BLOOD DRAGON

by Freddie P Peters

  “That’s an interesting theory.”

  “… and also, they are pretty well informed. Even if it was not too difficult to find out which lab was going to look after the Wilson case and intercept the real SOCO team, it’s really ballsy.” Andy had crossed his plump arms over his chest.

  Pole gave a shadow of a smile. His DS was getting much more confident in voicing his own opinions … he liked it.

  “That’s a good point too … and I suppose the next thing we need to ask is whether they have someone close to Cora who keeps them informed.”

  Andy pursed his lips. “How do we find out?”

  Pole was fidgeting with the post-it Andy had given him. The idea of an inside job rattled him. At least MI6 was trying to fight the good fight.

  Andy was waiting for an answer and Pole shook away the unwanted thoughts.

  “Let me speak to Rob … he may be able to help. His network is extensive and I’d very much like to know who the person is, who gave the NCA the location of Ollie Wilson.”

  “And I’ll keep digging.” Andy returned to his monitors.

  Pole turned towards his office, keyed his pin code into the door lock and entered.

  Ferguson had invited himself for an 11am visit this morning, that is if Pole didn’t mind.

  Pole very much minded but not something to admit to one of the best counter-terrorist squad commanders in London.

  * * *

  The doorbell ringing several times in short bursts made Nancy jump. She gathered together the photos that were still lying on the coffee table and with nervous fingers replaced them in the envelope they came from.

  Nancy moved the intercom. She immediately recognised Cora’s voice. She took a moment to steel herself.

  “I’ll leave the door on the latch and prepare some tea.”

  She turned back towards the kitchen, barely missing the side of the door. She swore under her breath. She needed to get a grip.

  Nancy threw her head back and opened the cupboard doors. She heard the front door close. “Sichuan tea will do?” She turned towards Cora with a welcoming smile. “Although, dear DS Branning might not approve …”

  Cora moved from one foot to the other. “He’s not with me.”

  Nancy’s measuring spoon stopped halfway in the air. “This is not on … really.” But the sternness was not there. Why could she not be as severe as she should with Cora? “I’m going to have to call him and tell him you’re safe.”

  “Please don’t.” Cora dropped her eyelids and her shoulders followed. “Or at least give me a bit of time with you on my own first.”

  Nancy said nothing for a moment. She had made up her mind already, but just for good measure, she wouldn’t yield to her friend’s demand just yet.

  “I’ll give you a cup of tea and then I’ll call him.”

  Cora nodded, relieved. She joined Nancy at the counter, and they made tea in silence, preparing the pot once the water had boiled, throwing in the right measure of leaves, covering it with a tea cosy.

  “I thought DS Branning was the arty gang’s new friend.”

  “It’s not that.” Cora stopped, holding onto the door handle of the pantry she had just opened to fetch some biscuits. “He is very nosy. He looks around the flat and I’m always worried about Johnny’s … you know …”

  “Plant cultivation …” Nancy’s voice sounded amused.

  “He does have green fingers.” Cora giggled.

  “DS Branning is there for your protection … I don’t think he cares so much about your friend’s smoking habits.”

  “I’m not going to complain, but I’m not always comfortable with all the attention.”

  “And if you give him the slip on every occasion … things are not going to improve.” Nancy lifted the tea cosy, pouring tea into two mugs and replaced it to keep the pot warm.

  “He probably won’t even notice I’ve gone.”

  “How did you manage that anyway?”

  Cora smiled. “There is a really handy drainpipe outside Beth’s window and the flat is only on the first floor.”

  “Oh well then … you might as well have jumped.” Nancy handed over a mug of the fragrant Sichuan tea, lips pursed and eyes amused.

  “I hesitated.” Cora drank some tea and exhaled in satisfaction. “So lovely … I don’t know why I never think about buying this brand when I go to Chinatown in Soho.”

  “I only do because it’s a family tradition.” Nancy took a sip and gave a small sigh of contentment too. “One of the few traditions I can recall.”

  Cora sat on the sofa in exactly the same place she had occupied a couple of days previously, when she had been carried by Pole into the safety of Nancy’s flat.

  “I think Ollie said something.” Cora left the mug on the coffee table, grabbed a comfortable blanket Nancy had left on the side of the couch and hugged it against her chest. “I was sitting next to his bed in hospital, very close … holding his hand … I was trying not to cry …” Cora bent forward to pick up her tea and took another sip.

  Nancy moved around from the seat she had chosen opposite her friend to the place next to her. She laid a hand very gently on her shoulder.

  “Is that possible?” Nancy tried to recall Ollie’s image. The tubes and monitors, the gurgling and clicking of machinery around his bed making sure he was still alive. He had been given oxygen, but she couldn’t remember whether his entire throat had been immobilised.

  “He hasn’t got a …?” She gestured with her fingers at her neck.

  “Only a nasal cannula, then,” Nancy added gently. Eyes soft, encouraging Cora to carry on.

  “It’s only one word.” Cora held the blanket closer, fingers turning white as she dug them into the soft woollen material.

  “I might have dreamt it.” Cora took her time to finish the mug of tea.

