‘They won’t pad me down,’ Dion said certainly. ‘I’ve been to literally thousands of meetings over the years. I’ve never been searched. It just isn’t done.’
‘OK,’ Verhoeven said, as he focused everyone’s attention back on the map. ‘We carry our equipment into the hotel in suitcases. Nobody will bat an eyelid. We hang around at the bar while the meeting takes place and use toilet cubicles to discreetly unpack our equipment. When Tan Abdullah leaves the meeting, we ambush him here on the staircase as he heads back up to the eighth floor.
‘The major threat is to our recordings. When Tan finds out what’s going on, he’s going to send his bodyguards after us to grab tapes and memory cards.’
‘Will they have guns?’ one of the assistants asked.
‘No,’ Kyle said. ‘At least not unless they’re carrying them illegally. But they’re bloody enormous, so I wouldn’t tangle with them.’
James noticed a look of gleeful expectation on Bruce’s face.
‘The important thing is that whoever is carrying our recorded material gets out of the building as quickly as possible. I’m a doddery old fart, so don’t wait for me. Just get out of the building, run or jump in the first black cab you see and we all meet up back here.’
32. STING
Kyle pulled a cap down over his eyes as he stepped into the Leith Hotel holding an elaborately wrapped gift box. James and Bruce walked ahead as a policewoman standing by the lifts politely asked what they were doing in the hotel.
James wasn’t fazed. ‘We’re having a birthday lunch with our grandfather. We’re supposed to be meeting in a bar on the sixth floor. Has something happened?’
‘Heightened security for some VIPs staying upstairs,’ the officer explained. ‘No need to worry. You lads have an enjoyable lunch.’
‘We’ll try our best,’ James smiled, as Kyle thumbed the lift button.
Kyle warned Bruce as they cruised up to the sixth. ‘I’m out of CHERUB and James is counting the days, but you’re younger. Your career still has legs. You could get kicked out if anyone on campus finds out about this.’
‘You should stay in the background,’ James agreed.
But Bruce wasn’t having any of that. ‘Yeah right. I’ve come this far, you think I’m gonna back away from a punch-up?’
The bar and restaurant were as pimped up as the rest of the hotel. The floor was made from silver and gold mosaic tiles and the curved bar was glass so you could see the flickering legs of the black-uniformed barmaids standing behind it.
Hugh Verhoeven had put on a tweed jacket and carried a flat cap and a cane. He sat at a table near the bar, drinking a gin and tonic.
‘Happy birthday, Granddad,’ Kyle said, as he passed over the gift.
Verhoeven raised one eyebrow and smiled. ‘Why thank you grandson, whatever could it be?’
A waitress came to the table. Kyle ordered a bottle of Peroni, James and Bruce had to stick with Cokes.
‘This place reminds me of a whorehouse I visited during the Vietnam war,’ Verhoeven noted. ‘Though I expect the drinks are pricier up here.’
James grinned. ‘Is it me, or do a lot of your stories seem to involve brothels?’
Verhoeven’s pompous veneer had worn off as he’d got used to the boys and he roared with laughter. ‘I was always a gentleman,’ he said, wagging his finger. ‘But if you want to know the truth, you’re more likely to get it in a bar full of drunks than at a press conference inside the Hilton.’
Bruce seemed to have really taken to Verhoeven. ‘Journalism sounds pretty interesting. I could quite see myself as a war correspondent or something.’
As the waitress put drinks and a fresh bowl of nuts on the table, James looked around discreetly and noticed the three-strong camera team sitting in a booth a few tables away. Once the waitress was out of sight, Verhoeven opened his present.
The stiff-sided box contained a foam-topped wireless microphone, of the kind news reporters stick in people’s faces, and a short-range receiver that would pick up the audio signal from a bug under Dion Frei’s lapel.
Kyle glanced at his watch. ‘Shouldn’t be long now.’
*
Tan Abdullah slipped downstairs with a pair of bodyguards and would have got into the private dining-room unnoticed, but for the fact that people in the restaurant were specifically looking for him.
