by Rob Wyllie
That gave Jimmy his chance. He put on an extra spurt and a second later was within touching distance of the Mercedes, gambling on the fact that the driver would be too occupied by events playing out in front of him to glance in the rear-view mirror. Dropping to the ground he crawled along the pavement on his stomach, being careful to keep below the line of sight of the wing mirror, until he was alongside the rear kerbside door. And now everything depended on what the driver had done with his AK-47, because there would be only one chance to get this right. The odds must be at least fifty-fifty that it was just lying there on the passenger's seat. That was the obvious place to leave it. Time to find out if he was right. He started counting down to steady his nerves. Five-four-three-two-one. Reaching up, he grabbed the handle with his left hand, simultaneously pulling open the door as he slipped his right hand in to feel for the automatic. Too late, the driver realised what was happening, just as Jimmy snatched the butt-end of the weapon and wrenched it out of his grasp. In a microsecond he was on his feet, thrusting the barrel of the gun through the open door just as the driver tried to escape. In Helmand, he would have simply taken him out, leaving the awkward questions for later, but that was a long time ago. A different life, thank god. The terrorist was looking him straight in the eye, perfectly calm even though he must have supposed he was about to die. Jimmy had seen that so many times in Afghanistan, a faith so certain that death was not something to be feared. He waved his gun to indicate he should raise his hands.
'You'll need to wait a bit longer for your fifty virgins pal. Today's your lucky day, or maybe not.'
Ahead, the second gunman was just beginning to absorb what was happening. He stood motionless beside the delivery van, straddling the dead driver with his AK-47 held tightly across his chest, seemingly weighing up the options. Fight or flight, what was it to be? And then without a word, he climbed into the cab and raced off. Thank heavens for that. The last thing Jimmy wanted was a fire-fight on a sleepy suburban street.
Then he remembered Khan, slumped semi-conscious in the back seat after his brutal beating. 'Dr Khan, are you all right sir?' he shouted, not daring to take his eyes off his captive for a single second. 'My cousin, my cousin,' Khan moaned, 'they killed her.' Christ, he'd forgotten the shot. Who were these bastards and who was running them? Now at least they'd got one of them, and soon surely everything would fall into place. He tried to comfort him the best he could.
'Sir, the police will be here soon, and then everything will be ok.' And on that subject, where the hell were they? Because he was stuck here with his captive until they arrived.
'Dr Khan I presume?'
He heard Maggie's voice, a breath of wind brushing his cheek as the rear door was opened. 'I thought I told you to keep away.' But he was bloody pleased to see her.
'You looked like you needed some help mate,' she said wryly. 'You're not the man you used to be. '
'Yeah, thanks. Anyway how does Dr Khan look?'
'He looks like he's about to pass out. His face is a right mess too.'
At last the police squad had arrived, tumbling out of their vehicles and barking out terse instructions. Frank spotted Maggie at the Mercedes and ran over, giving a rueful shake of the head.
'Sorry we're a bit late. That commander needed to do his damned risk assessment before he would send in any of his precious officers. Anyway, there'll be an ambulance here in a minute I think.' Glancing at Khan he said, 'He looks in a bit of a bad way.'
'Excuse me Frank,' Jimmy said, forcing a smile, 'but never mind chatting up young Maggie here, could you slap some cuffs on this guy? Only if you can fit it into your busy schedule.'
'Any idea who he is?' Frank pulled the gunman's arms behind him and snapped the cuffs closed.
'No idea. He hasn't opened his mouth once. Looks middle-eastern but I can't tell.'
Frank beckoned to two armed officers. 'Over here boys, take this guy off my hands.' They led him away to the detention van, sullen and silent.
'Maybe they'll run three-point-four on him, that should tell us who he is.' Two female paramedics were now tending to Khan's wounds, offering soothing words as he winced with the pain of the stinging antiseptic. 'Soon have you in hospital sir, it's only five minutes away.'
