by Merle Nygate
‘Have a sausage roll?’ Sandie thrust a paper plate of pastry and what looked like sausage at Petra. ‘They’re going fast so I thought I’d better save you a couple.’
‘Thanks.’
‘How’s the teaching job going?’ Sandie was swaying from side to side in time to the music. ‘I must come and visit you while you’re there. Where is it exactly?’
‘That would be great,’ Petra slid away from the question. ‘I’d love that. How are Kurtz and Rollo? I must come and see them before I go back.’
‘They’re both well. I was worried about Kurtz but I’ve got this new vet and we’ve made some changes to his diet,’ Sandie looked abashed. ‘They may only be rabbits – ’
‘Rabbits?’ A voice interrupted the women. ‘Are you ladies talking about rabbits?’
Petra turned and saw Bob the neighbour at her elbow with a small boy in tow.
‘Hi Bob, and who is this young man?’ Sandie said.
‘This, ladies, is my grandson, Callum,’ Bob said with rooster pride. ‘Callum this is Sandie and Petra, what do you say?’
‘How do you do?’ the toddler said.
‘It kills me,’ Bob said. ‘It totally kills me. Probably hasn’t learnt to read a word at that fancy prep school he goes to but when he opens his mouth he sounds like the royal family.’
Petra said to the wide-eyed boy. ‘How do you do Callum? It’s very nice to meet you.’
The boy smiled shyly.
‘He’s down for the weekend,’ Bob said. ‘And he wanted to meet the lady with the rabbits.’
Sandie took her cue, ‘Would you like to come and see my rabbits, Callum?’
The kid looked up at Bob, who nodded. ‘And if you’re good, Sandie might let you feed them some carrot.’
Petra watched Bob’s face as Sandie and Callum disappeared towards her cottage. The craggy features of the older man softened as he watched his grandson’s stumbling gait.
On the mini-roundabout the band launched into an enthusiastic cover of ‘Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now’; two middle-aged women started to jig around, glasses held aloft, sadly shimmying under grey summer clouds.
‘How’s business?’ Petra said to get Bob pre-empting questions.
‘Ticking over.’
A small-scale property developer he bought one property at a time, renovated it and sold. It seemed as if the whole purpose for him was the chance to do battle with the planning authorities, contractors and estate agents and Bob was always ready to talk about how he knew best.
His latest deal was in Tilton, a nearby village; the flat was empty, but Bob couldn’t and wouldn’t start the work until the plans had been signed off by the council.
‘I know better than that; if I do, then they’ll have me over a barrel,’ Bob said. ‘I reckon they do it deliberately, they haven’t got anything better to think about down at the town hall.’
Petra felt her phone vibrate and answered the undisclosed number, ‘Matt, where are you?’
‘Who’s Matt? Should I be jealous?’ It was Rafi on the phone.
‘No. What do you want?’
Aware that Bob was listening Petra moved away.
‘We need you back at the school. That relative of our friend may be visiting sooner rather than later. Can you get back first thing tomorrow?’
‘It’s not great,’ Petra said. ‘Okay, I’ll think of something.’
Petra ended the call and pocketed the phone. Bob’s eyebrows were raised so Petra glanced down at her watch and she looked over Bob’s shoulder giving as clear an indication as possible that the conversation was over; she was looking for someone else to talk to. That’s when she saw Sandie. Stumbling, red-faced. She was carrying Bob’s grandson. The kid’s face was blue. Petra sprinted towards Sandie.
‘I tried to... I tried to...’ Sandie said breathlessly. ‘He’s choking.’
‘Give him to me. And call an ambulance.’
The boy was limp in Petra’s arms. Being as gentle as possible she knelt down behind him and placed her arms under his. With one fist she felt for the space between ribs and naval. His blue tee shirt was damp and his hair was brushing her chin. This was the key moment. She needed to find the right spot otherwise she might damage his ribs or, worse, press down on his heart. Meanwhile Bob had rumbled up; he loured over Petra red-faced and terrified. By his side, Sandie stood ringing her hands.
