No Turning Back

by Freddie P Peters

  Pole turned around in one swoop, running one hand through his thick hair.

  “If this thing goes wrong, I’ll find a way to get to you,” Pole spoke over his shoulder.

  “Fair enough but you’re underestimating what my team can do.”

  Pole kept walking away.

  “Speak to Crowne and have a little faith in Her Majesty’s Secret Service.” Harris sounded surprisingly honest.

  * * *

  The day was going to be long and slow. Henry found himself looking at the wall clock yet again – a watched kettle. He needed to be doing something more than re-reading the file Marissa had left with him. Still it was a welcome distraction from what had been haunting him since he had been told he would be meeting Mark Phelps.

  He pushed away the thought of the meeting. He needed to concentrate on the task at hand, re-read the file, possibly spot something new and make the call to Mac in Panama.

  But he had agreed to the meeting. It was the right thing to do. It was what the reformed Henry must do. Nothing had prepared him for the feelings that assailed him once Nancy had left him alone. He had gone to the wastepaper basket and nearly thrown up. His body was still feverish at the thought. In the end, the idea of a meeting had given him greater resolve. He would see his plan through.

  The sound of a text message delivered on his burner phone brought him back to the here and now. Mac had given him a time to call. The man had been busy all night. Henry breathed deeply. He could still make good on his commitment and the code he had used with Mac in their conversation still worked. The answer was ready for delivery.

  Henry deleted the text, stood up and poured himself a cup of water from the water cooler. It was all working towards the point of no return from which there would be no turning back. Henry was pouring a second cup when the door opened. Pole came in, eyebrows knitted, an expression that had seldom left his face in the last few days.

  “Next twenty-four hours; get ready.”

  Henry’s cup wobbled, spilling a little water at his feet. “Shit,” he blurted.

  “Leave it,” Pole said.

  Henry walked to his chair and slumped into it, cup in hand. He squeezed it so hard he heard the crunch of the plastic ready to split. His throat had closed. He could not swallow anything.

  Pole moved a chair, turned it around and straddled it. “Harris is certain.”

  “But how?” Henry lifted his eyes and scrutinised Pole.

  “He did not care to elaborate.”

  Henry put the cup down, slowly, not trusting his movements. He rubbed his hand over his face, pulling it down to form a strange grimace.

  “The Belmarsh lot won’t be able to communicate. I can’t meet anyone until I’m back for good.”

  “Think about what happened in the last two days; there might have been a sign.” Pole had crossed his arms, resting them on the back of his chair. He too wanted to validate Harris’ information.

  “It has always been very vague.” Henry picked up the plastic cup. He hesitated, froze and finally lifted the cup to his lips, drinking in small gulps, hoping Pole had not noticed.

  Pole stood up. “Let me know if something comes to mind.”

  Henry nodded – and both men knew MI6 was right.

  * * *

  Her back was turned to him when Pole entered the open-plan space. Nancy was talking to Andy. Pole slowed down his pace. Nancy had pulled her jet-black hair into what looked like a complicated bun. Her slim figure was twisted into an elegant pose, hand on Andy’s desk partitioning, hips at an attractive angle. Pole forced himself out of his state of languorous admiration. Andy must have told Nancy he was approaching since she now swirled around. Her smile was courteous but her eyes relished their contact with Pole’s.

  “I spoke to Marissa. She will let Mark Phelps know Henry has accepted.”

  Pole’s office phone rang. Andy picked up.

  “It’s Commander Ferguson.”

  Pole pulled a sorry face.

  “Don’t worry, but Jonathan, j’ai besoin de vous parler.” Nancy’s eyes conveyed an urgency that surprised Pole.

  “Bien entendu.” He disappeared into his office, door closed. Nancy was still speaking to Andy. Pole hoped Andy would not talk about the shooter. He had been clear with Andy; no one must know, no one – but Nancy had her ways with young men and come to think of it with a number of not-so-young men too.

