Guy Fawkes Day

by K J Griffin

  ‘Money have no problem. First we make check your car. After bring money.’

  Bandar shouted to the two Filipinos, who jumped down from the truck’s cabin and scurried towards the back of the Land Cruiser.

  Goss had the first Filipino by the collar before he could touch the handle on the tailgate.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re up to, sunshine? I told you, like: show me some bleeding money first, then I’ll let you see what’s inside them boxes.’

  By this time, Bandar was standing in front of Goss.

  ‘OK, finish, khalas,’ he snapped at Goss. ‘Leave him; I bring money for you now.’

  Goss relaxed his grip on the Filipino’s collar, watching Bandar shuffle back towards the Chevvy. It took the Ramli long enough rummaging in the boot before Goss saw a briefcase hoisted onto the roof. But all this fiddling about and prevarication in the insufferable heat made Goss start to feel twitchy. He thrust a fidgety hand deep down inside his trouser pocket, where itchy fingers began to knead the handle of a flick-knife. But just as Goss was about to remove the blade from its concealment, the Ramli suddenly seemed satisfied with his long perusal inside the briefcase and slapped the lid shut, though instead of turning to face Goss, he stayed with his back to him as if waiting for a cue.

  In the next instant, Goss knew why. A police siren wailed nearby, followed instantly by a second. Bandar snatched the briefcase from the roof and made a dash for the driver’s seat. Glancing back across his shoulder, Goss could see that the two Filipinos had made a dash too.

  It was a set up, and the sudden realization of betrayal sent Goss catapulting himself across the twenty yards of concrete towards the Chevrolet. He caught the door, just before Bandar could lock it, snapping the handle up and yanking it backwards against Bandar’s resistance. The door gave slowly at first, then jerked back suddenly under Goss’s superior pressure. Bandar dived for his briefcase on the passenger seat, but the knife blade had already snapped firm in Goss’s right hand. He grabbed the Ramli’s forehead with his left, jerked the head back, and slashed the soft throat that popped straight back up in front of him with a single knife-pull.

  He had the Ramli out of the Chevrolet while his body was still seized in spasmodic convulsions. For a second or two Bandar staggered backwards, away from the car, then collapsed on his back in the middle of a large oil stain, his skinny arms grasping frantically at the jets of blood that pumped through his fingers from his opened throat.

  The flashing blue lights of the first patrol car were already in the courtyard. Goss slammed the door, thrashed down on the accelerator and hurtled straight past the first police car, crashing sideways into the second in the open gateway. For a second, the two cars stalled side to side, but Goss was first to pull free, front driver’s side wheel catching awkwardly against the bodywork.

  He had a few seconds before the first police car would be able to turn and chase. The accelerator was almost flat down, but the damn thing wouldn’t shift properly. Left, right, left, right again. Police sirens were responding from all directions. Straight ahead, the slip road for the elevated motorway. Police car in rear view mirror, siren blaring. Water truck clogging the sharp incline ahead. Second police car, then a third. He had to slow down; there was no way of getting round the water truck before it reached the elevated section. Space on the right of the truck. Chance to squeeze through. He stamped on the accelerator as if his leg muscles could give the Chevvy the power it lacked.

  Pulling clear…Shit! Goss felt his car slammed violently into the wall on his right. The truck had pulled over, pinning him against the concrete wall. The bodywork folded in around him, sparks flying, glass shattering. Sudden whiplash. Head flying against the steering wheel. No more.

  ****

  South Bank, London: 5:00 p.m.

  Clayton was staring again at Knox’s photo of the voluptuous Oxford girl when the phone rang.

  ‘Just received an update from my Oxford scholars, Max.’ Stupid giggle.

  ‘Well done, Graham. Any photos of Prince Al-Ajnabi?’

  Deflated nervous cough. ‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid, Max. But we’ve got ID’s on the young couple and the pouting beauty. Which do you want first?’

  ‘Tell me about the couple,’ said Clayton, poring over the photo he was fingering in the thrill of suspended delight.

  ‘Girl’s called Linda Groves, aged 26, of Abingdon. Single. Lives with parents. Profession: computer programmer. No police record. Worked for Avant-Garde Technosolutions, a London computer software designer, until March last year. Now registered as self-employed.’

