The Angel of Whitehall

by Lewis Hastings

  “Do you know what JD I don’t think I want to hear any more thanks.”

  “No, wait. He didn’t deliberately harm them, he marked them and gave them an item to carry, a keepsake that could be disposed of if they got caught. But the markings on their back would mean nothing to the uninitiated. However, for someone like me…”

  “You know the code?”

  “I do. The problem is the answers are in a book that Denby said he had hidden. He somehow knew that dementia would set in. And no one knows where that book ended up. So, the code remains just that, the descendants of those brave folk remain out there in the community somewhere and a whole lot of valuable items are stored or stowed or buried somewhere.”

  “All that we need is the codebook, the code and the people?”

  “Yep, fairly easy really,” said Daniel ironically.

  “Would it help if we said we knew where the book was?”

  “Help. I think I’d be inclined to kiss the man who produced it first!”

  “Then Jason knows exactly where it is JD, and I wish to have nothing more to do with the matter!” Cade was smiling for the first time in a while.

  Roberts explained the scene in the hotel room and how Denby had literally dug the package out of the wall.

  “Seriously JD, you should have seen it. Like a man possessed and everyone just stood and watched him, furtling about with his arm in the wall like an inquisitive vet with his arm right up a cow’s…”

  “You serious? We’ve got the book and the man who wrote it? This is outstanding. Jason come here and give me a kiss, tongues and all.”

  “Can I save that for after the fat lady has finished her aria?”

  “You can, but first, is there any chance I can go and see Tom, it’s been so long, such a wonderful character.”

  “Jack and I have a meeting with the PM – it’s how we roll since the Seventh Wave op – but how about when we get back?”

  “Great. I’ll take Carrie for a coffee in the meantime.”

  “Get her one of those citrus tarts, she loves ‘em,” said Roberts as he made to leave the office and head to the lift.

  John Daniel was feeling more refreshed, glad he had made the journey. There were some skeletons to clear from his own closet, but he couldn’t wait to meet the old man once more.

  “And boys, before you go, you are watching Tom, aren’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, last I heard he had a tendency to go walk about – quite common for dementia patients and especially those trained to escape and evade a pursuing enemy…”

  “Not this one, mate. He’s at least a hundred years old and I’ve put a subtle guard on his door and paid the Concierge a month’s wages to beat off any enquirers with a shitty stick.”

  “Eloquent as ever, Jason. I can’t believe he ended up back at the Royal Horseguards. Incredible mind, that man. He had an apartment upstairs.”

  “Yes, we know,” said Cade, not really listening, as the lift doors were silently closing.

  “It was never converted when the company bought the hotel, just kept as a storeroom.” JD shouted, cupping his hands to his mouth.

  “Whatever!” The door closed as the lift descended smoothly to the lower ground floor.

  “What does JD expect him to do, abseil out of the bloody window and swim across the Thames to deliver a box of chocolates to a secret admirer. Bloody hell, what an imagination. Come on, let’s go and flirt with the Prime Minister.”

  “Good job she’s a woman these days, Jason.” Cade tapped him on the shoulder. JD was right, it was good to be back.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Broad Sanctuary, London

  Roberts drove the silver BMW 3 Series through the city traffic as if he were on autopilot.

  He knew that if he needed to, a simple press of a button on the steering wheel would light the car up and part the waves.

  So far, so good. The sun was doing its best to break through a darker blanket of clouds, and the local traffic was doing its best to slow them down.

  “Quicker to walk, Jack!”

  “You’ve always got the lights.”

  “We could…”

  “Go on, you know you want to, and besides what’s another siren in a city like London?”

  Roberts leant to his left and pressed the Single Man Operation rocker switch, then tapped the steering wheel once for a longer siren note, then twice for a quicker alternating effect. Whichever he chose caused the traffic to divert left and right, or just stop, and often in front of him.

