Deadline

by Terence J. Quinn

  Initially, it had felt strange to be working again after so long. So much had happened in that time: Martin’s murder and her Rehab Island ordeal, and the long, hard period of mental and physical recovery, punctuated by her pregnancy. Then came motherhood and domestic bliss with Jonno and Percy. Along the way her bearings had come slightly loose and she felt she’d lost a small part of herself: she could no longer separate Annie Spencer from the wife and mother roles that had consumed her for so long. Just sitting in the NAL gave her a sense of purpose, a boost to her self-esteem. As if she were carving out a sliver of independence from the all-enveloping and occasionally overwhelming claustrophobia of home life.

  Today, however, she found it hard to get going on her memoir. Her mind was full of recent events, particularly the death of Princess Izzy and the jihadi threats. They reminded her of the deadly danger she and Jonno had faced while fleeing BangBang Budiman and his crew. At first, she’d wanted to wrap Percy up and take him straight back to Sydney until the dark Islamic clouds had blown over. But she had run away from Jonno once and wouldn’t do it again. That had been before she had discovered she was pregnant with Percy, before Maddy had patched her up and sent her back to him, the baby growing inside her. And here we are again. Another baby. It wasn’t official – no tests, no examination. But the signs were there. And she just knew. The result of their glorious reunion when she’d arrived in London. Jonno didn’t know yet. She was saving the good news for his birthday in a few days’ time. His fortieth, no less. They hadn’t been out much because of his obsession with work but she’d make sure they’d celebrate this milestone in style.

  Thinking of the threats reminded her of the men she’d seen in the vehicle parked outside their apartment on two successive mornings. Today, the SUV’s window had been open a few inches as she walked past, feeling their eyes on her. A thin trail of cigarette smoke had emerged from the crack before scattering in the breeze. She’d made out the top of the driver’s head: the close-cropped hair, scarred forehead and cynical eyes.

  Annie shivered. You’re just being paranoid, she told herself. Just because Jonno had warned her to keep an eye out for anything suspicious didn’t mean there were terrorists lurking behind every lamppost. Pull yourself together, girl!

  She opened her laptop and started typing: ‘The Lady Vesper was moored behind Nine Island, less than a kilometre from the busy shipping lanes of the Malacca Strait …’

  51

  PERCY’S CHEEKS were flushed from a mix of bitter cold and sheer excitement. Posh pushed him higher on the swing, his little legs wriggling with pleasure through the holes in the plastic bucket seat.

  She brought him to the adventure playground in Holland Park most days, weather permitting. Percy was too young to go on many of the climbing structures or the giant see-saw, but there was still plenty for him to do in the safe, fenced area. She looked around at the beautiful green expanse, marvelling that they were in the centre of London. She couldn’t wait until spring when the slush was gone and the trees and shrubs were in full bloom. And it wasn’t so bloody cold!

  The last few weeks had been awesome. She’d never been overseas before. And now here she was in one of the world’s greatest capital cities. It made Sydney seem like a small village. She’d screamed with excitement when Annie had asked her if she’d like to come.

  True, she hadn’t made any friends here yet. She’d exchanged a few words with a couple of foreign-looking girls pushing prams in the park who looked like they were also nannies. And there was the boy she’d seen in the local bottle shop – or off-licence as the Poms called it. He’d smiled at her when she’d gone in for ciggies and a can of Bundy and Coke. The Blighs frowned on her nicotine habit but she never smoked around Percy and only occasionally in the flat when they were both out and Percy was having a nap. She’d open the big sash window in her bedroom and blow the smoke out into the chill breeze. She wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise her job. She adored the little boy, and she loved working for Annie. As for Jonno, he could be a bit reserved at times but seemed kind and compassionate, a different species to the men she’d grown up around. It was just a pity he and Annie were having a few rows. That had never happened back in Sydney. Must be that job of his. The bloke never stopped working, even when he was at home.

