October Song

by Ru Pringle

  ‘Sir Trevor. Here to gloat?’

  ‘I can’t imagine what you mean.’

  Yeah, whatever. He straightens, stretching his popping back. ‘Actually, I was hoping I might bump into you.’ Bolton-Clemens looks like he’s about to reply, but Sebastian goes on. ‘There’s news you should know about. Good news, for a change – quite exciting. We’ve reliable information that one of our field officers will arrive in Stornoway in the next few hours. With Coira Keir. I’m sure you’ll be as delighted about that as we are.’

  Sir Trevor looks blank for a few moments. Then he treats Sebastian to a smile that’s confined entirely to the lower half of his face. ‘In that case, I believe congratulations are in order. I do hope that you’ll take the utmost care when bringing her in. As they say, there’s many a slip between cup and lip.’

  Sebastian cheerfully claps his hands together. ‘You know what? That’s just what myself and Lorna Ainsworth were discussing recently. It’s why we took the unusual precaution of making the operation public. It’s going out live, on the ’net. Just in case of anything unforeseen. One of the team here’s a bit of a tech whizz – I believe she’s got this multiply redundant viral thing going, using third party servers so the video streams can’t be closed down. It’s clever stuff: all way over my head, if you want the truth. We’ve even invited news teams to be there for the handover – you should have seen their response to that opportunity! Live coverage of the capture of one of the Holyrood bombers?’ He snorts. ‘Grubby bastards were creaming themselves.’

  He looks for signs of a reaction, but Bolton-Clemens’ poker face is a good one.

  ‘Assistant Director Ainsworth is taking charge of the case from here, so you don’t have to worry. Apparently, a source is claiming a bunch of Wahhabi maniacs near London have a dirty bomb – I haven’t had the call yet, but it seems the kind of job I’m likely to be assigned. You know, after Kenneth McCoull’s suicide. Seemed a good idea to clear out of my hotel and pack the car.’

  Sebastian shoulders his bag. He casts a final look around the room that’s been pretty much his home for the past three weeks, tossing a casual salute at Scott Petrie, Carla Stout, Ina Tiles, James Fields and Andy Gupta as he turns to go. A good team, he thinks, give or take the odd mole. There’d be space for them in London.

  ‘Look,’ he says to Bolton-Clemens. ‘Walk me to the car, would you? There are a few things I’d like to talk with you about. Don’t worry – all off-record. Unless you’d like it on-record?’

  Sir Trevor looks both surprised and faintly amused at this suggestion. However, having briefly studied his ’phone, he does as asked, matching Sebastian’s steady march through the warren of corridors with a gangly lope.

  ‘Been a long few days,’ Sebastian observes, conversationally. ‘I’ll be honest: this case has proved more taxing than I expected.’

  ‘No more than most in your line of work, I imagine.’

  There’s truth in this, but Sebastian doesn’t respond. For several seconds there’s nothing but footsteps. ‘Marcellus Ungar was deployed by you,’ he says eventually. ‘Wasn’t he? Or at least, by your … associates.’

  Bolton-Clemens contrives to look puzzled. ‘I must apologise, Mr Blakeslee. This name means nothing to me.’

  No, he thinks. It probably doesn’t. You’re not the type to get your own hands dirty. ‘Then let me enlighten you. He was one of a team of mercs employed to intercept Keir. I believe you were involved.’

  There’s a silence while Bolton-Clemens seems to consider this. They reach the lift. Sebastian thumbs the down button.

  ‘Somehow, that sounds like a yes to me.’ The lift pings and the door glides open. Sebastian gestures the other man inside. ‘Sir Trevor. After you.’

  Bolton-Clemens hesitates, clearly not sure this is something he should be doing. Sebastian’s actually rather surprised he has the brass neck to be wandering around MI5 without an aide. Then the man’s innate sense of impunity gains the upper hand and he strides inside. Sebastian follows and thumbs the button, reflexively eyeing the bubble for the CCTV camera. The doors close.

  He waits until the lift begins to move, then hits the emergency stop.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Sir Trevor’s expression is somewhere between alarm and outrage. Sebastian lowers his bag by its strap to the floor, leans his back against the stainless steel wall, crosses his legs and folds his arms.