  “Muppet! Bloody hell, don’t you love London motorists, Jack? Like startled rabbits… Oh no, here comes a police car, what shall I do?”

  “Good fun though, isn’t it? Do you miss the old days?”

  “One hundred and one percent.” He accelerated to his left, changed lanes and back into the right-hand lane. They came up alongside a blue Bentley.

  “Nice. That’s one of those new Flying Spurs. Twelve-cylinder, bloody enormous engine. Crap around town on fuel. But just look at it.”

  “Ten-a-penny round here, Jason?”

  “Not really, that’s quite a rare beast in this particular jungle.”

  The leviathan’s W12 engine could propel the car to over two hundred miles an hour and get to sixty in a shade over four seconds. There were fast, large four-door luxury cars – and then there was the Bentley.

  Its interior was far from understated. Black, luxurious quilted leather was accented by garish, yet equally stylish orange detail. The dashboard appeared to be hewn from a cliff face; solid, yet exquisitely made.

  Cup holders? It would not be beyond the realms of possibility for a human hand to appear. ‘Your cup, sir – and thank you.’

  “Someone has some cash.”

  “Yeah, lucky bastards, I bet they are looking at us and saying the same thing.”

  They pulled alongside, slowing for standing traffic.

  “At least we will get there first.”

  The lights changed to red as they entered Broad Sanctuary and slipped into the shadows of Westminster Abbey. The Bentley stayed with them as they navigated through the lights, sirens wailing. Cade spotted it too.

  “Cheeky. He followed us through.”

  “Yeah, I saw. Sadly, no time to stop him.”

  Now the Flying Spur was alongside them, accelerating and getting closer. Two point nine tons of British engineered, German funded luxury, and it was within inches of the BMW.

  “Steady!” yelled Roberts, braking hard to avoid a black cab that had slowed to allow him through a gap big enough for one.

  The Flying Spur powered through the gap, forcing Roberts to come to a complete standstill.

  “Sorry mate, but that needs dealing with.” He hit the steering wheel again and changed the tone. First to second, then third, the two-litre engine was doing its level best to stay with the Bentley.

  As they approached the junction of Great George Street and Parliament Street Roberts checked his watch.

  “We’ve got ten minutes.”

  “Your call. Deal with a rich tosser in a Bentley or keep the PM waiting – when you want her to say yes to your idiotic request for money!”

  He knew Cade was right. But it hurt him to let it go. Street cops always followed their instinct.

  “Grab a photo and we’ll follow it up later? Agreed?”

  “Happy to.” Cade lifted his phone up and zoomed in just as the metallic blue car came to a complete stop. Nearly three tonnes in a few car lengths.

  Roberts pulled alongside, sirens still screaming.

  He put his window down and looked at the face of a black man, with very dark skin, short black hair, well dressed in a tailored suit and tie and just staring back at him impassively. The driver was very similar. The rear seat passengers were barely visible, heavily tinted glass ensured their privacy in a city full of cameras.

  “Put your window down!” Roberts yelled over the noise as row after row of commuters, taxis and
buses began to build behind him.

  Cade switched off the sirens.

  “I said put your window down.” He was miming as he began to undo his seatbelt when the Bentley window slid down silently.

  “What do you want?” The accent was thick enough to cut with a machete.

  “What do I want? You cut us up. This is a police vehicle. Is your driver blind or deaf by any chance?”

  “No. Now please, we have somewhere to be.” He went to put his window up.

  “Oi. I haven’t finished with you yet sunshine!” Roberts started to exit the vehicle as Cade pressed speed dial and got hold of Dave Francis, one of his old team, ex-military intelligence and a remarkably good analyst.

  “Dave, it’s me. Stand by to run a number through the box, please.”

  The ‘box’ was an informal term for the Police National Computer.

  Roberts was alongside the passenger window when the male, probably six foot six and broad as a buffalo raised his right hand and mimed pulling a trigger. It stopped Roberts in his tracks for a second before instinct caused him to grab the hand and try to apply pressure to the wrist.