  ‘And the young lad?’ Knox coughed again. He could tell Clayton was unimpressed.

  ‘Even less interesting. Name of Mark Elmer. Born in London, now living in a flat in Headington. Age 28. Worked as an MP’s assistant for two years, then as a Westminster lobbyist. Left in January this year. Been travelling since then, as far as we can make out.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘No idea. Our information came from his last employer.’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘Westminster Strategy. Lobbying group, as I told you.’

  ‘Which MP did Elmer work for?’

  ‘Claire Ferris, Labour MP for Ipswich. Still holds the seat, I believe.’

  ‘OK, Graham,’ Clayton paused to scribble down the details. When he had finished, he picked up the photo again and stared in mesmerisation at the beautiful face that had fired him with an intense, youthful passion. ‘Now tell me about the girl.’

  ‘Well, she turns out to be a second year English student from Magdalen College. We don’t know how or why, but the young lady seems to be living in the mansion with our Ramli friend. Goes to college to study by day, returns to Ramli Sugar Daddy by night.’

  ‘Is she sleeping with him?’

  Very nervous chuckle. ‘Come off it, Max. You don’t expect us to have bugs in the bed sheets, do you?’ Follow on giggle at lame joke.

  ‘Name? Age? Home address? Any previous connection with Ramliyya?’

  ‘Nothing on file to connect her to the Ramlis. Name of Miss S. L. Palmer, short for Sophie, Louise. Nineteen years old. Lives in North London with her mother outside term time.’

  ‘Palmer?’

  ‘That’s right, Max.’ Cough. Long pause. Exploratory, waiting-for-an-answer cough. Prolonged pause. Lavish throat clearance, ‘I say, Max, are you still there?’

  Clayton was everywhere and nowhere. He was twenty years away, and he was right there inside the photo in his hand. He was also swimming in the very deepest part of his mind, in a swelling sea of ill-defined unease.

  ‘Hello, Max?’ Giggle and cough together. ‘Look, as I told you before, that’s as much as I can do for you now without official clearance. I’ve juggled around the manpower enough as it is. Questions will be asked if I keep the Oxford team in place any longer.’

  ‘Thanks, Graham. You’ve done me a big favour,’ Clayton sighed eventually, sounding anything other than thankful or reassured. ‘I think I’d better go up to Oxford myself tomorrow and see if I can speak to this young woman in the flesh.’

  Chapter 20: Whitehall, London: October 22: a.m.

  McPherson cracked his knuckles then put the photos on the table. Lengthy pause. Distant stare. Clayton fidgeted noisily on the ancient leather sofa that seemed to harden under prolonged contact.

  ‘Any chance that this Mr Hasan is a solo player acting without our Special Envoy’s knowledge or support?’ The foreign secretary asked.

  Clayton uncrossed his legs then re-crossed them again hurriedly; shifting position did little to relieve the numbness in the buttocks.

  ‘At the moment there’s a chance of just about anything. Speculation is a free-for-all in the absence of any hard information.’

  McPherson stared frostily at the petulance. Clayton got to his feet, rising on the balls of his feet to soften the stiffness.

  ‘Look, James,’ Clayton sighed, cutting the bony devil down to size with
the impudence of first-name terms. ‘You asked me to check out the Ramlis and their money. I did. And in the absence of any proper investigation, this is all I could find. I know the photos don’t necessarily prove anything conclusively, but surely, at the very least, we should take a careful look at the Ramli Special Envoy—put him under surveillance, find out who the bugger really is and why he’s come here. Wasn’t that what you wanted me to do in the first place?’

  Tortured sigh.

  ‘Quite right, Max. And you’ve done well. But to be quite honest, I wasn’t expecting you to come up with potential terrorism. Oh yes, I thought you might discover a few financial irregularities, compromise the odd backbencher by exposing nights at the Ritz on the Ramli account. But terrorism? The Ramlis? If it were the Iranians or even a rogue Saudi prince, I could quite understand. No, we’ll have to tread carefully on this one. If we upset the Ramlis for nothing, we’ll have all hell to answer for. Nevertheless, …’

  Clayton had fallen sulkily silent. McPherson amplified the quiet with more of his own.