‘Okay Callum,’ Petra said making her voice calmer than she felt.
With her arms looped under the kid’s armpits and around his small body, Petra grasped her fist with her other hand and took a deep breath before she pulled sharply inwards. Once. Nothing. Twice. Three times. The sweat poured down her arms and face. She didn’t dare look up at Bob. Four times. One last pull and the kid coughed. A lump of carrot came out of his mouth along with stomach bile over his tee shirt and Petra’s hands.
‘Okay, love, you’re all right,’ she said. He breathed in deeply, a rasping breath.
‘Sandie, call a bloody ambulance, will you?’
‘Callum, boy, my boy,’ Bob was trembling as he struggled to kneel down and take the boy in his arms. The party around them had stopped, only the band continued unaware of the drama that was being played out.
‘He’s okay,’ Petra said, suddenly choked up herself, her face still in the boy’s hair. Calming herself she looked up, cleared her throat to swallow the emotion, ‘He’s okay, Bob, but it’s important he’s checked over.’
Bob garbled. ‘Thank you, thank you.’ Tears coursed down his face.
‘It’s just first aid, Bob. Anybody who’s done a basic course would know what to do. When the ambulance gets here they’ll check Callum’s heart function and then you can forget about it and tell him to chew in future.’
‘I owe you,’ Bob said. ‘Just remember that, I mean it.’
Petra gently nudged Bob and Callum towards a tree in the shade and waited with them until the green-clad paramedics bundled out of the ambulance. The kid had just disappeared into the ambulance for the heart function tests when she was conscious of someone at her elbow and turned.
‘That was well done,’ Matt said. He was wearing a crumpled grey suit and the pale blue shirt made him look more tanned. ‘I got here just as you were doing the abdomen thrusts. I watched you. Perfect position, rhythm and from what I could see pressure. You’re a helluva girl, Petra, but now, I think you deserve a drink.’
Matt hung his crumpled jacket on the branch of a tree and rolled up his sleeves. After downing a beer, he led Petra out on to the dance area in front of the band. Dancing with energy if not grace Matt moved around the circle of shy onlookers dragging them on to the makeshift dance floor until the road echoed to a roar as all ages belted out the chorus to ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ arms raised, fists clenched. Beneath the sweat, the laughter, the matey claps on the back, Petra sensed his need to slough off whatever he’d seen and whatever he’d done when he was away.
When it was dark they slunk off back to her cottage without saying goodbye to anyone and walked side by side, good companions, along the quiet street.
‘Do you ever wonder what’s the point of it all?’ Matt slipped his arm around her and squeezed her waist; she smelt the beer on him.
‘Make the world a better place?’
‘Well, it’s not working is it?’
‘We’ve still got to try,’ Petra said.
They were at her door and while she shuffled in her bag looking for the key she was aware that even drunk, Matt was checking her house for signs of a clandestine entry. She let him in first and while he checked all the rooms she put the kettle on.
Matt made love like he danced. With energy but not much grace. Yet it was good; he hugged her like a bear with a cub and when he went to sleep she stroked a strand of fair hair off his forehead. After watching him for a while she left him to snore and went into the spare room to slip between cool sheets where she could think about the job ahead and how trying was the point of it all. That’s why she was doing i
t. If she saved one life then it would be worth it; she would have done something that would have made her father proud.
Lying awake, listening to Matt snore through the thin walls of the cottage, Petra visualised the contents of her workbag that was now packed and positioned by the front door so she could steal out without waking Matt. Inside the bag was some tech she’d taken out of her safe; it was good to be prepared for any eventuality and with the knowledge that Sahar’s brother might be visiting, it seemed a sound precaution.
Petra’s safe was a concealed compartment within a shelf in her wardrobe; building and painting the chipboard design had taken an entire weekend. But Petra was proud of her work; she was confident that a team would have little chance of finding the safe because it was bespoke; the design wouldn’t be in anybody’s manual. The wardrobe width compartment was big enough for cash, papers, a spare passport, sim cards, two spare phones and tracking devices, several of which were concealed in Shakespeare commemorative coins.
