No Turning Back

by Freddie P Peters

  Perhaps it was time to speak to Nancy about all of this. She had levelled with him. Her last words had rung true and he had not been able to tell her he believed her, that he had pushed too hard with his last question. He had never doubted her. It was friendship with Henry on her part although he had often wondered what Henry’s true feelings were.

  Pole walked back to his office to find it empty.

  “Shit.” He dialled her mobile – engaged.

  Call me. This is URGENT. PLEASE. Pole sent the text.

  Where had she gone?

  * * *

  Nancy had been saved by her own BlackBerry ringing, showing Marissa was calling. She too had been told of Henry’s disappearance. She had no details either. Was it an abduction? What was Henry thinking of if he had masterminded this? But it was HSU Belmarsh. Had she facilitated?

  “What an absolute idiot I’ve been,” the words stuck in Nancy’s throat. Had she been played all along?

  She was walking fast, on her way to meeting Marissa. Nancy accelerated her pace further. She was fleeing Scotland Yard and the scene of her mistakes. She could still see Pole’s face, his controlled anger and perhaps even his disappointment. The last words she had spoken she would have wanted to deliver differently, she was not even certain she was ready to utter them in the first place.

  Curse Henry. She shook her head – idiot, you bloody idiot.

  Nancy tried to focus on what there was to salvage. She slowed down. Where was Henry’s burner phone?

  She found herself in front of the SFO building near Trafalgar Square. She fumbled with her BlackBerry to let Marissa know she had arrived. A text flashed on the screen. “Call me”. It was from Pole. She hesitated. She might not want to know what the rest of the text said.

  Marissa was pacing up and down the SFO lobby when she saw Nancy outside looking at her mobile. She dashed out.

  “Do you have fresh news?”

  “Very little.” Nancy shook her head.

  “Pole?”

  “Not much on his side either.” Nancy’s voice wobbled a little. She cleared her throat.

  They walked back into the lobby in silence and found a couple of large chairs. Marissa flopped down into one of them.

  “I can’t even start to think about what this means for the case.”

  Nancy sat down. Was there hope?

  “We need to find out what happened to Henry’s burner phone.”

  Marissa leaned her head against the back of the chair. “It will only give us a number.”

  “Perhaps, but his contact is still expecting a call; we could try to speak to him.” She refused to be beaten.

  Marissa looked at her surprised. “I doubt …” She did not need to elaborate further. “And then there is Mark Phelps.”

  Nancy stood up. This was unbearable. She needed to find a way, a solution to this mess. She needed to make the feelings that were slowly creeping into her heart go away.

  Anger and shame.

  Despite her brilliant legal mind, she could not see a way out of the impasse.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  They entered through the back yard. Henry could hardly make his way amongst the piles of objects covered in plastic that had been left lying there. He suspected he might not want to know what was being stored underneath them.

  Ahmed opened the door. Another man was waiting for them inside, solid build and thick neck, black leather jacket. Not the Jihadi look Henry was expecting. But Henry recognised in his eyes the same determination he had seen in some of the IRA men he had known well, and in Bobby’s.

  The door shut behind him. Ahmed removed his helmet and the three of them stayed silent for a long moment.

  Was he up for it?

  Too late.

  The black leather jacket man gestured with his head. Henry followed him into a large room with flaking paint and rising damp on the walls. A young man was already sitting on a low bed covered with a thick blanket. A few rugs had been thrown on the floor, some cushions.

  “As-salaam Alaykum,” the man said with a smile, exposing a row of perfect white teeth that matched the whiteness of his robe and crocheted hat.

  “Wa Alaykum As-salaam.” Henry did not hesitate, laying the palm of his right hand against his heart.

  “Sit Henry.” The Sheik gestured towards another low bed that looked old and tattered. “We have much to discuss.”

  Henry removed his shoes and sat down, fighting the urge to identify a way out of the room.

  “Abu Maeraka has told me you should join us,” The Sheik carried on. He stopped as the door opened and a woman in full niqab entered. The tray she carried was laden with food and the delicious smell made Henry’s mouth water. She poured some tea into two glasses and left without a sound.

  “But you must tell me about yourself.”

  The educated accent of The Sheik amazed Henry. This was not an ignorant thug. He had been schooled in the UK and his fluency indicated higher education.

  Henry nodded and drank some tea. He thought about apologising for perhaps looking aloof. After all he had just escaped from prison, but he changed his mind.

  This was a job interview; no mistake about it. This one would not end with a simple handshake and a “will call you later” if it had not been successful. The parting words would be a bullet in his head or a knife through his throat.

  A challenge – at last.

  Henry was factual. Ireland, the IRA funds, investment banking and most importantly the fact that he had been caught not because of his carelessness but the vengefulness of his enemy, Anthony Albert.

  The Sheik was silent. Henry saw from his relaxed face that he was doing well. Henry bent down to take the glass that had been refilled with tea.

  The lights went down.

  * * *

  Pole is standing at the door of a large vehicle parked one street away from the target. Harris is speaking to SO19, Ferguson is all rifled up, balaclava rolled up on his forehead, raring to go. Harris is passing two photos around the assault team.