  ‘Tell you what, Max,’ the foreign secretary came to life eventually. ‘Let me see if I can get the go-ahead for you to rustle up something special and hush-hush. Mix and match of MI5, MI6 and Special Branch—something like that. I’ll leave the who’s and how’s to you. Must be unofficial, mind. Everything and everyone readily deniable. There’ll be a lot at stake with so many businesses around the country feeding on the Ramli cash, but you’re quite right—our Special Envoy chappie sounds a shade too special for my liking.’

  ‘So when will you give me the green light?’ Clayton cut in curtly. ‘Today? Tomorrow?’

  Another weighty silence. More knuckle crunching. Clayton moved to the window and looked down over a grey Downing Street.

  ‘Call you tomorrow morning, Max.’

  Clayton nodded and made impatiently for the door. But as his hand touched the door handle, the vulture swooped.

  ‘I am trusting you to be discreet on this one, Max. I expect you to show me exactly why I’ve already backed you officially to go all the way to the top.’

  *****

  Oxford: 3:00 p.m.

  ‘Magdalen College,’ Clayton growled to the taxi driver outside Oxford train station. He sniffed warily at the stale air inside the drab Vauxhall cab. If only the public really knew how their spooks really travelled. This was a long way short of Aston Martins with machine guns and ejector seats.

  As they pulled out of the station, Clayton stared out the window. Christ, it had been a long time since he’d last seen Oxford! Another time, another place. A world of innocence, punts and sweaty-college-disco free love. But the memories were now as misty and autumnal as the damp, leafless trees that straddled the roadside.

  Magdalen! Why did it have to be Magdalen College, of all places? A young girl named Palmer at Magdalen College. Unbelievable! The coincidences made him anxious; and for him, that meant aggressive.

  There were no longer any familiar faces in the Porters’ Lodge, no silver-haired old custodian who would have remembered the young, light-hearted Clayton from his own Magdalen years.

  ‘Miss Palmer? Miss Sophie Palmer, you say, sir?’ The middle-aged porter frowned helpfully in thoughtful concern and went inside to phone a couple of numbers. When he returned, Clayton could read the lack of success on his face.

  ‘She’s not with either of her tutors. I’ve tried Mr Chase and Miss Ockenden. Tell you what, sir, why don’t you try the college library. You did say you’re a relative of hers,’ he added suspiciously.

  Clayton nodded. The porter looked dubious but took his chances.

  ‘Okey dokey, sir. Through the gate, turn right, across the quad, large door straight ahead of you.’

  But Clayton didn’t need to walk that far. As he turned through the gate he immediately recognized the face from the photo walking along the path towards him, accompanied by two other undergraduates. In the flesh, the resemblance was even more striking. The bell chimes from the tower sent ripples of desire and déjà vu pulsing through his body.

  ‘Miss Palmer?’ The trio stopped. Sophie looked curiously at the stranger. ‘Do you think I could have a private word with you?’

  The other two students exchanged glances with Sophie. She looked embarrassed, suspecting a connection to Al-Ajnabi. She would rather not bring the more unorthodox details of her domestic arrangements to the attention of her college friends.

  ‘You go on,’ she assured them. ‘I’ll catch you up in a minute.’

  ‘Might be a little longer than that, I’m afraid, Miss Palmer. I’ll need at least five or ten minutes, if you don’t mind.’

  Clayton watched Sophie’s friends walk back down the stone path towards the front quad.

  ‘Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ she cut in indignantly. ‘Don’t you think you’d better explain first who you are and why you’re here? Surely you don’t just expect me follow you down some dark alleyway?’

  Clayton was captivated with the way she swept a long lock of dark brown hair from her face, looking up at him with large, doleful hazel eyes. Exactly the same mannerisms, exactly the same look. His chest heaved with a surge of bitterness, lust and guilt.

  ‘I see. Then let me explain: I work for a government agency. I’m afraid that’s as much as I can tell you at present, Miss Palmer. If you wish, we can call the college Warden from the Porter’s Lodge. I’m sure after a couple of words from me, he’d advise you to talk.’