  Ferguson was raging on the phone. MI6 was not budging and would Pole at least give him something; he almost said please. Pole clenched a fist. He did not enjoy keeping essential information from CT Command and yet Harris had been clear. He sat down and kept talking to Ferguson: options, who to call next. Pole gave some snippets of information as he spoke.

  What if he was wrong? Pole stood up again. He had not felt so unsure of his instincts or his analysis of a situation for a very long time. Even the protracted case against Henry had not challenged his judgement as much.

  Marsh’s number appeared on another line.

  “Ferguson, got to go; Marsh is calling me.”

  He ended one call and took the other. The bark of Marsh’s voice irritated Pole. “I spoke to the Home Office again. They are reconsidering their position.” Pole grunted. Marsh could certainly pull the strings of power, silent when needed, reaching out to the right people when necessary.

  “You don’t think it’s a good idea?” Marsh snapped.

  “We just don’t have the full picture, Sir.”

  “Perhaps not, but we have a bunch of Jihadi on our streets that might attempt a terrorist act. I’m not happy to delay. In particular with the quality intel your team has dug up.”

  Marsh had a point. He failed to mention the enormous kudos he would derive were the Met at the centre of the arrest. Despite this Pole could see where Marsh was coming from.

  “Shall I come your way to discuss strategy, Sir?” Always a good argument – the S word had a hypnotic effect on The Met’s management and Marsh could never resist it. The meeting would give Harris a little more time to get organised.

  Pole shook his head and walked off in the direction of Marsh’s office. Nancy would have to wait once again before he could devote his attention to her.

  * * *

  Andy’s voice sounded distracted as Nancy’s eyes followed Pole’s tall body moving swiftly towards the lifts. Something was up. She had felt it when Henry, Pole and she had been talking in the morning. The atmosphere was friendly, perhaps deceptively so, with no more sparring between Pole and Henry, she having to play the schoolmistress separating two rowdy boys.

  Andy kept talking in the background, his voice suddenly more pressing. Nancy snapped out of her thoughts and forced her attention back to the young man. He was pointing at his screen. News alert. “I need to call Inspector Pole.”

  Nancy read the news alert on Andy’s screen.

  Prisoners have barricaded themselves in one of the wings of HMP Belmarsh. The prison is now in lockdown. Five anti-riot units and a negotiator have been dispatched.

  Text kept coming.

  Two prison officers have been seriously injured, one is in a critical condition. Hostage situation not confirmed.

  “What’s your mobile number Andy?”

  Andy kept an eye on the screen whilst giving her the number.

  “I’ll give you a missed call so you know how to contact me.”

  She could not reach Henry on his burner phone.

  The lifts were full. It was almost midday and employees were already going for their lunch trying to avoid the inevitable queues. She squeezed near the door, fighting the influx of people. Level 3, Level 2, Level 1, Ground Floor; almost everyone got out. She pressed Level -1 a few times; someone dashed in and the doors reopened. She tried to remain civil. As soon as they reached Level -1 she burst out of the lift and ran all the way to the room in which Henry
was working. One of the prison officers outside was on his mobile. The news about Belmarsh was spreading like wildfire.

  Henry was typing furiously on his keyboard when she entered. The noise of the door made him jump.

  “You’ve seen the news?” he said returning his attention to the monitors.

  “Who are they?” Nancy had moved to his side, reading the information that was scrolling through Bloomberg news.

  “Nothing on that yet.” Henry responded, calling up another screen from the Reuters information platform.

  “It only came up on the Met internal info line a few minutes ago.”

  “No time at all.”

  More data had started to appear.

  Some of the prisoners have been heard shouting Allahu Akbar. Fear that a number of hardcore radicalised inmates have taken over Wing 2 at Belmarsh is growing.

  Henry’s body froze in a strange position, halfway towards the screen, his fingers in mid-air, immobile.

  “What does it mean? Henry?”

  No response came. She shook Henry by the shoulders.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, come on,” she almost shouted. “This can’t be a coincidence.”

