by Sam O'Brien
* * *
“Andrew,” said Jess, squeezing his hand. “How’re you feeling?”
“Better now,” he said, with a goofy smile. He felt his heart thumping.
She wagged her finger at him. “You had us worried, you know that?”
“So Mum says.” He glanced at the door. “She said they found drugs in my system. Is that true?”
“Yeah,” she paused, chewing her lip. “Ecstasy. I saw the tox report. And they found twenty-seven pills in your car. That’s possession with intent. Ten to fifteen years. The fuckers got you good.”
“You know that’s not me, right?”
“Yeah. Trouble is, nobody else does. I ran prints on the bag. They’re not yours, but they didn’t find a match. Still, at least they’re in the system. If we can print Charles or the others, we might get lucky.”
“Huh. Some chance.” Andrew snorted. “You know, even Mum doesn’t believe me. The doctor gives me dirty looks, too. Mum said it’s been in the papers.”
She sighed. “Yeah. Look, after the crash, I went to Thetford station and spoke to them. The Sergeant that found you wanted to throw the book at you. I tried to talk him down, but he wasn’t having it. He charged you when you were out cold. Your mum didn’t have the cash, so I posted your bail, but I’m going to need to give them your passport now you’re awake. You want me to get you a lawyer?” she said, her voice cracking.
He nodded gravely. “Suppose you’d better.”
“There’s something else,” she said. Her words hung in the air.
“Go on, then,” said Andrew, looking resigned.
“George Fellowes committed suicide.”
“I know. Charles came to see me yesterday.” He frowned and winced as the pain ran over his temple. “Or maybe it was this morning.” He told her all about it and she told him about her stalker.
“Holy shit, Jess.”
“You shouldn’t use that new phone.” She produced her own handset. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they got mine tapped and tagged, too. It’s pretty easy if you’ve got Calcott’s resources . I’ll get us disposables. We can’t fuck around any more, Andrew.” She stared at the floor. “I saw Fellowes’ body after the postmortem. Coroner said his injuries were consistent with suicide. These guys are professionals.”
There was an urgency in her eyes that Andrew had never seen before. Fear crept up his spine. “SAS training; best in the world,” he said. “If they catch us nosing around, we’re dead.”
“That’s not all. The Chief Super in Suffolk gave me a dressing down for interfering with the suicide case and when I told my DCI about Charles and the gang, he thought I’d lost it. Makes me wonder if they’ve got connections in the Force. What are we going to do, Andrew?”
He looked lost. “I don’t know, but time’s running out. They told me the Tote deal’ll be done by Ascot week and the Chinese gambling thing’ll be sorted in October. They were bragging about it, and see, the Chinese leadership changes in October. Ling’ll be the new vice-president. Apparently, he’s a sure thing. And they’ve got him in their pocket.”
“There’ll be no stopping them…” Her voice trailed off.
Andrew had a flashback, he clicked his fingers. “The next President’ll be no pushover, though. He’s conservative and anti-gambling.” He stopped suddenly, a blank look plastered on his face.
“What?” asked Jess.
“Wish I could remember. We’re missing something. Rupert told me they’d got them right where they wanted them.”
“He pulled the envelope out of the locker and tossed it on her lap. “This is what I have. Watch the footage, keep it safe. There’s stuff in my cottage, too. There’s a spare key under a brick outside the back door. Call Susan, use my passport as your excuse. You’ll find a small packet taped under the sink in the kitchen. It’s a copy of the Sandhurst picture and a bunch of phone numbers. You’ll need to enter them all on my disposable, in case we have to go at it another way.”
She nodded. “Does Charles know you’ve copied the footage?”
Andrew shook his throbbing head. “He didn’t mention it. Anyway, I don’t think he cares either way. He’s got me where he wants me.” He yawned. “God, I’m knackered already.”
Jess squeezed his hand again. “You have a sleep,” she gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’ll stay till your mum gets here.”
“Jess, I… Look, there’s something I need to tell you. I, I’ve–” he felt like a silly teenager.
Grinning, she put a finger to his lips. “Later, Andrew. Later.”
He drifted off again.
* * *
Goran was alone on the number two firing range at Slipstream headquarters. He wore a bespoke black coat, cut wide in the waist to conceal his weapon. The sky was mottled grey and the Scottish wind howled. He disliked British summers, but he was glad of the challenging conditions while he trained.
The AS-Val Silent Compact Sniper Rifle hung under his left arm, hidden by the long coat. The targets were 300 metres away. He paced over and back, jumped up and down. The weapon remained secure. After a few deep breaths, he pressed his stopwatch and pulled the short gun into view, flipping open its stock in one deft movement. He grinned. Old Soviet weapons were unbeatable. Simple, efficient, effective. The Serb had first used the AS when he was just nineteen, crouched like a panther on the rooftops of Pristina. Even then, it had felt like part of him.
