you?” Marsh said putting a hand behind her back, almost touching her. The gesture was intended to be considerate without being invasive, protective perhaps.

  “I have asked Inspector Pole to make sure you have the required protection.”

  “How very kind.” Nancy thought she would lose it. Pole did not need to be told when people who worked with him needed protection. She quickly sat down, keen to come to an agreement with Marsh about the subject of her visit.

  Denise entered with a fresh pot of tea, one of Marsh’s quality brews that he prided himself on offering his visitors.

  “I’ll pour. Thank you Denise.” Marsh sat himself in front of Nancy in the chair he had the habit of choosing when they met. Marsh remembered how she took her tea – how very charming. Nancy took the cup, proper china, that he was extending to her. Her patience was in short supply but needs must.

  “So you have come to suggest I allow Crowne some additional liberties.” Marsh’s tone was as sweet as his tea, two sugars – in Nancy’s view it spoilt the taste of a perfectly good cup.

  “Not exactly.” Nancy drank a little tea and extended an elegant hand to put her cup down. Marsh raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “I am here to make sure we measure the impact of his request and perhaps only then acquiesce.”

  “You’re not convinced we should allow him to have a mobile phone?”

  “That’s correct. I don’t have the technical skills to determine how securely we could monitor his phone or limit its range.”

  “I’m pretty certain that can be done. But, of course, I’ll seek confirmation from my technical people in trace and make the suggestion.”

  Nancy nodded. “The other question is, why does he need a phone?”

  “To make contact with someone who can deliver the required details relevant to this Panamanian structure, I presume.”

  “I agree, but is there any other way it could be done?”

  “You mean, for instance, use a local contact to take a statement?”

  “For example.”

  Marsh shook his head. “It wouldn’t work because the informer would have to disclose his identity and even with guarantees I doubt they would take the risk.”

  “How about other social media? Opening an account solely for that purpose?”

  “Possible, but then again, for it to work it has to be untraceable. I mean the contact would have to be established using an anonymised PC not on the grid.”

  “So it’s tricky.” She drank some more tea, pausing for Marsh to consider the impact of his own analysis of the situation.

  “And it is much more difficult to circumvent the security protocols surrounding an account than to simply use a burner phone.”

  “I’m sure you are right.” Nancy managed another gracious smile.

  Marsh leaned back in his armchair, appraising Nancy for a second. “What does he intend to achieve by contacting this person?”

  “The answer to the SFO question lies with the UBO, the Ultimate Beneficial Owner, of the complex Panamanian structure and without that —”

  “They cannot prove the circularity of the transaction between Bank X and a certain Middle-Eastern state.”

  “Exactly right.” Nancy had finished her tea.

  It was already decided and Marsh knew it but felt he could indulge himself perhaps by detaining Nancy a little longer. “What else could he do with the phone?”

  “Get in touch with his former IRA contacts. But if the range of the phone is limited it will make it difficult. He could try to persuade his contact to get in touch with the former IRA on his behalf. But with the decommissioning going ahead I doubt they would respond. In any case HSU Belmarsh is the most secure prison in the UK.”

  Marsh was struck by the directness of her answer – no frills, no trying to argue Crowne’s case, a no-nonsense statement unusual in the realm where he operated.

  He liked it.

  Nancy adjusted a lock of hair that had come loose. Marsh found the gesture surprisingly seductive.

  “Right, yes, well.” He straightened up in his chair. “You’re right. HSU Belmarsh’s security record is impeccable.”

  “Precisely.”

  Marsh allowed himself one more minute of what seemed intense cogitation. “Provided my tech team can limit the range of the phone, I shall authorise it.”

  The exercise of power motivated by ambition. Nancy sighed, the downfall of most driven men.

  * * *

  The lift doors had just closed on a so very courteous Marsh. Nancy had given him a slightly rigid goodbye, thanking the great man for his enlightened decision. As soon as the lift started moving
she plunged into her bag, fishing out her BlackBerry. Reception was patchy and she kept trying to dial Pole’s number. When she reached the ground floor, the call went through. Pole’s line was engaged. She sped towards the next bank of lifts, leaving a message that she was on her way. A mass of people walked out of the lift she was hoping to board. She gave way then squeezed in before the doors closed. On reaching her destination she dashed out but a tall figure stood in her way. Pole was waiting for her. She barely resisted the urge to throw her arms around him. Pole grabbed her hand and held it tight.

  “I could have slaughtered Marsh,” Nancy’s voice trembled. “You are fine though.”

  “All in one piece.” Pole’s voice was also shaken. “And Marissa is fine too, although she could do with a friend at the moment.”

  “I’ll go to see her in a minute but …” Nancy hesitated. People had just walked out of the lifts. Pole reluctantly let go of her hand. “Let’s have two minutes to ourselves.”

  Pole smiled. They stopped at the coffee machine in silence, walked into Pole’s office and, with the door closed, stood alongside each other at the window. It was good to simply be together.

  A quote by Saint-Exupéry came to Nancy’s mind: “Love is not to stare at one another but to stand side by side.”

  Chapter Twenty

  When Nancy entered the room, Marissa was still in her coat, her right hand holding her collar up to her chin. She tried to articulate a few words but her chattering teeth made the sentence incomprehensible.

  “I’m so sorry.” Nancy moved quickly to her friend, arms outstretched. She hugged Marissa’s strong frame for a moment, her slender arms surprisingly comforting. Marissa nodded and sat down, still wrapped in her coat.