These coins were now in Petra’s work bag; they might come in useful. Or not. Meanwhile, she needed to grab a couple of hours sleep before driving to Oxford. As Petra closed her eyes, she felt a sense of relief that she wouldn’t have to lie to Matt about where she was going at 2am because she wouldn’t be there when he woke up.
Petra turned over, pummelled the pillow into a more comfortable shape. She liked the relationship, the sense of detachment and respect. Why did it have to be any more than that? She didn’t want to be dependent on a man and she didn’t want a man to be dependent on her. It would be like a claw tearing at her equanimity; her sense of self. That’s why she never shared a bed with Matt; sex was one thing but spooning, love whispers, stupid names and the besotted clutching of lovers seeking solace and intimacy to stave away fears of uncertain future was quite another.
Rolling on her back Petra glanced at her watch. She really needed to get some sleep and now wasn’t the time to think about Matt; it was the time to work out what she’d do if the brother appeared. First impressions of Sahar were of a petite young woman with wiry dark hair and worried eyes. Sahar seemed anxious to please which ought to make manipulating her easier. But becoming a trusted mentor took time and the brother might be on his way.
Shifting on the bed once again, Petra thought about Bob’s grandchild and the moment when she’d held the child safe and secure, smelt his hair, felt his heart beating and wanted to weep. Yes, she’d wanted to weep.
Her reaction disturbed her.
27
Pall Mall, London – The Next Day
On the way to The Travellers Club Eli broke protocol and discussed business on the street. Once again, he broached the subject of Red Cap’s retirement; and, once again, Yuval was intransigent. The problem, the unsolvable problem, was success. As Yuval put it, not only was Red Cap’s American product valuable but the prospect of any intelligence about the Qatari RAT was too good to miss. Thanks to Eli’s handling, the agent was finally under control; it would be like cutting your dick off before a sure thing.
‘He’s not stable,’ Eli insisted. They were walking down from Piccadilly towards Pall Mall, dodging the tourists with cameras and the scurrying people on the pavement. ‘I can’t be sure what he’s going to do and the pressure from his wife is making him unpredictable.’
‘You need to run him at the very least until we finish Sweetbait and the British give us their raw data from the RAT; in the meantime, we cannot afford him breaking down, getting caught or making some scene that may implicate us. After Sweetbait it will be a different story; our relationship with the British will be secured because we saved them from an attack and we’ll be able to ride out the storm if he does expose us.’
Yuval touched Eli’s elbow pausing him in his stride. ‘We’re talking weeks, Eli, a month at most. That’s all. You can manage that. If anyone can, anybody in the whole organisation can, you can.’
Eli said nothing.
They were standing by the side of the road waiting for the lights to change.
‘Eli, the situation is like this: you keep Red Cap active; we work Sweetbait. And you get London station. You know that don’t you?’
‘You’ll back that all the way to the top? I know I’m not the popular choice.’
‘I’ve already put it forward and discussed it with Menume, the big boss.’
The green man icon flashed and a woman struggled across the road with a wheelchair that carried an old lady. Eli assisted her to get back on the pavement.
‘Thank you,’ the woman said. ‘It’s very kind of you.’
‘My pleasure,’ Eli said and turned back to Yuval who was looking at him with a bemused expression.
‘Why did you do that?’
‘I don’t know. It’s something Red Cap said to me about doing right. Come on, let’s go,’ Eli said to Yuval. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
Ten minutes later Eli, Yuval and MI6’s Milne were sitting in the library at The Travellers Club. Whether by design or coincidence, the room was deserted. The three men sat on leather seats around a low table that seemed to have been created for low conversations, although there could be little doubt that the conversation was being recorded. On the wall by the leather bound books, Eli noted the white humidity monitor fixed to the oak panelling. If that’s what it was.
Gathering intelligence through such devices as the monitor and analysing it were two entirely different disciplines. It was like a car and gasoline; one was no good without the other. That was one of the great Friday morning meeting conversations back home; the out-of-hours chat about the problem of too much intelligence product and not enough analysis; or not enough intelligence and too much analysis. It was one of the challenges of the business.