As well as the transmitting microphone in his lapel Dion Frei had a pinhead video camera recoding on to a memory card in the briefcase laid out on the large oval dining-table in front of him. He’d been in thousands of meetings like this, dozens with Tan Abdullah. He felt calm, but waiting around for twenty minutes is long enough for anyone to think dark thoughts and it was a relief to see his guest.
‘Good to see you, Dion,’ Tan said, as their handshake became a brief hug. ‘That’s a beautiful suit. You always manage to look younger than me.’
‘No wife and kids to stress me out and a good tailor,’ Dion laughed. ‘I gave my tailor’s card to your previous assistant when we met in Geneva. You should give them a call, I’m sure they’d send someone to the hotel. You’re five minutes from their place in Savile Row.’
‘I just might,’ Tan said. ‘June is not happy. There’s a bunch of protestors on to us. She got egged outside Elbridge’s and we think there’s a security leak so she can’t do any more shopping.’
‘Oh boy!’ Dion said jovially. ‘I’m glad I wasn’t within shrieking distance of that.’
Tan beamed with laughter. ‘Luckily I wasn’t either. I flew out with David Secombe. The army demonstrated a K61.’
‘Sweet missile!’ Dion said. ‘I heard they brought a bunch of USAF out to see it and it blew up in the launcher.’
‘I asked about that,’ Tan agreed. ‘They all went very quiet! So how are things at TSMF? I heard a lot of people got laid off, one of the production lines has been shuttered.’
Dion felt tense as he wondered if Tan had made some calls and found out that he’d been made redundant.
‘It was a bloodbath,’ Dion admitted. ‘Lost a lot of close colleagues when the French government bailed the company out. But I’ve been with TSMF twenty-seven years. Part of the furniture, I guess.’
‘Must have been hard,’ Tan said. ‘So why am I here anyway? Why are you tempting me with pictures of islands?’
‘Just a little something from the people of France, to tide you over when you retire from politics and go back to making real money.’
‘It won’t be long now,’ Tan nodded. ‘Our prime minister is currently about as popular as a turd in a bowl of punch.’
‘Fancy stealing his job as party leader?’
‘Too old, too ugly and too much dirt on my hands,’ Tan admitted. ‘I’ll retire from politics when he gets his arse kicked in September.’
‘Good to take it easy,’ Dion agreed, as he realised the value of having Tan slagging off his prime minister on tape and decided to fish for some more dirt. ‘So you don’t think he’ll win a third term in office?’
‘He’s lost all momentum,’ Tan explained. ‘Got no spine. Spends all his time looking at polls, but a leader should lead, not try to work out what the public wants. My oldest son is the governor of Langkawi now. In another ten years he could be Prime Minister.’
‘Good for business,’ Dion laughed, before he began spinning his elaborate lie. ‘As you know, TSMF couldn’t bid on the turbine contract for your eight new frigates because our large turbine production plant was working at full pelt making engines for states in the Gulf.’
Tan nodded. ‘There’s a real naval build-up around there. South-East Asia is the same. We’re all shit scared and want sabres to rattle at the Chinese.’
‘But the Saudis are having trouble getting their boats built on time,’ Dion continued. ‘They ordered engines for 2013 delivery, but now they don’t need them until three years after that. That leaves a hole in our production schedule big enough to build turbines for your frigates. We’ll price it three per cent be
low the British, and in consideration for your personal inconvenience, the French government is willing to let you have a ninety-nine-year lease on your favourite Pacific island for ten million euros.’
Tan smiled. ‘Ten is a good price!’
‘The lease is worth forty, at least,’ Dion said. ‘You could sell it on and make thirty million with no risk, or develop the island and make ten times that over the long term.’
‘But this is awful timing,’ Tan said. ‘The deal with London is ready to sign. I’m shaking hands and having my picture taken at Buckingham Palace tomorrow morning. The newspapers will be there. Five billion and twelve thousand British jobs.’
Dion shrugged. ‘You just need to throw a little spanner in the works. Be creative: some paperwork goes missing, one of your admirals gets cold feet, or get a lawyer to throw up some obscure query on the turbine contract. It’s only nine hundred million out of five and a half billion.