  Her mind drifted back to the lad in the bottle shop. He was Asian – Indian or Pakistani, she thought. A little badge on his shirt said his name was ‘Azim’. Probably short for ‘Amazing’! She laughed to herself. And that smile! Especially when it’s directed at me, she thought with a little leap of her heart. Maybe I should take the initiative and ask him out? What have I got to lose? Aged 19, Posh had never had a real boyfriend before. Too busy with her job and her horses. And she knew her fierce appearance put some people off. But that was deliberate. Her ring of steel. It wasn’t only Annie who had been abused by men.

  ‘Azim,’ she said aloud, liking its foreignness. The name reminded her of a fairy story she told Percy at bedtime. It amused her that Jonno had his knickers in a twist right now about this jihadi stuff. He’d made her put both his number and the number of the local police station in her phone. In case of emergencies, he’d said.

  Her reverie was interrupted by Percy, who had started crying. His dummy had fallen on the ground. As she bent to pick it up, she noticed two men sitting on a park bench just outside the playpark area. They were staring in her direction. She didn’t like the look of them. Bulky guys in dark clothing. One was wearing a hoodie and the other a wool beanie. From that distance, they looked similar. Like brothers.

  She transferred Percy from the swing to his stroller and gave him a yogurt pouch to keep him quiet. Time to go home anyway. He was due a nap. Besides, she was thirsty. Since coming to England, she had become, to her surprise, a tea addict and right now her mouth was ‘as dry as a dead dingo’s donger’, as her old man used to say before he went on the piss and everything would kick off. She shuddered at the memory.

  ‘Come on, Perce. Let’s get you home.’ Posh strapped him into his stroller and set off through the adventure park gate. The path back to Kensington High Street meant they had to go past the two men who had been watching them. One of them stood up. Her hand went to her pocket where her cell phone was. It was involuntary, but somehow the feel of the phone was comforting.

  The man walked right up to her. Stood so close she had to stop pushing the stroller. So close, Posh could see his raspy stubble and the coarse, open pores on his weathered skin. A faded spider-web tattoo spread from his collar to the tip of his ear. Up close, he looked even more sinister than before. Alarm bells rang in Posh’s head.

  The man waggled a cigarette in her face. ‘Have you got a light, miss?’

  She tried to push on but the second man had stretched out one leg in front of the stroller’s wheels to stop it moving. Posh looked around but it was a late winter’s afternoon and there weren’t many people about.

  ‘No, I don’t smoke,’ she lied.

  ‘A pity,’ the man said, then crushed the cigarette in his hand and dropped it on the path. Posh noticed that his accent was similar to that of one of the other nannies. Eastern European, she remembered.

  ‘Look, I have to go. People are expecting me.’

  ‘The Blighs, you mean?’

  Posh was confused. How did he know that? She tried to push past again but he stopped her. ‘Your employer has been upsetting people.’ The man stooped down and took Percy’s chin in his great paw. There were more tattoos on his knuckles. ‘You should tell him that he really needs to think where his priorities lie.’

  Percy began to bawl.

  Posh pulled her phone out and attempted to dial 999 but she was shaking and her fingers were cold so the device fell from her grip. The man caught it like a wicket-keeper before it hit the icy ground. He looked at the screen.

  ‘The police? No, no, Miss Nanny. I don’t think so.’ He looked straight at her with a menacing smile as he flung it over his shoulder into some snow-covered
bushes. Then he took hold of her nose ring and pulled her face close to his. He stared deep into her eyes, his smoky breath warm on her cold cheeks. Posh could still hear Percy screaming the place down.

  ‘Tell Bligh he needs to stop. For all your sakes.’ And with that, he kissed her full on the lips before laughing and walking away with the other man.

  * * *

  Neville used all his ex-cabbie tricks to get me home in double-quick time. Annie and Posh were in the kitchen when I walked in, their arms around each other. Their faces had traces of tears when I walked in but both seemed eerily calm.

  ‘Where’s Percy?’ I asked.

  ‘Having his nap,’ Annie said.

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Yes, but no thanks to you.’ She looked at me with a mix of fear and resentment.