  “I know how hard it must be.”

  “Innocent …” Cora turned her face to look into Nancy’s eyes. She had believed it so much when she had left the hospital yesterday, but today she was no longer so sure.

  Nancy held Cora’s gaze. A friend was being honest, and doubt had crept in … a good thing. “How did his voice sound?”

  Cora gave a little sob. Nancy decided she believed her.

  “Did he try anything else, any other signs?”

  “I felt his fingers trembling, but the doctor warned me about that. It could be an automatic reaction to touch. The doctor did not want to give me false hope.” Cora closed her eyes, trying to remember the scene.

  “Did you tell the medical team?”

  Cora shook her head.

  “But why?” It was important. This was not a reproach, just a concern.

  “I was not on my own … Nat came with me.” Cora hesitated. “I should have gone alone. It felt … intrusive . I can’t explain better than that.” She opened her eyes again. “I hoped another familiar voice might help, but she didn’t seem to want to know.”

  “How so?” Nancy slowly removed the hand from her friend’s shoulder.

  “She was detached. As though it was someone she didn’t know lying on the bed.”

  Nancy waited.

  “I didn’t want to tell her what he said … it felt too …”

  “… optimistic?” Nancy ventured.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You came alone?” Pole greeted Commander Ferguson at the lift but said very little otherwise.

  “This is not an official investigation, at least not yet.”

  And it would almost certainly never be. Pole moved the documents that had accumulated on the only chair facing his desk and offered it to Ferguson. Marsh would not want a scandal to erupt and the head of the counter terrorist command would not want that either. It was bad for both promotion and reputation.

  Somewhat reassuring … Pole would simpl
y finish his career in a cupboard somewhere, perhaps not even in London. Ferguson was speaking but Pole only managed to catch the end of the sentence.

  “… been limited.”

  Pole frowned and it did the trick.

  “Don’t you agree? The list of people who knew about the terror group location was small.”

  “But we are talking MI6. Or perhaps I credit them with too much efficiency and power.”

  “I’m not denying it is their job to find out about these types of groups and their movements. But the way they interfered, asking for our assault to be delayed, is suspicious. They knew the location of that bloody lot almost as quickly as you and I had found out.”

  “Perhaps they knew it already.” Pole ventured.

  “If that’s the case, MI6 should have informed C-T command at the highest level.”

  “Well … I’m sure they are a little flexible with that obligation.” Pole’s hands were spread wide over his desk. He did not want to start fidgeting with his iPhone or anything else that lay on his desk.

  Ferguson pushed his stocky body into the back of the chair. His cold gaze ran over Pole.

  “You are not saying it is appropriate that MI6 should have interfered?”

  “Absolutely not …” did that sound a little too keen? Pole sat back. “I’m simply saying that we may be spending a lot of time on a wild goose chase.”

  “Listen.” Ferguson softened a little. “I understand you trust your team, as I do mine. I can’t imagine any of them tipping off the agency. Not their style. But if someone did, would you not want to know who that person was?”

  “I agree … if there was such person, I would.”

  “And so would Marsh.” Ferguson added, unusually keen to side with The Super.

  Pole sighed. “I can’t say I’m enthusiastic, but I think you’re right … let’s find out whether there was a leak in our teams.”

  Ferguson relaxed in his seat. He needed Pole’s co-operation and Pole had gathered he would rather obtain it with his blessing.

  “Let me give some thought as to who worked with me on the case.”

  “And do try to think about who could have had access to the information.”

  “Ferg, I do know how to run an investigation!” Pole tried to sound humorous rather than irritated.

  Ferguson ignored the remark. His mind was already elsewhere. “There was you, of course.”

  Pole stared pointedly. But the commander was simply drawing a list by order of seniority.

  “Your DS Andy,”

  Ferguson hesitated. “Your external advisor, Nancy Wu.”

  “She did not have access to the information, and the discovery of that terrorist cell was not discussed with her.”

  “Still, we need to be exhaustive … right?”

  Pole nodded. Ferguson was right. No matter how much Pole wanted this inquiry to be over, he needed to retain control of it at his end.

  “We need to add Yvonne Butler. She is the Head of Forensic at one of the labs we instructed on the case. I’ll get in touch with her to see who else apart from her was involved.”

  “Good man.” Ferguson crossed his muscular legs and his face said it all. He was not moving anytime soon, at least not until he had discussed to his satisfaction the list of people they both knew to have been involved in the Mark Phelps case.

  The high-profile case had costed people’s lives and Phelps, a whistleblower who had come forward to expose his employer’s questionable dealings with the Middle East, had paid a dear price.

  Pole ignored the clock and let Ferguson reveal his suspicions. For a man who did not suspect any member of his team, he had a particular view on each and every one of them. Perhaps it came with the territory, in an environment that handled extremists and in which each officer was equipped with high performance firearms.

  Ferguson’s team is doing a room by room sweep. On the ground floor a couple of targets are hiding in a place that controls the bottom of the stairs. The rattle of submachine guns is insistent. Ferguson has spread out his men … three of them are looking for the back door. Another crawls forwards on the floor and throws two phosphorus grenades into the room.