  Henry’s eyes met hers and she could see hurt. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t infer —” Nancy’s phone rang. “I’m with him now.” She mouthed Pole’s name to Henry.

  “Why?” she said. “This is ridiculous.” Nancy felt the lump in her throat growing. “I will.”

  “What’s happening?” Henry had turned his entire body sideways so that he could face her.

  “The Belmarsh governor wants you back at HSU right away.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Henry blurted. “I haven’t finished.”

  “This is what Pole thinks too, and for once Marsh agrees.”

  “And that is what you have to convey to the prison officers outside.”

  “Correct.” Nancy looked serious.

  “Wow. I never saw you as a bodyguard but hey!”

  “I may not look it but I sure can hold my ground.”

  “I don’t doubt it and it seems you’re going to be tested right away.”

  The door had just opened.

  * * *

  Mohammed was running his prayer beads through his fingers, thumb and index finger, rolling them one after the other. Brett could see him in the distance, eyes focused on the door. He half stood up and sat down again as Brett made his way over to him.

  “Is The Sheik too busy to speak to me?” Brett’s sharp tone sent a shiver of angst down Mohammed’s round body.

  “Shhh, not so loud.”

  Brett rolled his eyes and sat down. Mohammed half extended his arm in the direction of one of the waiters and tea materialised.

  “Didn’t know you were religious,” Brett remarked after he had tasted his tea, a rather good and fragrant beverage, he had to admit.

  “Who told you that I wasn’t?” Mohammed’s eyes darted around the room in fear.

  “Relax. I’ve simply never seen you with prayer beads before.”

  “Helps the nerves.”

  Brett raised his glass in acknowledgement.

  “You’ll receive a text in the next twenty-four hours.”

  “And you got me here to tell me that?”

  Mohammed did not reply. He waited for a couple of men to walk past their table and settle in another corner of the room.

  “He has this for you.” Mohammed handed over a large envelope. “To be opened when you are home.”

  “Obviously.” Brett took the envelope. It was light and had no markings.

  Brett finished his tea in a few gulps and left the tea shop without another word.

  He walked down the large street, came to Seven Sisters tube and started walking down the stairs. He stopped to consult the tube map. Two people were following him, he was sure. He had seen their shadows when Mohammed had stopped talking.

  Brett moved to the platform and sat down waiting for the next train. He leaned against the bench backrest, an eye on the people tailing him. He was pretty sure they were not supposed to be discreet. The Sheik had one message to communicate.

  Remember Massimo Visconti.

  * * *

  “Crowne, Belmarsh governor wants you back to HSU now.”

  “On what grounds?” Nancy stood between the two prison officers and Henry.

  The men looked at each other, incredulous. “Look lady,” one of the officers started.

  Wrong title.

  “To begin with, young man,” Nancy interrupted with eloquence. “You address yourself to me in the appropriate manner. Secondly, there is an understanding between the Home Office, the SFO, the Metropolitan Police and the governor that Mr Crowne needs to provide us with his assistance to gather vital information and that he will not be returned to Belmarsh until he has done so until late today.”

  “Perhaps but Belmarsh governor’s just called us to tell us he wants him back at HSU.”

  “You mean Mr Crowne? May I remind you that since the 2004 Home Office reform inmates are called either by their first name or addressed as mister.”

  The second officer had said nothing so far. His calm contrasted with the irritability of his colleague, a puffed-up sparrow – all feathers and no weight.

  “That does not change anything.” The sparrow’s face was turning crimson.

  “I heard you the first time.” Nancy was not budging.

  “My colleague is right, Ms Wu. Perhaps you could check with Superintendent Marsh?” The polite yet determined tone of the other guard surprised Nancy.

  “I will do so or, even better, speak to Inspector Pole.”

  “I think Superintendent Marsh might be the one deciding.”

  Hurried steps came down the corridor. Pole opened the door briskly.