  “These are my agents – do not shoot them.” Harris keeps repeating. Each officer looks at the photos and nods.

  Pole knows that one of the photos is Henry’s. He hasn’t been shown the other one. Harris is too preoccupied with his assets getting out of the op alive.

  Pole knocks at the van door and enters the mobile control room. Two people are manning the screens: a man and a young woman who seems to be in charge. She is checking whether properties within the perimeter have been evacuated. Ferguson is now standing behind Pole, pressing Control for quicker results. Time is of the essence and so is the element of surprise.

  The young woman pulls her headphones down abruptly. “We’re all clear.”

  “Roger that.” Ferguson adjusts his earpiece, one final comms check and the balaclava comes down together with the night vision goggles.

  “All right lads, let’s go.” He is already walking outside amongst his men. Harris has joined Pole in the van. “I hope they don’t bollocks this up.” Harris is chewing on his piece of gum furiously. Pole nods.

  Pole hears the woman’s voice give instructions. “Controlled evacuation complete on the North side; we are clear to breech.”

  The lights go down.

  Both Harris and Pole are looking at the screens tracking SO19’s progress in infrared light. The colour is a strange monochromatic sepia. For the untrained eye it is not always easy to make out who is who. Harris is bending forward over the officer manning the screen but the other man does not notice. All his attention focuses on the action unfolding in front of him.

  The first phosphorus bomb goes off.

  Pole can hear the shouts. “Armed Police – get down, get down.” And the shooting starts, short bursts, screams, retaliation.

  Harris pops another gum in his mouth.

&nb
sp; “Fuck, they are shooting left, right and centre.”

  Pole feels his stomach tightening. He is powerless and he hates that sensation.

  On the ground floor, a couple of targets are hiding in a room that controls the bottom of the stairs. The burst of sub-machine guns is incessant. Ferguson has spread his men; three of them are looking for the back door. Another of Ferguson’s team crawls on the ground and delivers another phosphorus bomb into the room. The cries become shrieks.

  The three men dispatched to the back of the house find a way in. Ferguson and his team climb the stairs, cautious, guns at the ready. More gunshots and a body hits the wall at the top of the stairs.

  “Where are you guys?” Harris is anxious. His people are in the middle of this shooting match and a stray bullet is all it takes.

  Ferguson’s team is doing a room by room sweep. Two women are screaming, hands in the air.

  “Get down, get down.”

  They fall on their knees. It takes only a second for the smaller of them to pull a gun from underneath her dress and discharge it at one of Ferguson’s men. The retaliation is ferocious. She will never pull the trigger again.

  “Officer down. I repeat officer down.”

  “Shit.” Harris swears as each room is cleared.

  Pole has not uttered a word. He is used to violence but not of this intensity.

  Ferguson’s team is now on its way to the second floor. They ascend the stairwell without encountering resistance. The first door they check is locked. The burst of a machine gun and the door explodes into splinters. The windows are open, a man in a white robe is about to jump, gun in hand. A burst of bullets stops him before he can escape through the window. His body hesitates and slumps back into the room.

  Harris leaves the van before the officers can protest. He runs towards the backyard, pushing on his earpiece to keep it in place.

  “They are in the backyard,” he shouts. “Don’t shoot them – my guys are in the backyard.”

  Pole turns towards the screens again. He can see the muzzle of several machine guns pointing at two men on their knees at the bottom of the fire escape.

  Ferguson’s men have pulled back. One of the silhouettes collapses on the ground. The other man stands up slowly and turns towards him helping him to stand up as well.

  Henry is rising to his feet.

  The blanket on his back is barely keeping him warm. He is chilled to the marrow. One of his hands is clinging to the rug. He can’t quite recall how it happened but he is also clutching a cup of tea. Harris is speaking to his other agent, Wasim, the officer who helped Henry escape. They are surveying the carnage again, accounting for who in the world of terrorism has been eliminated. Pole has been barely listening. Henry knows what is on his mind. He wants to attract Pole’s attention, to indicate he needs a word, but his body is not responding. He wants to rest and simply feel he is still alive. Henry focuses on Pole’s face in the distance. Now that he is looking at Pole, Henry notices he is strangely attractive. His personality speaks through his body. The way he holds himself. The way he talks or listens. He moves, assured and yet restrained. Henry envies him for a second but the thought passes almost as quickly as it came.

  Whatever Henry is, he is not a jealous man.

  Pole finally moves away, extracting himself step by step from the conversation. The others don’t notice.

  “How are you feeling?” Pole has found a space next to Henry at the back of the van.

  Henry gives a small nod. He tries to clear his throat, “Alive.”

  Before Pole can respond he summons all his strength.

  “I have something for you – and Nancy.” His voice sounds cloggy. His teeth start chattering. He inhales. He can do this.

  Henry puts his tea down very slowly, each move costs him an enormous effort. His fingers fidget underneath the blanket. He is getting something out. He can feel it underneath his fingers.

  Pole looks at Henry’s hand. It cradles in its centre a small mobile phone SIM card.

  “Take it.”