  Shrieks …

  The man dispatched to the back of the house finds a way in.

  Gunshots … the room at the bottom of the stairs is clear. Ferguson’s team climbs the stairs and methodically cleans up each room as they enter.

  Shots … screams … more gunshots … the sound of boots.

  Pole is watching the screen from the safety of the control van, in which two operators are following the assault.

  “Officer down.”

  “Shit.” Harris swears as each room is cleared.

  Pole does not utter a word. He is used to violence but not of this magnitude.

  Ferguson’s team is now on its way to the second floor. They ascend the stairwell without encountering resistance. The first door they try is locked.

  A machine gun burst and the door explodes into splinters.

  The window is open, a man in white robes is about to jump, a gun in his hands. A burst of bullets stops him before he can escape. His body hesitates and then collapses back into the room.

  Harris leaves the van before the operators can protest. He runs towards the backyard, pushing on his earpiece to keep it in place.

  “They are in the backyard.” he shouts. “Don’t shoot … don’t shoot … my guys are in the backyard.”

  Pole should perhaps have paid more attention to Ferguson’s ramblings, but the memories of Henry Crowne’s escape a year ago still disturbed him. It had been carnage and he understood why … none of the people who had been terminated, as Ferguson put it, would have given a second thought to planting a bomb in the middle of a crowded street, but the ferocity of the attack had left him numb for some time.

  “Shall we fix a date for a debrief?”

  “Excellent plan, three days from today?”

  “Make it two. The head of C-T command is getting impatient.”

  Pole agreed. No need to drag his feet just yet.

  Ferguson was at the lifts and as he stepped into one of them, he turned around.

  “I’ll be asking for a list of all the mobile phones that have connected into or around my team’s office at the time of the case …”

  Pole gave Ferguson the thumbs up as he disappeared behind the closing doors.

  “Fuck.” Pole clenched his jaw. His MI6 burner phone would certainly show up in the logs and around his office at the critical time.

  * * *

  Jack crossed the road and stood in front of Nelson’s column in Trafalgar Square. Steve Harris had been right, and he had forgotten it until now. The Citadines Hotel was not only perfect for work, it was also the perfect place from which to enjoy London. He had an extra 30 minutes to spare before making his way to meet Harris.

  He moved to the middle of the square, his eyes running over the façade of the National Gallery. An imposing building dedicated to culture, perhaps a little less impressive than the Smithsonian, but he was of course biased.

  The pools were filled with water but the fountains were not playing. In the top lefthand corner of the square, Jack noticed a splash of vivid blue. He had heard about the famous fourth plinth. Trafalgar Square was renowned for this large stone pedestal that stood below the National Gallery. Jack looked at his guidebook. It was fun to be a tourist for a while.

  Circa 1840, the fourth plinth had been left without a sculpture as construction of the square had slowed down. It had remained so until recently when the space had started to be used to display contemporary, often provocative, sculptures specially commissioned from leading artists. Jack made his way towards the spot. A five-metre-tall cockerel in bright blue stood there proudly.

  Jack smiled … it looked a little mad, but he liked it. The sea
rch on his phone gave some details. The cockerel was, according to the artist Katherina Fritsch, a symbol of regeneration and strength. It was also rather humorous that on the place that celebrated the battle of Trafalgar a large cockerel, an icon to the French, should appear to defy Nelson himself. As if Napoleon had come for a visit.

  Jack moved on, climbing the shallow stone stairs that ran along almost the entire side of the square. He fished out a couple of pound coins he had managed to save for a tip which he gave to one of the floating Yodas that inevitably attracted tourists to the place.

  Jack made his way through the backstreets of Soho to the pub where Harris had suggested they should meet. In Covent Garden Jack again checked the address of The Lamb and Frog, a traditional Georgian pub with a reputation as one of Charles Dickens’ watering holes and for its former (at least Jack hoped so) bare knuckle fighting.

  Harris had suggested a mid-morning meeting followed by lunch. Jack stopped at the top of the narrow lane. A few yards away in the distance he could see the name of the pub in faded yellow letters written over an old wooden shield.

  Flower baskets of cyclamens and ivy had been freshly planted over the facade. The place looked suitably ancient, nestled at the corner of two alleyways. Jack reached the main door, old wood, thick glass and a cast-iron frame.

  He stepped back again to take a better look at the antique building and spotted the date, circa 1623. This was indeed old. The Mayflower ferrying the Pilgrims to America had sailed in 1620, he remembered. Jack crossed the threshold with some excitement.

  The smell of beer and freshly waxed furniture welcomed him. He nodded to the bartender who was polishing a glass absentmindedly and climbed to the first floor. He ran his hand over the worn wooden bannister rail.

  When he stepped into the room Harris had already arrived. He had settled into the far corner, choosing a table for two by the window. He stood up and walked towards Jack with an outstretched hand and an open smile.

  “Good to see you again, Jack.”

  They shook hands. “It’s been a while.”

  Harris organised a cup of coffee which he assured Jack would be up to standard and they settled at the table.