  Sophie turned her head askance, sighed, and stared down at her feet.

  ‘All right,’ she said softly. ‘I suppose you’re something to do with Omar, aren’t you?’

  Clayton didn’t answer. He was staring at her intently; Sophie mistook his silence for assent.

  ‘We can walk to the cloisters, if you like,’ she offered. ‘It’ll be quiet in there.’

  ‘You are correct in assuming that my interest lies in your dealings with the Ramli Special Envoy, Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi,’ Clayton continued, in a more formal tone, when they reached the dark cloisters.

  ‘Dealings? I’m not engaged in any business with Omar, you know. I’m just living in a downstairs apartment in his house—it’s a sort of student bursary, you see.’

  Clayton smiled knowingly at the cool way in which she explained her position in Al-Ajnabi’s house. Just like your bloody mother, you pretty flirt! She always played the innocent too, but she obviously didn’t have too many scruples about moving from bed to bed!

  ‘Whatever,’ he smiled ironically. ‘Anyway, tell me about Prince Omar. Can you describe him to me? You wouldn’t happen to have a photo, I suppose?’

  Sophie’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. She was overcome with a sudden and unaccountable desire to protect Omar, sensed a hidden frailty in her provider and tormentor that had hitherto eluded her, or was perhaps illusionary. In any case, she didn’t like this man’s voice, riddled with sarcasm.

  ‘Hang on a minute, please. Who did you say you worked for?’

  ‘I work for our government, Miss Palmer,’ Clayton’s voice had become stern. ‘Whose side are you on?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that there were any sides or that I needed to take one. Omar’s a diplomat and therefore entitled to immunity from investigation, I suppose. Has he done anything wrong?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Clayton’s voice was steely. ‘But with the sort of financial muscle Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi proposes to bring to this country, we need to find out a little more about him. Probably, there’s nothing to fear from the man or his millions. But we need to be sure of that. It’s our duty to the citizens of this country.’

  ‘OK,’ Sophie shrugged. ‘So what do you want to know about him?’ Still, she couldn’t decide how much she should, or wanted to tell this unspecified government stooge about her dark benefactor. What about Hennessy, and all the outlandish politics Al-Ajnabi had espoused, let alone the sexual propositions he had made to her? For fear of divulging the secrets of the
‘bed duty’, Sophie thought she had better keep quiet about the lot. Besides, she still felt an unexplained aversion to the man standing in front of her.

  ‘Describe Prince Al-Ajnabi to me. He’s white, perhaps of South African origin, we understand.’

  Sophie gave a physical description of Al-Ajnabi, doing her best to be vague. She was also at pains to conceal how devilishly handsome she secretly found her host. But in mid-flow, her voice suddenly floundered; she looked coyly at the man in front of her. There was a noticeable physical similarity between the man she was describing and the man she was standing in front of; they were even of about the same age.

  The unspecified government agent asked her more questions. He knew about Hasan, but he seemed anxious to learn more about the Somali’s status, habits, and movements. He looked unimpressed with Sophie’s bland answers and moved on to the subject of the Special Envoy’s visits and visitors. Sophie avoided mention of Hennessy, the South Americans, the middle-aged Jordanian or the Japanese banker, but thought she’d better tell him about the computer nerds. If ‘they’ were watching the house, they probably already knew about them, anyway.

  They were standing in the quietest and darkest corner of the cloisters and it was getting darker all the time. Sophie shivered in the chill air, started to fidget and checked her watch.

  ‘You don’t seem to know an awful lot about the millionaire prince you lodge with, Miss Palmer,’ Clayton smiled malevolently, his face partially illuminated by the yellow lighting that had just been switched on.

  ‘I told you,’ she shrugged, ‘I don’t see much of Omar. We lead entirely separate lives.’

  Sophie was starting to edge away, signalling her desire to leave.

  ‘I’m sorry to keep you, Miss Palmer, but there are a couple more questions I would like to ask.’

  “Yes?”

  ‘Why do you think Prince Al-Ajnabi chose you especially as the beneficiary of this educational bursary you mentioned?’

  Sophie looked aside at an inscription in the stonework on the outer wall and flicked a lock of hair self-consciously from her face.