‘You can still get your picture taken with the Prince tomorrow, subject to a two-line get-out clause on the turbine contract. Then in a few weeks, you announce that there’s a rival bid from the French. You sign a deal with us for eight hundred and seventy million, and get your hands on that little island you’ve been hankering after for pennies.’
Tan sat back in his chair and thought things over for twenty seconds, before smiling. ‘I’ll need to move fast in order to pull this off, but you’ve certainly done your homework, Dion.’
‘So do we have a deal?’ Dion asked, as he stood up and offered his hand across the table.
Tan nodded slowly as he grabbed the hand. ‘Very much so, Mr Frei. I think we have an excellent deal.’
33. BOTHER
Hugh Verhoeven listened discreetly through an earpiece as Tan Abdullah and Dion Frei discussed the fictitious deal. He’d hoped to get a recording of Tan agreeing to accept a bribe, but to the experienced journalist the comments about the Malaysian prime minister were even more valuable.
Not only would the criticisms ensure that the story got huge media coverage in Malaysia, they also guaranteed that the most powerful man in the country would be going against his defence minister, rather than trying to cover his back.
But although the trickiest part of the sting operation had gone smoothly, they weren’t home and dry.
‘Take this,’ Hugh told James urgently, as he passed over the tape recorder. ‘Get in the lift and get it out of here. Kyle, meet Dion and run down the fire stairs with the briefcase. The audio recording isn’t great, so we need the recording in that briefcase if our story is going to be credible.’
‘What about me?’ Bruce asked.
‘You reckon you want to be a journalist,’ Hugh said. ‘So I guess you’d better stay here and see how it plays out.’
Dion and Tan were all smiles as they stepped out of the private dining-room. Hugh waited until Dion had taken a few steps into the restaurant before whipping out his microphone, and giving a hand signal.
The camera trio rose as one from the table: the curly-haired Frenchman with a large video camera and two female assistants. One carried a powerful video light, while the other held a small backup camera.
‘Mr Abdullah,’ Verhoeven shouted, as the short Malaysian headed towards the kitchen. ‘Would you mind if I asked a few questions?’
Tan flinched as the bright light shone in his eyes. The bodyguards were ready to pounce, but Tan was a politician and had to behave when a camera got pointed at him.
‘No interviews,’ he said politely. ‘Speak to my assistant. He’ll try to fit you into my schedule.’
Verhoeven ignored the brush-off. ‘Mr Abdullah, why did you accept the offer of a bribe from Dion Frei?’
Tan’s expression wilted momentarily, before he adopted an aggressive posture. ‘Who says that? This is ridiculous.’
‘Mr Abdullah,’ Verhoeven said politely. ‘Dion Frei was made redundant by TSMF eleven months ago. Your meeting was recorded. Would you care to elaborate on your comment that the Malaysian prime minister is about as popular as a turd in a bowl of punch?’
Tan realised he’d been had and turned anxiously towards his bodyguards. ‘Get their equipment,’ he shouted. ‘What you’re doing is illegal. You can’t record me. I have diplomatic status!’
Kyle had run down two storeys, but still heard the chaos as the bodyguards lunged towards Hugh Verhoeven and his camera.
‘Hope Verhoeven is OK,’ Dion told Kyle, already short of breath. ‘He’s a few decades past his prime.’
It was only at this point that Kyle realised something was missing. ‘Where’s your briefcase?’ he blurted.
Dion stopped dead and looked down, unable to believe that it wasn’t in either hand. ‘Merde!’
‘You leave,’ Kyle said firmly. ‘They haven’t seen me. I’ll sneak back and try getting it out of the dining-room.’
Upstairs Bruce cracked a smile as the two bodyguards lunged at the cameraman. They were the kind of large, slow-moving opponents that he loved to fight, but as he sprang forward to wedge himself between the camera crew and the two bodyguards, he tripped on a slightly raised section of floor and fell flat on his face.
As Kyle ran back on to the sixth floor he could hear more of Tan’s heavyweight bodyguards running down from the floor above.