  ‘He was upset when the man touched him but he’s okay now,’ Posh added.

  ‘Touched him how?’ I was feeling homicidal.

  Posh gave me a run-down of what had happened. I could see that she was at the end of her tether, her face strained and still puffy from crying, her hands shaking as they held some balled-up tissues. But I had questions I needed answering.

  ‘Can you tell me what they looked like?’ I asked.

  ‘Both big, beefy blokes. Seemed, I don’t know, like military or something.’

  ‘Could they have been members of the martyrs group I told you about?’

  ‘What, like Asians or Arabs?’

  I nodded.

  ‘No, they were definitely white. Foreign though. I think they could have been Eastern European.’

  ‘I may have seen them too,’ Annie said quietly.

  ‘How? Where?’

  ‘Outside the apartment. In a big SUV. A couple of times I noticed them parked there when I was on my way to the library. You told me to look out for anything unusual. They could well be the men that accosted Posh.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Annie, why the hell didn’t you mention it before?’

  ‘Because they weren’t Middle Eastern. You said –’

  ‘I know what I said,’ I shouted. ‘But you should have said something.’ My mind raced. If they weren’t jihadis, why were they threatening my family? Two men. Possibly East European. Who? What? Why? A thought occurred to me.

  ‘Posh, tell me again, what the main guy said to you.’

  ‘He said that you needed to behave yourself and do as you’re told.’

  Ah, shit … bloody Bolshakov.

  52

  SHIV TEXTED me to say she was on her way back from seeing Marcus Devereux at his Whitehall office: ‘Gr8 stuff. U wont believe it!’ I smiled at the veteran reporter’s enthusiasm and told Mrs H to take an early lunch, switch the office phones off and lock the door behind her. I didn’t want any interruptions once Shiv got here.

  I sat in silence contemplating the terrible implications of the incident in the park the previous afternoon with Posh and Percy. It had put an intolerable burden on my shoulders. I felt guilty that my actions were putting my wife and son in danger, but also incandescent with rage. I took some slight solace in imagining what I would do to those two men if I ever came across them.

  There was no obvious way of proving the oligarch was behind the threat but, deep down, I knew it was him. It was dramatic proof that the Russian would stop at nothing to achieve his objectives in regard to European Union sanctions. The threat was clear: obey my demands or your wife and child will pay the price. Annie was equally clear that I should play ball. Her words had haunted me throughout a sleepless night. ‘Don’t do it for my sake, Jonno. Do it to protect Percy.’

  I’d wanted to put them both on a plane back to Sydney but Annie would have none of it, not unless I went too. ‘I’m not leaving you here. We’ve been through so much together, now is not the time for me to cut and run.’

  That left me with a huge dilemma. Either do what Bolshy wanted or find a way to stop him dead in his tracks. I could only pray that Shiv might provide the means to do that.

  The reporter looked flushed when she came in and sat down. She did not appear triumphant. If anything, Shiv had a shocked, deflated air about her, as if she had just been told she had a terminal illness.

  ‘God, I need a drink,’ she said as she unwrapped the long scarf that was coiled around her neck like a giant anaconda. ‘Make it a large one. And you look as if you could use one too.’

  I made her a vodka tonic, not sparing the Smirnoff.

  She slugged back half of it in one gulp. ‘Jeez, that’s better.’ She wiped her lips and picked up her notebook. ‘Jonno, this is some serious shit. If just half of it is true, Marvell is toast. In fact, he’ll be lucky if he doesn’t end up in jail or hanged for treason. That snake Devereux doesn’t even know everything that went on but what he does know scares the shit out of me.’

  I felt a sudden chill as if the windows had just blown open and the wintry wind had swept in. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as our Marcus was the one who introduced Marvell to the Russians in the first place. He had been in international banking before going into politics, knew a few of the players on the world stage. At that time Marvell was jockeying to become the party’s leader and Devereux was his PPS.’

  ‘In other words, his bagman?’ I said. A parliamentary private secretary was like a witch’s cat that helped its owner practise the black arts.