'My cousin. What's happened to my cousin...'
'Shit,' said Jimmy, suddenly remembering. He took one of the paramedics to one side, speaking quietly. 'There was a shot. Inside. It might be pretty messy, I should warn you.'
'We've seen everything in this job sir,' she answered, taking no offence. 'But thanks.' She tapped her colleague on the arm and nodded towards the front door.
◆◆◆
Khan had been kept in the Royal Blackburn hospital overnight under heightened security and then flown by RAF helicopter down to Northolt air base, where he was questioned at length by DCI Jill Smart and a nameless officer from MI5. Later on Saturday, Khan's family had been driven up from Gloucester under police escort for an emotional reunion. Afterwards, it had been decided to keep them all on the base for a few days until the authorities could assure their immediate safety.
Now it was Monday morning, and Smart was making a rare visit back to Atlee House to brief the team. Not that she had found out much.
'He wouldn't say anything. He's absolutely beside himself with fear, mainly for his family it should be said. But also, despite everything that's happened he's still terrified that his secret will get out.'
'His family still don't know about the Cheltenham Spa incident then?' Maggie asked.
'Apparently not. And he wants to keep it that way.'
'What about the cousin?'
'She's going to be ok, thank goodness. She's got a pretty bad shoulder wound, but it's not life-threatening. That was a huge relief for Dr Kahn and his family as you can imagine. But he's very grateful for the part that you lot played in his rescue.'
'He kind of rescued himself,' Jimmy said. 'It was all down to his own three-point-four software, wasn't it?'
'There is something else,' Smart said. 'He wants to talk to you Maggie. Says he has some information that's for your ears only. They're all travelling back to Gloucester this afternoon but maybe you can get over there later this morning.'
Despite its use as a convenient arrival and departure point for royals and government ministers, the base was no oil-painting. Spread around the site were a hotchpotch of ancient buildings in various state of disrepair, most with the corrugated roofs and ugly metal-framed windows that dated them to the fifties or even earlier. An RAF policeman had driven Maggie from the entrance gatehouse to a block out near the perimeter, ushering her into a small meeting room then standing guard outside the door. The room was provided with a small formica-topped desk and two wooden chairs. Dr Tariq Khan sat at the desk tapping into a slim notebook computer, his head heavily bandaged and an extravagant purple-black bruise spreading from his left cheekbone to the eye-socket. He stood up to greet her.
'Mrs Brooks, we meet again. But my apologies, I'm told you are now Ms. Bainbridge.'
She smiled at him. 'Call me Maggie, please. How are you feeling after your ordeal?'
'I'm ok actually. It frightened my wife and kids when they saw my face but it looks a lot worse than it feels. Please sit down here beside me. I've got something to tell you. And to show you.'
He took a sip of water from a plastic cup. 'They never fully told me what it was all about you know. I knew they wanted to get her freed, but I never knew why. They just used my...my little indiscretion to force me into it. I had no choice, really I hadn't.' She wasn't sure if he was expecting forgiveness from her or not.
'Who were they Dr Khan? Who is it you are talking about?'
'Both of them. Saddleworth. And Brooks, who was your husband I believe.'
'And all of them now dead.'
'Exactly. So you can understand why I was so frightened.'
'I understand, totally. But you said you had something to tell me.'
'Yes. You see, they did talk of you
many times. Your role was clearly important, although I did not know how or why. I was hoping you might be able to tell me. All I knew was it was something to do with disclosure, they used that term a lot.'
Have you thought about disclosure? She remembered that phrase, casually dropped into conversation by Philip. So innocuous but setting off a chain of events that had devastated her life and taken that of her beautiful niece Daisy. And little Tom Swift and all the other tragic innocents. Christ, how she had been played. Totally played.
'I... I wasn't part of it. Not knowingly at least. We've both been used, haven't we? And yet we still don't know why.'