Goran snapped a ten-round clip into place and leaned on the table. He fixed the crosshairs on the target and regulated his breathing. The weapon coughed six sub-sonic rounds in as many seconds. Satisfied, he stripped the gun, placed it in the custom-made boxes at his feet and stopped the clock. A fraction over ninety seconds. His best time yet. He used his binoculars to double-check the targets. Each one had two shots to the chest. Perfect. He pressed the control button. When the targets began moving, he repeated the drill, scoring more direct hits.
It was going to be easy.
Chapter 27
Wednesday, June 12th
Charles, Rupert and Piers sat in the library at Brockford. With Jamie in London, they had the place to themselves. A thick folder of legal documents lay on the side table; Charles admired it like a trophy. They were now the proud owners of the Tote.
“Final phase underway,” said Charles. “I gave the phone to Dixon. That means we’ve got a track on both of them. If either comes within spitting distance, we’ll know.”
“Oh, we’ll know more than that,” said Rupert. “With the gear I put on that little thing, it’s like having him bugged. As long as it’s turned on, my team’ll hear everything the microphone can, even when he’s not on a call.”
“Bloody hell,” said Piers. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“Gosh, that’s a nice little bonus,” said Charles. “What about Flint?”
“No. Only calls, messages and positioning.”
Charles pursed his lips. “Pity.”
“Why not just knock her off altogether?” said Rupert.
“Are you mad, Rupe? Apart from the inherent dangers in knocking off a London police officer on the eve of our biggest operation, I don’t want a grieving Dixon turning into another George Fellowes,” said Charles.
“Hmm, fair point.”
“We’re not in the desert any more. Besides, when the dust has settled and I’ve found a replacement for Dixon, you can knock them both off.”
Rupert grinned and cracked his knuckles.
“OK, chaps,” said Piers. “I’ve pulled a few strings to get press passes for the men, but I can’t swing proper tickets at such short notice.”
“Not to worry, we’ll arrive early and use the men to bring the wine inside. They can lay low until it’s time.”
“Good idea, Charlie,” said Piers.
“You’ll have to be there, too, Piers. You can pull rank if we get any abuse from security.”
“Don’t worry,” said Piers grinning.
“Rent-a-mob’s alre
ady demonstrating,” said Rupert. “They’ll step it up a notch at the right time to provide a distraction.”
“Good, good. We’re all set,” said Charles, a twinkle in his eye.
“Right.” Rupert stood up. “I’m off to Baghdad. Back Sunday night. See you chaps on D-Day.” He looked jubilant.
Chapter 28
Sunday, June 17th
Andrew finished his press-ups. He could now complete four sets of sixty every day, and felt fit and ready to check out. The headaches had almost disappeared, and his doctor had scheduled him for a final scan next Tuesday.
He did not want to return to Brockford.
Pulling a smile onto his face, he wandered into the main ward to watch the morning news.
Onscreen, a reporter stood outside Parliament and the words Chinese delegation to arrive for Monday talks, scrolled across the picture.
He turned up the sound.
The Business Secretary, Mr. Grounding, remains tight-lipped, saying only, ‘we expect to be able to make a formal statement on Monday evening at the scheduled press conference’.
Chinese Vice-President Guo Qingling and Prime Minister Brookson are expected to sign bilateral trade agreements reportedly worth over one billion pounds, giving British companies greater access to Chinese markets. It is expected that a ban on British poultry exports to China, in place since a 2007 avian flu outbreak, is to be lifted. Educational and cultural relationships will also be on the agenda. It is thought that the number of Chinese attending our universities will increase significantly.
UK exports to China have increased by 18% since Mr. Brookson took office, and there are high hopes that this new ‘landmark’ agreement will see British businesses branch out of Beijing and Shanghai and into the rapidly developing provincial cities.
The reporter glanced behind her: Activists demonstrating on the bridge are demanding talks on human rights and the occupation of Tibet. A Downing Street representative recently stated that in such matters, ‘both nations need to respect each other and refrain from finger-pointing’, citing dialogue as the solution.
Andrew rushed to his room and called Jess. “Yeah, it’s me. Have you seen the news?”
“No?”
He told her. “I get it now. That is, I got it that night, racing back to Brockford: they’re going to kill Guo Qingling.”
“Are you nuts? That’s a step up from the BHA chairman.”
“Yes, but it’s worth it to Charles. Think about it: with Guo gone, Ling’ll be President in October. And they’ll own him.”
Jess was silent.
“Are you there?” said Andrew.
“Yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll get myself sent to Whitehall.”
“Jess, what if I call the papers today? Show them the footage, expose Ling and implicate Charles. It’d make killing Guo pointless, right?”
“No, mate. If the press publishes in time – and it’s a big if – Charles’ll fucking wriggle out of it. Guys like him always do. And they might kill Guo anyway. We’ll just ruin Ling’s career. And it’s not his fault he’s gay,” she said. “Oh yeah, and we’ll probably have tragic accidents in the next year or so.”
“Hmmm. I suppose you’re right. Well, I’m going to make one phone call anyway.”
“You sure? That’s risky – Charles’ll find out.”
“I’ve got to try it.”
“Please, don’t do it. It’s our last resort. Wait, Andrew. I’m on the job.”
* * *
“Can you really be sure your ‘friends’ will act in such a way?” asked Ling’s wife.