Tan had retreated to his suite, but one of his bodyguards had grabbed the camera and was wrestling the cameraman and two female assistants. The other one had Hugh Verhoeven pinned against the wall and was screaming in his face.
‘Who put you up to this? Who the hell are you?’
Kyle couldn’t see Bruce amongst the jostling bodies. This was a surprise, but he gave it no thought because his priority was the briefcase. The doorway into the private dining-room was clear and he headed inside and felt some relief to see that it remained on the table where Dion had left it.
He thought about taking the briefcase outside into the restaurant, but with more of Tan’s bodyguards running down the stairs he didn’t want to be seen with it. Kyle grabbed the case and was relieved to find that the spring-loaded catches weren’t locked. He’d not seen this particular case, but it was a standard design and he’d encountered more advanced versions during CHERUB training.
After throwing out Dion’s Financial Times and a collection of classical music magazines, Kyle felt around the lining of the case until he discovered a hidden flap. This contained a slide-out panel with buttons to switch the camera on and off and more importantly an SD memory card slot.
Kyle popped out the card and tucked it into his jeans. As he closed the case, two of Tan’s huge bodyguards burst into the room.
‘What are you doing here?’ one of them demanded, as they each walked around one side of the oval dining-table. ‘What’s in that case?’
‘Have it,’ Kyle said, and slid the case across the table top.
He’d hoped that this would be enough, but he’d not had time to hide the control panel. The bodyguard took one look and realised what had happened.
‘The card,’ the bodyguard roared. He pounded on the table. ‘Play games with me and I’ll break your head.’
Kyle waited until the men got close before using a dining chair as a step up on to the table top. The bodyguards tried grabbing his legs, but Kyle sprinted the length of the table, leapt off and burst out through the door back into the restaurant.
The first thing Kyle saw was Bruce, standing three metres ahead of him. He had a cut on his forehead and looked dazed.
‘You OK mate?’ Kyle asked, in a state of alarm as he tried to imagine the magnitude of the bodyguard who’d apparently floored Bruce.
‘I tripped,’ Bruce said incredulously. He dabbed his middle finger against the blood running down his face. ‘Uneven floor! I should sue.’
Kyle rapidly appraised the situation. One bodyguard still had Hugh Verhoeven pinned to the wall, two had wrestled the cameraman to the ground and two more would be coming out of the dining-room behind him at any second.
Bruce had noticed t
hat the condiments and olive oil on each table rested in slots carved into narrow slate plinths. He swept the condiments away from the nearest table and picked up the slate baton as the two bodyguards burst out behind Kyle.
As Kyle launched a backwards kick, connecting with the lead bodyguard’s stomach, Bruce cracked the piece of slate over his head, knocking him cold. The second bodyguard stumbled over the legs of the first and hit the floor, making it easy for Bruce to snatch his wrist. He twisted the wrist until the bodyguard’s arm was tight then launched an almighty kick, which came with a sickening crunch sound effect.
‘I’ve got the memory card with the video on it,’ Kyle said. He looked down the corridor towards the kitchen and saw no sign of any more bodyguards. ‘We need to get it out of here.’
‘You go downstairs,’ Bruce said decisively. ‘I can handle this bit of bother.’
As Kyle ran back to the fire stairs, passing a couple of startled waitresses, Bruce grabbed a dining chair and ran towards the bodyguard who was holding on to Verhoeven.
‘You should respect the elderly,’ Bruce announced.
The bodyguard turned away from Verhoeven as he launched a kick at Bruce. Bruce easily dodged and the chair disintegrated as it hit the bodyguard over the back.
‘Stay down,’ Bruce ordered. ‘Or I’ll make you stay down.’
Not that the bodyguard was in any state to get up, with cracked ribs and the fingers of the hand he’d held out to defend himself pointing in directions they weren’t supposed to.
‘Bruce Norris, eh?’ Verhoeven said, looking a little winded. ‘I take it that name’s no coincidence?’
‘Get the lift,’ Bruce ordered, as he looked at the two bodyguards who now had the cameraman pinned to the floor. ‘These bodyguards are rubbish. I’ll just deal with those two and then we can all ride down together.’
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