  ‘We’re going to have a frank discussion, you and I,’ he explains. ‘You see … there have been a lot of things about this case that haven’t made sense to me. I’m hoping you can help cast light on them. For my own peace of mind, of course. Seeing how this is off the record.’

  The peer’s eyebrows are infinitely indignant. ‘Somewhat late in your career to be focusing on such things, don’t think?’

  Sebastian ignores the barely disguised threat. ‘Let’s start with the first – and the biggest. The bomb. The IED. Coira and her cell had nothing to do with that. Did they?’

  ‘And what makes you say that?’

  ‘Oh, all kinds of things. Keir’s no saint. I think she and her buddies put Faulkner and Coombes in hospital, although what – or who – actually killed both of them once they were there is a bit of a moot point for now, wouldn’t you agree? But there were two bombs, weren’t there. One close-range, the other indiscriminate. This decorated police woman, a mass murderer?’ He shakes his head.

  ‘Then there’s motive. What would killing innocent bystanders have achieved? The conspirators were well-educated and smart. Enough to have known that while killing an unpopular – even loathed – politician will have won them friends, especially on the separatist side, slaughtering civilians could only turn public opinion against them.’

  He sighs.

  ‘Then there’s the flight pattern after the event. The conspirators didn’t expect the chaos and jammed streets that followed the bomb. What they expected was proportionate to, let’s say for argument, a smart, close-proximity anti-personnel device going off in a non-public area. An assassination. An armed response unit or two plus a couple of ambulances or helicopters for the casualties. They had every reason to expect this, because Keir herself was responsible for the response protocols.

  ‘There’s also the bomb itself. Forensics haven’t been able to trace a single nail. An almost impossible trick for the kind of small conspiracy this was to pull off. And anyway, Keir’s game was up the moment she left the scene – why take such pains to cover this part of their trail, when they were clearly expecting to be traced? Perhaps apart from McCoull, I think all of them planned to flee the country within hours. No – this was done by someone with resources. The kind of resources governments have.’

  Sir Trevor is regarding him blankly. ‘You are suggesting the involvement of His Majesty’s Government? A most serious allegation. What could possibly be the point in that?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I was wondering. But it’s pretty obvious really, when you put the bombing in its full context. Let’s see. If I were responsible for a state with an unpopular prime minister and a government I considered weak, facing scarcely containable civil unrest and an unexpectedly effective and well-armed separatist movement … How could I address all these problems at once? What I’d need is to unite everyone in a sense of moral outrage. And how best to do that?’

  ‘Something has me convinced that you’re about to tell me.’

  ‘Suppose you’ve become aware of a small group planning an assassination. Sure, you could arrest them all – but that would be a wasted opportunity, wouldn’t it? What if, instead … you nurture the group. Nudge them in the right directions. Perhaps – though I’m reaching here – even supply the right hardware? But then, at the same time, you’re planning your own bomb. A big, dirty, home-made-looking device with potential for high collateral. Outrage guaranteed. At a stroke you’ve martyred the troublesome PM, and galvanised public opinion against the separatists. />
  ‘But there’s a flaw in your plan, isn’t there? The forces of law and order react a little faster than you anticipate. Faced with capture, one of your dupes reacts unpredictably. Shows more nous than you gave her credit for. And by now, inconveniently, MI5 are hot on her trail, all fired up. So now you’re running out of options. You already know about her rendezvous, but for some reason – maybe it’s cloudy, so you can’t use the satellites to track her like you’d hoped – she doesn’t appear.

  ‘Did you have anything to do with bombing the marina at Craobh Haven, Sir Trevor?’

  A cold smile has been spreading across the peer’s face. He nods almost imperceptibly to himself, as though coming to a decision.

  ‘Derek Cottens was right about you,’ he says.

  ‘You know … Derek Cottens?’

  ‘Your Director General and I are old drinking buddies.’

  Christ. He’s actually enjoying this.