Ling grinned at her. A twinkle in his eye. “It is in their nature, my dear. They simply cannot help themselves.” He took her hand in his and rubbed his thumb on her palm. “They merely think of their own interests, and thus, such a course of action becomes not only acceptable, but necessary. When they succeed, they imagine that they will benefit, but they have not stopped to consider the true outcome.”
She arched her brow, shooting him a sideways look.
Ling chuckled. “In the aftermath, China will receive a great deal of political leeway.”
She smiled, nodding. “Carte blanche, perhaps.”
“Just like the Americans after 9/11.”
Chapter 29
Monday, June 18th, 8am
Jess stood in the glass-walled office feeling like a schoolgirl before the headmaster.
DCI Barlow stared at his computer. Jess chewed her nails. Barlow was stern at the best of times, but since he had told her to drop the Fellowes thing, he had been permanently frosty. When the footage finished playing, he yanked out the USB, inspected the Sandhurst photo and re-read the e-mails. She could see the disappointment in his eyes.
“This is thin, Flint. Very thin. What you’ve got here tells me that, apparently, the man tipped to be the next Chinese VP liked a bit of cock while he was at Sandhurst. I accept this is a possible motive for blackmail. But the rest? Flint, you’re a promising detective. Your case record’s been on the right side of satisfactory, but since your friend crashed his car, you’ve been erratic, to say the least.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I mean, first you go upsetting the Fellowes’ family – as if they haven’t suffered enough. And now you’re on about political assassinations?”
She was trying not to look angry, but it was welling up inside her. “I just think it’s a possible scenario. At the very least, sir, if someone’s blackmailing the Chinese, don’t you think we should get off our arses and do something about it?”
His disappointment turned to displeasure. “Careful, Flint, you’re on thin ice as it is. What do you want? Pre-emptive arrests?”
She snorted. “It’s not like you haven’t done it before.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. And another thing: who really gives a shit if someone’s got the dirty on a Chinese politician? It might even get this country a better deal.”
She cut him a deadpan look. He stared back.
He exhaled, puffing out his cheeks. “Right, Flint. Against my better judgement, I’m going to let you go to Whitehall. When the Chinese delegation get back on their plane without incident, I won’t rub your nose in it, but I will consider the matter closed. For good.” He flicked a finger towards the door. “Off you go. I’ll let the Diplomatic Protection Service know you’re coming. Be back here Wednesday morning.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, with a lopsided smile. She spun on her heel.
“Oh, and Flint?”
“Yes.”
“Try not to make a nuisance of yourself.”
* * *
Andrew sat in the ward, hogging the TV, glued to a news channel. His fingers tapped the table nervously. An old man complained. Andrew ignored him.
* * *
Jess pressed her way through the crowds chanting Free Tibet, flashed her ID at the gates, and was buzzed into Downing Street. She let herself into the guardhouse and casually leaned on the desk. “Alright, lads? How’s tricks?”
The three DPS officers eyed her up and down.
She smiled warmly and cocked her chin towards Number Ten. “All them Chinese in there then?”
“Yeah, been there since early this morning,” said one.
“Look, lads, I’ve been sent here from Wembley. We’ve had information about the Chinese.”
The officers were stony-faced. Jess glanced over her shoulder and leaned in dramatically.
“We reckon someone’s going to take a shot at the VP. Maybe a bomb, we’re not sure.”
“News to me,” said an officer. “Don’t worry, nobody’s getting in there. Place’s locked tighter than a nun’s… Well, tight.”
The others snickered. Jess rolled her eyes.
“What’s the schedule for the Chinese, then?” she asked, smiling. “Where they off to next?”
A paper was consulted. “Here all day, then a unit to the Dorchester – that’s where they’re stayin’ – and another to Buck Palace.”
“Buckingham Palace?” she
knitted her brow. “What for?”
“Search me. All I know is we’ve got to give the escort.”
“Alright,” she said, making notes. “What about tomorrow?”
“Olympic Village, Tower of London, Heathrow, and home.”
“What’re they doing in the Olympic Park?”
He shrugged. “We don’t get the details.”
“Kissin’ arses and wastin’ time,” said another.
“Alright. Cheers, lads.” She flashed them her best grin. “Mind if I have a look around?”
“Not a chance, love. You’re not on the list.” He tapped a computer screen. “No clearance.”
She scribbled three names on a pad. “Are they on the list?”
“Sorry, love,” he said, without looking.
“So, can I speak to whoever’s in command here?”
“That’d be me,” said the officer, looking exasperated. “Look, I was told you’d be coming to ask a few questions. That’s all. There’s not a whiff of anything on the airwaves, and believe me, if the powers that be had any reason to suspect somebody was going to assassinate a Chinky politician, we’d have shooters, dogs, and squads all over the place. Alright? As it is, standard procedure’s being followed, so you don’t ‘ave to worry your pretty little head about it,” he said in a patronising tone.
She wanted to smack him. And Barlow. Fuckers. She took a breath. “Well, can one of you escort me up to the back gates?” she said, twirling her ponytail.