  “Shall we speak to Inspector Pole first?” Nancy’s voice had taken on a relentless sharp edge. “These gentlemen are intending to take Mr Crowne back to HSU Belmarsh right away.”

  “Yes, I’ve been told and haven’t had time yet to speak to Superintendent Marsh about it. For the time being, Henry stays put.”

  “But the Belmarsh gov —”

  “I am aware.” Pole snapped.

  “Perhaps you should try him again?” The other officer said.

  “Is this because of the riots?”

  “We have not been told why; simply to bring Mr Crowne back to HSU immediately.”

  “It may not be safe.”

  “HSU Belmarsh is the safest prison in the UK, Inspector Pole.”

  Nancy liked the game Pole was playing. He too was playing the clock. If the riots escalated, Belmarsh might not be accessible and in complete lockdown.

  “Not if the riots escalate into a complete lockdown.”

  “Mr Crowne is an HSU inmate. He must be returned to HSU. That is the procedure.” The guard’s calm was putting pressure on Pole. He shrugged.

  “Still, I’m not comfortable with the risk that this entails.”

  “Let’s see what Superintendent Marsh has to say.”

  Pole gritted his teeth and pulled out his BlackBerry. A text had arrived and he read it quickly. Pole pressed the recall button.

  “Pole here. I am returning your —” Pole was interrupted by a flow of words. They sounded angry as they drifted out of his phone.

  “Yes, Sir – if this has been agreed – understood, Sir.”

  Pole killed the call.

  “You can have Henry.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was happening.

  The hairs rose on the back of Henry’s neck when the two prison officers bundled him into the high security vehicle parked at the back of Scotland Yard. Nancy muffled a cry of anger with a quivering hand and Pole looked defeated.

  It was no
t the sort of goodbye he had hoped for. Henry rested his head against the metal frame of the van and closed his eyes. He could feel the cuffs tight around his wrists. Not long now until they were off.

  At Belmarsh, the breakfast they had brought him before he left for The Yard had angered him to start with: a bread roll roughly cut and already buttered, a glass of juice red in colour, a small lump of jam – must have been strawberry. He had drunk the juice and hardly touched the bread.

  Henry had not thought about it until Pole had asked the question. But now he was in the van taking him back to HSU he was wondering. Was it a message? The events of the day kept intruding: the discussion with Nancy and Pole, the call with Mac and Pole’s warning. He shook his head, opened his eyes. It had been there all day waiting for him to decipher, a subtle but perfect reference to his Catholic upbringing – a Last Supper allusion, bread and wine. Henry recognised Kamal’s hand, subtle but to the point. The van had stopped. Henry braced himself, a few minutes elapsed, then the vehicle resumed its journey. Henry moved his head a fraction to survey the two prison officers that sat close to the door. An odd pair he thought. The young chap was nervous, perhaps a newbie in his role as escort. The other officer seemed inscrutable, his calm almost eerie.

  The van stopped again, this time at the side of the road. Henry could feel the movements of the van being reversed and driven into a parking bay. The walkie-talkie crackled and the young guard responded. The conversation was mostly happening at the other end with monosyllabic responses from the guard until finally he formed a complete sentence.

  “That route won’t delay us too much.” He bent towards his colleague, informed him of the decision. The other nodded. “OK, let’s do that.”

  Henry made his entire body let go. But what had he been expecting?

  The van restarted with a jolt. Henry tried to ease off the tension that was building up steadily in his body. He rolled his shoulders, moved his neck, breathing deeply in the process.

  He settled back against the cool metal. His mind drifted back to the case, to Mark Phelps. The fear he had felt at having to face a victim who was not even his victim had startled him. He had spent the time between working on the case thinking about it: what he would say, what the responses might be. Sorry was never going to be good enough even to start with. But maybe he could explain why he had followed the path he had taken, with honesty. That perhaps was all he had to offer. He was not sure it would be sufficient, that it would fulfil the hope he nourished. The hope that something in his life was salvageable, that he was redeemable …