  ‘Precisely. Devereux was ambitious even back then. He would have done anything to get his snout ahead. The slimy sod claims, of course, that he only put his master in touch with his Russian contact but had nothing to do with what happened next. God, I’d like to be that dirty bastard’s dominatrix for five minutes – I’d beat the shit out of him!’

  My mind boggled at the thought of Shiv in S&M gear. ‘The Russian contact being Varvara Moroshkin?’

  ‘The one and the same.’ There was a pause as Shiv held up her empty vodka glass and waggled it. I went back to my office mini bar and poured a refill. What the hell, I thought, and poured myself a stiff whisky. I had no doubt I was going to need it.

  Shiv then gave me the gist of her interview with Devereux: how Marvell had come to him in a panic at the time, fearful that his family firm was about to go under; how her Yorkshire friend’s revelation that the British banks had refused to help bail out MMI had been correct.

  ‘That knowledge cost Barbara Scaife her life,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right. It all began when Marvell was shadow chancellor, before he became leader of the party. The company was deep in the red and had a bad smell about it. No one wanted to touch it, despite James Marvell’s own decent reputation. They were forced to look elsewhere for help. Then along comes Mrs Bolshy with easy terms.’

  We were both silent then for a few moments as we thought through the implications of that.

  ‘So, it’s a simple case of “I scratch your back, you scratch mine”?’ I said eventually.

  Shiv nodded. ‘But how could Marvell have been so stupid? I mean … he must have known there might be a higher price to pay than mere interest. He can’t have been that naïve. He’s now the bloody Prime Minister, for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘Incredible. But we know he was bloody desperate. The business that had been in his family for generations was about to fall on its arse, with his parents and siblings set to lose everything. And it would’ve been political suicide: how could he be trusted to manage the country’s finances if he couldn’t look after his own?’

  ‘So, what’s this thing we’re looking at? Is it fraud, financial malfeasance? Treason? Jesus!’ Shiv was sitting forward in her seat, her eyes popping as she tried to imagine the magnitude of what we had uncovered.

  I went over to my computer to look up ‘treason’ on Wikipedia. ‘It says here, and I paraphrase, that a person commits treason “if he gives aid or comfort to enemies of the sovereign”.’

  ‘Sounds a bit vague. Anyway, Marvell doesn’t appear to have actually committed a crime yet. As Devereux pointed out – he’s only thinking
about it.’

  ‘Under pressure from Bolshakov,’ I said. ‘And who knows what he might have done before now. We’ve got to assume the Russians have already carved out a few pounds of flesh from Marvell before this sanctions business.

  ‘That reminds me … Devereux told me that the pressure is really coming from Bolshakov senior. Our friendly neighbourhood oligarch is just doing his father’s bidding to stop the EU and US sanctions by any and all means.’

  ‘Wait, didn’t you tell me before that daddy was close to the Soviet president?’

  ‘As close as two coats of paint. They were fellow assassins back in the good old, bad old days of the KGB.’

  ‘But that’s the real story right there! The head of one country blackmailing the head of another country. That’s unbelievable!’ I was getting more and more excited as we teased out the story; Shiv and I spent some time going through its ramifications. ‘So, what do you reckon is going to happen? Did “whipping boy” have a view?’

  ‘Ha! Devereux says that the PM has been in a blue funk for weeks. Apparently, he was expecting UK Today to ride to his rescue with support for dropping the sanctions. Devereux said the PM would have used that as an excuse in his party room for softening their line.’

  ‘Yeah, Bolshy would’ve told him that we were going to run a campaign.’

  ‘Fuck me, no wonder he was mightily pissed when you fired Bill Todd.’

  ‘What do you reckon about Devereux … do you believe him? What he’s telling us?’

  ‘I believe he’s giving us enough to get himself off the hook. He’s fighting for his own life, remember? Thanks to Lord Payne and his dirty dungeon, Devereux has already entered the valley of the shadow of political death. This is his way out.’

  ‘Even if it brings down his own government?’