'That's what I wanted to show you Maggie,' he said quietly. 'I think I might have worked it out. In fact I know I have.'
She recognised the distinctive light-blue launch screen as soon as he started it up.
'We all love your three-point-four,' she said brightly. He gave her a faintly scornful look.
'Three-point-four was ok I suppose, but this is three-point-five. My latest version. A hundred times better. This takes family recognition technology to a whole new level. As you will see.'
'Awesome,' she said, without irony.
◆◆◆
It had been a complete foul-up, no-one could argue with that. That's why the distinguished member had insisted that they go to all the trouble and expense of using professionals, exactly to avoid this sort of occurrence. They should have killed Khan on the spot rather than dragging him off for a pointless interrogation. Now he would be guarded twenty-four-by-seven and they would never be able to get to him.
But on the other hand, think about it rationally. Even if Khan had told everything he knew, it wouldn't have mattered. Because really he knew nothing. He didn't know why he'd had to write that report or who was really behind it either. No, on reflection, they were still quite safe and he could concentrate on cementing his legacy. It was stupid really, because by the time they came to write the history books, you were long dead, too late for you to give a damn about what they said about you. But you did it anyway. They all did, all his predecessors. It was your legacy and it was important. And quite definitely, he was safe.
Except what he didn't know was that Maggie Bainbridge had worked it all out. Why it was done and how it was done and who did it. Everything. From start to finish. And now she was coming for him.
Chapter 32
It took them just eight minutes to make the journey from Atlee House to the Savoy, the path through the drizzly evening rush-hour eased by the flashing blue lights and penetrating siren of Frank's commandeered patrol car. As they screeched into the hotel's canopied drop-off zone, two armed officers bounded over, nervously pointing their automatics at the windscreen. Frank brandished his credit card-sized ID pass through his open window.
'Steady on pal, we're police.' One of the officers gestured with his gun. 'Ok sir could you just get out of the car, nice and slowly, and make sure I can see your hands at all times.'
'God's sake man.' It was frustrating, but he knew he would be doing exactly the same thing if he was in their position. Slowly, he opened the door of the BMW and slid out as gracefully as a man of his physique could manage.
'Look, here's my ID. DI Frank Stewart, Department 12B of the Met.'
The officer took the pass and examined it carefully, then looked up at Frank, still covering him with his automatic. Evidently he was satisfied that the photo was an adequate likeness.
'That looks in order sir, and are you able to vouch for the others in the motor car?'
'Aye, aye, they're pukka, no worries on that score. Now you guys need to come with me right now.'
The PC was uncertain whether to comply. 'But sir, we're under strict orders not to let anyone in.'
'We're not worried about people getting in now lads,' Frank replied. 'It's people getting out we need to worry about. Come on, move it!'
Now Jimmy and Maggie were by his side, and a moment later they were sprinting down a long plush-carpeted corridor towards the ballroom which was hosting the peace conference.
'You don't think they'll really try and make a break for it do you?' Maggie gasped.
'Not all of them, but we're only interested in one person, aren't we?'
As they expected, there was further armed presence outside the ballroom, two female officers stationed either side of the elaborately-panelled oak doors of the room. From inside they could just make out the muted tones of Prime Minister Julian Priest delivering his closing speech to the assembled media. 'A significant breakthrough'...'the dream of a Palestinian state within our grasp'. He could have written it before the conference was even arranged. He probably did.
Frank flashed his ID at the officers. 'Has anyone entered or left here since this session started?'
'No sir, not this way. There are four fire exits as well but they're all alarmed and guarded too. But Chief Super Clarke is in charge sir, she's inside at the moment, I can get her on the radio if you like.'