  Cade yelled into his phone. “Dave, got to go! Get us some backup, outside Westminster Abbey, junction of Horse Guards at the traffic lights!”

  Cade was out of the car and running around the back of the BMW as the Bentley accelerated with Roberts still hanging onto the dark-skinned powerful hand.

  “Jason, let go!” Cade had seen incidents like this turn very nasty.

  “I’m trying!”

  The Flying Spur was accelerating towards the Houses of Parliament when it stopped suddenly once more. Cade began to run down the street, wishing he was armed. He had some ground to cover and could hear more sirens.

  The front seat passenger of the Bentley held onto Roberts.

  “Move away from the car officer or I will break your wrist.”

  “Well, if you would let go, then I might.” He was livid. It was the same wrist that had been snapped by a criminal only a mile away from where he now stood. Stomped on until it snapped in an underground train.

  The male let him go.

  “Move – now!”

  Then he shooed him away like a troublesome horsefly.

  Roberts grabbed hold of the passenger’s tie and pulled as hard as he could. It gave him a few valuable seconds to look at the occupants. In the rear seat were two women. One black, one white. The black woman was best described as exotic, probably quite tall and with an impressive figure. He could only later describe the female as white, but ‘strangely familiar’.

  The passenger looked at the driver.

  “Go!”

  The Bentley took off, tyres squealing, its deep blue paintwork gleaming as it crossed Westminster Bridge. Cade stood among angry and curious motorists, holding his phone steady and shooting the best he could.

  They got back to the BMW to be greeted by two marked vehicles which had added to the mayhem, fighting through the rush hour.

  “Alright guv?” asked the youthful constable. “We were told you had a spot of bother.”

  Roberts was still out of breath, so Cade took over. He held his phone up and spoke. “Boys, run this plate for me please and see if we can get an alert on it.”

  They stared at the image. With its colouring and narrower font, the patrol officers knew immediately that the car was unconventional. The number 169 followed by the letter D and then three numbers starting with a four meant it was a diplomatic vehicle. The D meant it was used in London, and the last three numbers indicated the vehicle was being used by non-diplomatic staff.

  “It’s a diplomatic plate, guv. Guinea, Africa. We can dig a bit deeper, but generally we tend not to prosecute for traffic offences unless they are serious.”

  “What about dragging a DCI down the street alongside the statue of Winston Churchill?” asked Cade.

  “Well, to be honest, that does change things somewhat.”

  “Right, well put out obs for it. We want to know who was in it and what their game is?” Roberts thanked the attending staff and walked back to the silver BMW. The two suited men got in.

  “You alright mate?”

  “I’ll live. Bastard hurt my wrist though, Jack. We’d better move or we’ll be late.”

  He said nothing as they drove for a few minutes, sirens off. As they approached the iconic black gates of Downing Street he slowed, indicated left and waited to be approached by the armed, uniformed staff.

  “That’s bothered you hasn’t it Jas?”

  “It would bother you. The thing is Jack, it wasn’t the whole diplomatic attitude thing…it was the two women in the back. I didn’t recognise one, but the white girl, I only had a glimpse, but she looked so bloody familiar.”

  Roberts retrieved his warrant card and drove through the gates. This was a rare opportunity to do this as vehicular traffic was strictly monitored and had been since 1989 when the gates were installed in the wake of IRA threats. Two years later mortar bombs were launched at the famous landmark, injuring two police officers and causing damage. Since that day, no one had thought it wise to challenge the security checks.

  The two men were ushered into the building, through the entrance hall with its striking black and white chequered flooring and into the study with its pristine white-painted walls, white bookcases, a fireplace, four oat-coloured chairs and a small antique table.

  Staring down at them was the doyen of the Conservative Party, Baroness Margaret Thatcher, who had led the country from 1979 to 1990.

  “I bet she’d have some stories to tell,” said Roberts, nervously killing time.