  Pole registers and he cannot help but smile.

  “Everything is on it. I wrote notes as messages. Nancy should have all she needs.”

  “Including?”

  “The UBO – yes.”

  Pole has taken the SIM card. Henry cradles his tea for comfort.

  “But I thought …?” Pole doesn’t need to formulate his question. He has the answer. “You didn’t give us the correct time for the call to your contact in Panama.”

  “I was worried you would somehow track the calls.” Henry is drinking in small gulps.

  Pole shakes his head.

  Harris and his agent have almost finished.

  Pole has slipped the SIM card into the inner pocket of his jacket. Henry has almost finished his tea, his gaze remains on the empty cup.

  “There is a lot I would like to say to Nancy but …” He stops and drinks the dregs. He cannot be shy. There will not be another occasion. “Tell her I wished I could have said goodbye and that …” He hesitates because he wants to get it right. “She has been the best friend I could ever have hoped for.”

  Pole nods. He understands and there is nothing equivocal about it. Henry has fallen silent. He feels the lump in his throat swelling.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Pole’s eyes are searching Henry’s face.

  Henry inhales and manages a smile.

  “It’s my path – chosen – the only way I can make sense of all the mistakes.”

  “Redemption?” Pole asks.

  “Perhaps, one day.”

  They feel Harris’ eyes on them. He approaches slowly. He is happy to let them have a few more minutes it seems. Soon Henry will disappear with the other agent, into the underworld of Jihadism – yes, he can have a few more minutes.

  * * *

  It was way past midnight but she would not be asleep. Pole had called Nancy to tell her he was on his way. When the door of the lift opened on her floor, Nancy was waiting for him. She looked pale and almost fragile in a long woollen dress that hugged her body close. Her eyes searched his for an indication of what had happened but also to see how he felt. She waited for him to get close and slid her arms around his body, her head dropping against his chest. Pole felt the firmness of her embrace and he closed his arms over her, breathing in the scent of her hair.

  “He is alive.” He repeated. “Henry is alive.”

  Nancy nodded and lifted her face to his. “Tell me.”

  The SIM card was lying on the coffee table wrapped in a piece of tissue. She was looking at it without sadness or joy. She turned to Pole.

  “It’s all on there?”

  “Yes. You and Marissa have all you need to pursue the case.” Pole was sitting next to her on the sofa, one arm around her waist.

  “It may sound ridiculous but I always assumed I would be the last person to see him if something happened,” Nancy’s voice trailed. “I don’t even know what I really mean by that. I would never have allowed him to …”

  “This is what he wants; perhaps, rather, what he needs.”

  “Henry fighting for Queen and Country?” Nancy said.

  “No, he is fighting for himself – no one will ever own Henry Crowne and if they think they do they will be bitterly disappointed.”

  “C’est vrai.” Nancy pushed her body back into the comfort of Pole’s embrace.

  She rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I am sad, Jonathan; he had become a friend. There was something good striving to come out but somehow I don’t think the confrontation with Mark would have given either of them closure.” She shut her eyes.

  Pole took her hand and placed his lips on her fingers.

  “And he valued your friendship above all.” Pole kissed her fingers once more.

  Nancy opened her e
yes and gave Pole a gentle smile.

  “And you, mon cher Jonathan, know that you are much more than a friend.”

  * * *

  The head grip is brutal. An arm is locked around his neck in a nutcracker choke that is strangling him – in a few seconds he will lose consciousness. His hands try to grab the attacker’s limb with little success. He summons all his strength and shoots his elbow into the man’s stomach, his fingers into the man’s eyes, the grip loosens. Henry rolls around and twists with vicious strength the arm that has choked him. Wasim falls and slaps the floor. Henry lets go and collapses next to his instructor. It is intense training.

  “That was the best you’ve done so far.” Wasim throws a bottle of water to him.

  Henry nods. He opens the bottle slowly and drinks, surveying his surroundings yet again. The place he has been moved to with Wasim is almost derelict. They left London after the shooting a few weeks ago and arrived in Manchester late at night. Wasim Khan is the other man infiltrating the new terror group for MI6 but unlike Henry he is a Muslim. Henry suspects Wasim Kahn is not his real name and that he is working under legend. What were the chances he’d have a name exactly matching that of a famous cricketer?

  Henry stands up. He snatches the towel that has been thrown on an old set of pipes. It has seen better days and has started to smell; still he wipes the sweat from his face. Wasim is waiting for Henry to sit down next to him.

  “I have made contact again.” He moves a cloth over his thick neck. His manners are strangely considerate for such a powerfully built man.

  “Are they ready?”

  “They are.”

  Henry never speaks about Agent Harris or MI6 with Wasim. He has been told very clearly on his way to Manchester. He does not initiate conversation. He does not take risk. Wasim knows when they can talk safely.

  Wasim has checked the cameras he has set up around the perimeter. They are alone. The sympathisers who come to bring supplies won’t come during the day, but it pays to be careful.

  Henry is burning to ask the question Am I ready? but it would sound weak. He also knows that the only person who can convincingly answer is himself.

  “How?” Henry asks instead.