  ‘Very well.’ Bolton-Clemens puts his hands in his trouser pockets and leans against the lift’s opposite wall. ‘As you say, we were waiting for her to arrive. We had eyes on the smugglers and Keir’s contact, but something, we don’t know what exactly, seemed to have spooked them. The contact appeared to be fleeing to his boat. We were unsure whether Keir was on board or not, but her contact was a spy from the Hanseatic League. My own belief is that someone panicked in the operation’s chain of command, but – well. While the intervention was undoubtedly less subtle than it could have been, we could not afford witnesses, and we could not allow the man to leave.’

  ‘How did you know she was going to pass near Ungar? The merc with the kayak?’

  ‘We didn’t.’ Sebastian sees Bolton-Clemens realise, too late, the trap he’s just stepped in. ‘This man was one of thirty – assets, is that the correct term? – deployed at likely locations all along the coast. We always knew the Keir woman would aim for Craobh Haven. We were just uncertain how she would get there. The route she eventually took was not one we had considered very likely. Otherwise we might have had someone more capable on the job. If it hadn’t been for the police, and their damned roadblock, we’d have had all the loose ends neatly tied.’

  ‘And what about now? When our field officer brings her to Stornoway?’

  ‘If that happens, there’ll be an unfortunately-timed separatist attack.’

  ‘Really? Another one?’

  ‘Yes, most regrettable. This time, I believe they got their hands on some rather dreadful Russian missiles. I’ll deny everything, of course. And you’ll be arrested for treason. Within the hour, in fact. Something tells me you might not make it as far as detention. Alternatively, of course, there is always the possibility you might decide to … ah, “do the decent thing”, I believe was once the popular phrase.’

  Sebastian suppresses an involuntary shiver. ‘Ah. Yes, all very prudent. And Sinclair-Kohli? You got to him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Let us just say we aren’t expecting him to resurface any time soon.’

  ‘And McCoull?’

  ‘Secure prisons can be such depressing places when one has a guilty conscience.’

  Sebastian nods, seriously. ‘What about the mole? Care to tell me who it was?’ The man’s expression tells him pretty clearly that he doesn’t. ‘Was it Andrew Campbell? The Police Inspector?’

  ‘Really, Mister Blakeslee, you are clutching at straws. Besides, what makes you assume there was just one?’

  Ah. Out of nowhere comes a name. The indispensable James Fields.

  ‘You really have little idea what you have got yourself embroiled with, do you?’

  ‘Care to enlighten me?’

  ‘You have all you need to know.’

  Thought not. ‘Purely out of personal interest, Sir Trevor – well, obviously this is all purely for my interest, given my now apparently unavoidable fate. This group you represent, which I have to assume is now pretty much owns the civil service … Is it of any concern to you who is in power?’

  ‘One of our two political shades is less obstructive, let us say. But with regards to important matters, both can be encouraged towards the correct positions in the end.’

  Sebastian puts on a rueful expression. He studies his shoes. ‘Well, Sir Trevor. I must say I feel well and truly outflanked. It’s been …’ he puffs out his cheeks, ‘educational.’ He looks up. ‘In the end, I suppose it’s all about what’s best for Blighty, isn’t it? The battered old Union Jack. Speaking as someone who’s had to play hardball to that end a few times myself.’

  He adopts a wry grin. Extends his hand.

  ‘Well played, sir. No hard feelings.’

  Bolton-Clemens looks spectacularly doubtful. Sebastian thinks for a moment he’ll spurn the offer, but in the end cultural conditioning prevails and he grasps the proffered hand with the air of someone asked to touch a snake.

  Sebastian squeezes. Sir Trevor takes a little intake of breath. He examines the palm of his hand.

  ‘Blakeslee? What was that?’

  Sebastian is all innocence.

  ‘Damn it, man. I felt a prick.’

  ‘Wow. Tabloids would love that line.’

  The elderly civil servant is backing away, his slit-like eyes unaccustomedly wide. ‘Blast your eyes, I felt something! What have you done?’

  Sebastian is no longer concealing his glee. ‘And thanks for taking the handshake. I was going to clap you on the shoulder if I had to – even pin you down. You know – with an arm-lock?’ He mimes a demonstration. ‘But that would have been so much less satisfying.’