  “You can only imagine. They must have had some incredible evenings in this place, it’s beautiful.” Responded Cade, genuinely enjoying the chance to get beyond the famous gloss-black front door.

  “From memory it was gifted to the government by King George III…”

  “You read that on the plaque as we walked through you bloody fraud!” smiled Cade as the door opened and both men stood slightly tauter than they had been.

  “Gentlemen. I hear you had an exciting journey.”

  Roberts looked at Cade with a raised eyebrow.

  “There isn’t much we miss around here. I do hope you got your man.”

  “Hardly Prime Minister. The bas…the driver was on diplomatic plates, so he lives to fight another day.”

  “Well, make sure that when that day comes you remind him of your little escapade! This is Britain for God’s sake, not the Bronx. Now, you’ve got fifteen minutes so make it count. This is Oliver Berry, the new Home Secretary. You have my absolute assurance that anything you say to me can be said to him. I appointed Olly, and he’s a good bugger, let’s just say somewhat better than the last one, whom you met of course.”

  “Of course, Ma’am.” They had indeed. In fact, one of the lesser known and deniable members of the Operation Orion team had pulled the trigger that had fired the round across the Thames and killed him.

  Roberts spoke quickly but calmly. Cade only interrupted when asked to.

  “And there you have it Ma’am, in summary we’ve got an old-boys’ network from the British Army that is implicated in offending that goes back to the sixties. We have international interest from West Africa and…”

  “An old sailor with a failing mind providing you with literally all of the known intelligence you have on this operation?” Berry stared at the two police staff. Waited.

  “Respectfully, Minister, he is an old man who for the record has so far provided a lot more intelligence than we previously had.”

  “Indeed. And you expect him to keep on providing this as his health deteriorates? Where is he now?”

  It was the one question that Cade did not want to hear.

  “He’s safe, sir, for now.”

  “Bring him in, we’ll take care of him.”

  Cade hesitated. “No sir, that will not be possible.”

  Berry stiffened slightly. “And why pray is that?”

>   “Because one of the names on the list that he provided works for your government, sir.”

  “Name him Mr. Cade or I will have to take this up a notch as it were.” Berry tightened his navy-blue silk tie against the starched white collar of his size 18 shirt.

  Silence.

  “Mr. Cade…” The voice of Sassy Lane was as smooth as acacia honey, but it had an underlying edge that would have made the elder stateswoman who stared down from above the fireplace very proud.

  “Your Secretary of State for Defence Ma’am.” Cade said, quietly.

  “Angus?”

  “The same Ma’am.”

  “Then gentlemen, I encourage you to lock this down as tight as the proverbial drum. Your team must be required to have secure levels within their own team. You two at the top with Mr. Daniel and of course your Commissioner, if he asks. Keep everyone’s nose out of this. I cannot express enough how important this is. If the people find out, especially after the last bloody near miss we are in very deep water. Do what you can to milk the sacred cow that is your dear old intelligence source. And for God’s sake, make sure you find the treasure chest before they do.”

  “Ma’am? Sincerely I am sorry, but neither of us mentioned a treasure chest.” Cade fixed her gaze, locked her down. She shuffled slightly in the oat-coloured, high-backed chair.

  She looked up at Thatcher. ‘What would you do right now? Eh? You’d play your hand, wouldn’t you?’

  Berry fixed his eyes on his senior colleague. ‘Don’t do this.’

  She saw the look and replied with a slight frown that said, ‘I trust them with my life.’

  “Gentlemen.” She rubbed her hands together. “Did someone just turn the heat down?” Receiving no reply, she shuddered visibly, then continued.

  “We have had a covert source working on the background to your operation for a while now. He’s a mover and a shaker in the world of politics, but also damned good at what he does outside of work. He had a heads up a few weeks ago that your man might blow the lid off this whole charade. And so we instigated our own op. This is still airtight. Do you hear me?”