Eli thought it would be interesting to share views on this subject with Milne and Pen. Indeed, if all went well and Eli became head of London station the intelligence/analysis conundrum might well be one of the conversations they would share, perhaps over a sandwich lunch at the ‘Wedding Cake’ at Vauxhall, perhaps over pink gins, perhaps even at Lord’s or the Proms or the Royal Academy summer exhibition – when Eli got to be head of London station. Because Eli genuinely liked and respected Milne even while he was planning to deceive him.
Eli shifted in his seat, consciously positioning himself to have open body language. He was tickled to see Milne mirror his position. That movement was a little too fast. He should have waited, made it look more natural. Milne seemed uneasy.
‘No Pen?’ Eli said after the refreshments had been provided.
‘No Pen,’ Milne said. ‘He’s gone home.’
‘Gone home or been sent home?’ Yuval said.
Milne’s mouth twitched, ‘I don’t think there’s very much difference, do you?’
‘That rather depends on the circumstances,’ Eli said. ‘Was it the end of his term?’
Milne pushed the coffee away from him as if he didn’t like the taste. Or maybe he just didn’t like the company. After a pause he said, ‘Things are in a state of flux at Langley at the moment and no one knows what’s going to happen next. The last time I saw Pen he was talking about the great purge.’
‘That bad?’ Eli said.
Milne nodded, ‘It wouldn’t be the first time there’s been a cull in the Company. I will, of course, send feedback directly through our Washington liaison but for the moment we’re waiting to see who they will send in Pen’s place.’
‘Understood,’ Eli said starting to get to his feet, ‘In that case would you like to reschedule for when we have a replacement for Pen? Because I can’t see you being able to authorise access to raw data we believe you’re collecting from the Qatar Embassy in the UK without US agreement. Or am I wrong?’
‘Sit down, please,’ Milne said. ‘It’s simple as I explained to you the last time we met. If we did have raw intelligence – and your arguments about the quality of your analysts compared to our own is convincing – you still don’t have any product to trade. It’s a one-way deal; we give, you
take and if we ever do give, you take too much.’
‘That’s not true,’ Yuval pointed his finger. ‘We gave you the laptop airplane bomb plot and in return you compromised our agent. If there is a one-way deal, it goes in your direction.’
‘That was the Americans, it was nothing to do with us,’ Milne said. ‘And you know it. And you can’t blame the Company either. We’re all the servants of our administrations, more’s the pity.’
Milne sounded tetchy. Unusually tetchy. Quite unlike the last time they’d met when he’d been all smooth and dismissive diplomacy. Whatever the circumstances of Pen’s sudden disappearance it must have had some knock-on effect to Milne’s sphere of influence. Maybe he was now tainted and fighting his own internal battles.
Eli decided to play the cards differently.
‘Okay, what if we do have something to trade?’ Eli said.
‘Go on.’ Milne’s mouth was tight. The MI6 man neither trusted nor believed what he was about to hear.
Eli took a deep breathe, ‘A Hamas splinter group backed by Al Qaeda is planning an operation in Britain, in the British Home Counties. We can’t be absolutely precise because, without raw intelligence from a European source such as the Qatar Embassy –’
Milne interrupted, ‘You have raised this point before, Eli. Just the facts please.’
‘It is still at the planning stage according to our HUMINT but they are planning something that’s high profile with subsequent loss of life. And the target is definitely in the Home Counties. What’s more we have an address in Birmingham where we believe the cell is located.’
‘Birmingham? I see.’ Milne picked up the white damask napkin and unnecessarily dabbed at his lips. He went on, ‘If you would be kind enough to give me the details I will be most grateful even though, thus far, I am not convinced. Hamas and Al Qaeda co-operating would be unusual to say the least. Are you certain?’
Yuval broke in, ‘No, we are not certain. The point you miss is that we cannot be precise about Hamas’s operations in Europe without the intelligence you’re not gathering from the Qatar Embassy.’