  ‘Make yourself clear, man!’

  ‘It’ll look like a heart attack.’ Sebastian holds up his hand. Waggles the ring on his third finger with his thumb. Closes the tiny hatch in it with his fingernail. ‘Old Russian trick.’

  ‘A hypodermic? You … fool. Do you really think forensics won’t be able to tell?’

  ‘We thought of that,’ he says, grinning as smugly as he knows how. ‘We’re clever that way. That’s why, along with the nearly untraceable toxin that’s going to kill you in, oh …’ he makes a show of studying his watch ‘… I’m guessing around twenty seconds from now, you’ve also been injected with one that’s a lot easier to spot, and isn’t fatal for around twenty hours. By coincidence – and here’s the bit I like best – twenty hours ago is when, I have it on good authority, you were …’ he licks his lips ‘“… athletically engaged”, I believe was the phrase popular in your day, with a lady less than a quarter your age, dressed as a nanny. Do you know, I believe she may even have been below the age of consent? Which is something I’m sure all the news blogs will find particularly interesting.’

  Sir Trevor is clutching his chest. His face looks a tad grey, Sebastian thinks. ‘Do you not realise who I am?’

  ‘Well, yeah. Duh! That’s kind of the point.’

  Sir Trevor sucks at his teeth. ‘I knew it. All along … you were just a mercenary. I was right from the start!’

  Sebastian shrugs. ‘I’d argue I’m quite a bit more than your average mercenary.’

  To the old man’s credit, he’s not taking this lying down. ‘Even before today … you were never going to leave this … miserable province alive. You can’t imagine you could ever get away … with this.’

  ‘Sorry, old boy. Already have. Needless to say, when the doors open they’ll find me in a state of some distress, doing CPR and everything. Though,’ he rubs his stubble, ‘maybe not mouth-to-mouth. And don’t worry: the CCTV in here is taken care of. The coroner, too. Oh, and thanks for the confession.’ He pulls his ’phone from his pocket. Shows Bolton-Clemens the recording icon.

  ‘That won’t work. I carry …’

  ‘A scrambler. Yes, I know.’

  Sebastian leans forward, so that their eyes are centimetres apart.

  ‘Like to think you’re the man, don’t you? You self-important, entitled prick.’ He draws back. ‘But you really are an amateur.’

  Sir Trevo
r’s knees are buckling. His eyes are bulging from his head and he’s started coughing. ‘What …?’ he manages. ‘What … government … are you working for?’

  Sebastian watches the old man crumple to the scuffed steel floor. He can’t even prop himself against the wall, though he’s trying. Grunting and ashen-faced, Bolton-Clemens keels slowly onto his side.

  Sebastian crouches and peers into his face. Pats him affably on the shoulder.

  ‘Government?’ he chuckles. ‘How quaint.’

  WHEN THE LIFT DOORS OPEN, people respond to the commotion by running towards the lift. They find Sebastian Blakeslee kneeling over the body of the permanent secretary for civil defence of the United Kingdom, pressing rhythmically at his chest and yelling for help at the top of his lungs.

  CHAPTER 68

  ______________

  Fade to Grey

  BY THE TIME ALISTAIR’S BOAT glides past the heathery headland marking the entrance to the channel, he has stopped moving.

  Coira sails onwards up the channel, still holding his hand.

  They are on a cruise together. A honeymoon cruise.

  She tells him of the places she had hoped to visit earlier in her life. Places she could still visit with him, somehow, on their boat. She describes to him what she sees around her. The seaweedy, barnacled skerries, some of them still harbouring seals that watch the boat slip near-silently past. The village of Leverburgh, looking much as she suspects it did when an English soap magnate built the place more than a century ago. The steeply rounded hills of Harris, aflame with orange autumn rushes in the dimming light as silk-purple clouds thicken from the south-west.

  All the things they’re leaving behind.

  The wind is rising as she exits the sound. She sets a course roughly north-west, to avoid the islands of St Kilda and an unnamed archipelago of smaller islands to the north. About an hour out into the Atlantic, she lets go of Alistair’s hand and ties off the tiller. Bows her head so that their foreheads touch.