'No, I think we'll keep it low-key for now. We're just going to slip in at the back of the room, nice and quietly.' He gestured to Jimmy, Maggie and the police officers to follow, opening a door just wide enough for them to squeeze through. The room was packed to capacity with reporters, the TV journalists accompanied by camera and sound crews, all anxious to get a hearing when the session was opened up for questions. A few turned round to see what was happening at the back of the room, momentarily disconcerted by the arrival of yet more armed police. Julian Priest though was unmoved, continuing to deliver his speech from behind the official HM Government-crested podium which had been placed in the middle of the long table. Behind the table sat the key figures of the government's hopeful peace initiative. Maggie did a quick mental roll-call. Philomena Forbes-Brown, over-promoted to the Home Office after the murder of Gerrard Saddleworth, looking bored and disengaged, struggling to stifle a yawn. Robert Francis, the new Attorney General, appointed to sweep up the mess left over from the Alzahrani foul-up.
Then there was Lillian Cortes, the twenty-nine-year-old firebrand Democrat congresswoman and darling of America's emerging radical left, sitting alongside Otaga Mombassa, an obscure and very junior UN official from Nigeria. Both had been parachuted in in a desperate attempt to lend the conference a semblance of international credibility. To the left of Julian Priest, the beautiful Fadwa Ziadeh, and to his right, her son Mohammed.
And at that moment Maggie could see it, in crystal-clear high-definition, just as if she had been looking at a finely-realised family portrait painted by an old master. It didn't need the help of Dr Khan's super-sophisticated three-point-five software, because in the flesh, the resemblance was as striking as it was startling. Mohammed Ziadeh shared the delicate cheek bones and wide mouth and full lips of his mother, but there was no mistaking from whom he had inherited the piercing green eyes, close-set under a fine Roman forehead. It was from the man who a few seconds earlier had finished his speech and now sat alongside him. His father, Julian Priest. Now too, Maggie recognised what Khan's sophisticated algorithms, developed to be as reliable as DNA matching, had already unveiled. The sibling likeness was obvious and undeniable. Dena Alzahrani, the Hampstead bomber, the woman who had ruined her life and that of so many other innocents, was Mohammed Ziadeh's twin. Now the motive behind the whole ghastly conspiracy could be and would be revealed.
Slowly and purposefully, Maggie began walking towards the platform. 'Where is she Priest? Where is she? We know she's your daughter. So where have you hidden Dena?'
An audible gasp reverberated around the room as stunned media hacks struggled to process the accusation. There were murmurs of surprise as some recognised the interlocutor to be the notorious defence barrister from the Alzahrani trial. The BBC's sharp young political correspondent was the first to react, struggling to believe she was actually about to ask this crazy question.
'Is it true what Mrs Brooks says, Mr Priest. Is it true? Are you Dena Alzahrani's father?'
But it could not be deni
ed, for now everyone in the room could see it with their own eyes, and in the outside-broadcast control trucks, sharp-reacting producers were zooming in on the faces of Priest, Fadwa and Mohammed Ziadeh and piecing together collages that added the notorious image of Dena Alzahrani for the benefit of their millions of viewers. And he did not try to deny it. With a sudden surge of rage, he upended the table, sending water jugs, glasses, mobile phones and laptops flying in all directions, unleashing a maelstrom of confusion. Lillian Cortes was now in tears as her much-anticipated grandstanding event turned into a PR disaster. Otaga Mombassa had been joined by his burly private security detail and was remonstrating furiously with a stunned Forbes-Brown, sitting with her head in her hands. And there, centre-stage was the Right Honourable Julian Peregrine Priest, eighty-seventh Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, with his hands tightening around the throat of Maggie Brooks.
'You interfering bitch. I told Philip he should have dealt with you but he wouldn't because of that damned brat of yours. Well now I'm going to do the job for him.' She gripped his wrists in an effort to free herself but he was too powerful. The room began to spin and she realised that she was beginning to lose consciousness.
It took Jimmy only a fraction of a second to react. He bounded onto the stage and placed a crushing arm-lock around the throat of Priest, tightening it until he slumped back into his chair.