by N C Mander
Hughes winced at the nickname. ‘It’s a long journey,’ Donald went on, ‘come along inside.’ He put a strong arm around Edison’s shoulders and steered him in the direction of the house. Edison felt the grip of the older man’s hand on his shoulder and an almost imperceptible squeeze, full of menace and control.
Inside a cavernous hallway, Donald pulled off his green Hunter wellies, and there was silence between the two men. His boots shod, he pulled on a pair of brogues. ‘Elizabeth,’ he called. When he got no response, he tried again more loudly, ‘Elizabeth!’ Nothing. ‘Where is she?’ Hughes muttered to himself.
From somewhere in the depths of the house, Lady Elizabeth appeared, looking flustered. ‘Yes dear,’ she said before she spotted Edison, standing awkwardly by the front door. ‘Edison,’ she cried, and a smile played across her thin lips, ‘I had no idea you were visiting.’
‘A bit of a last-minute thing, Lady Elizabeth,’ Edison replied, beginning to relax into his subterfuge. If there was a game afoot, he needed to play it.
‘I missed you the last time you were here as I was away. So it must be three years since I last saw you. That lovely dinner when we were still in the Chelsea house and before your beautiful w … oh … I am sorry. Always putting my foot in it.’
‘Before my wife died,’ Edison finished Lady Elizabeth’s sentence for her. He remembered the evening she mentioned. At the end of it, as he and Ellie had got into bed together, she’d turned to him, full of earnest, and uttered the words that had come back to him only the previous day, ‘I don’t trust him. Not one bit,’ she’d said.
‘Don’t be daft Ellie,’ Edison had defended Hughes.
‘Seriously, Eddie, there’s something off about him. You really must be careful.’ When she wouldn’t drop the matter, they had argued, and the topic of Donald Hughes’ trustworthiness was never raised again. Ellie had dutifully accompanied her husband to Scotland occasionally and made small talk with Edison’s mentor at functions. How right you were, Ellie, he thought.
‘Are you still with the Service, dear?’ Lady Elizabeth went on, trying to bury her conversational faux-pas without realising she was committing another.
‘No,’ Edison spoke to Lady Elizabeth, but his eyes flicked to her husband, who was watching the exchange, his face passive. Edison couldn’t read him. ‘I left shortly after Sir Donald.’
‘Oh, what a shame. Donald always spoke so highly of you and your potential.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Sir Donald interrupted. ‘He had the potential to go right to the top, but mistakes can be so costly on that fragile ladder.’ Elizabeth looked at him blankly. ‘Elizabeth, we shouldn’t keep our esteemed guest waiting in the hallway. We get so few visitors these days, but my memory is that the decorous thing to do is to offer tea to a weary traveller on their arrival.’
‘Yes, yes, I shall speak to Maggie. Will you be in the study?’
‘Indeed. Follow me, Edison. We have a lot to catch up on.’
They entered the study, and a lurcher immediately colonised one of the sofas. ‘You will have to tell me all the news from Thames House.’ Hughes spoke smoothly, but Edison could feel the undercurrents.
Edison didn’t miss a beat, ‘Like I said Don, I’m not with the Service anymore.’
‘Do take a seat.’ Edison did, and Hughes busied himself emptying his pockets into a desk drawer. Edison noticed two mobile handsets being slipped in before Hughes closed and locked it.
‘So, you are no longer with Five? I did hear such a rumour, but I must say I was a little surprised, I wouldn’t have expected them to let such a talent go. But then I did hear another rumour that someone matching your description is working in Canary Wharf. Why would you use a cover name, I wonder, if you’re not in the employ of the Security Service?’ Donald stood up and crossed to the drinks stand.
‘You do keep your ear to the ground,’ Edison tried to sound nonchalant.
‘A very dear friend of mine works there. Indeed, you met her, I think, the last time you were here.’ A frisson of tension hung in the air between them at the mention of the weekend it had all changed between them.
‘Oh?’ Edison wracked his brains. He would have recognised one of the bank’s staff if he’d met them before, surely?
‘Anna Graham, the Turkish Ambassador’s god-daughter, she’s one of the MD’s secretaries.’
Edison reeled. Had he met Anna before? Edison combed through his memories of that ill-fated weekend. ‘I … I don’t remember meeting her,’ he admitted, his veneer slipping slightly.
Donald revelled in the younger man’s discomfort. ‘No?’ Donald waved his hand as if dismissing the topic, ‘You did rather rush off that weekend, maybe she arrived after you’d gone.’ Hughes crossed the room to the drinks trolley. ‘The tea will be here shortly, I am sure, but could I offer you something a little stronger first?’ Edison nodded. ‘And yes,’ Donald turned sharply and thrust a generous measure of whisky in a cut-glass tumbler into Edison’s hand, ‘I do keep my ear to the ground, as you put it. I hired you, Edison. Handpicked from a crop of very talented young men at Oxford. You may understand, one day, the bond between a mentor and his protégé.’
Edison felt his stomach lurch. The debt of gratitude he had felt toward Hughes for recruiting him as a graduate had meant he had sat on his findings for months before reporting the director general, feeling the full weight of the personal treachery when he did so. He took a long swig of whisky and let the warmth of the alcohol seep through his body. He collected his thoughts. Could Anna be the missing link in all of this? Was her connection to Hughes another coincidence? What had Hughes got himself mixed up in, and was he aware of the disastrous consequences?
‘The wires tell me there’s been an arrest at Penwill & Mallinson,’ Hughes went on. ‘Nasty business. Some poor chap caught up in money laundering.’
Edison’s eyes widened and his mind raced. Jamie had been arrested.
‘You hadn’t heard?’ Hughes said smoothly. ‘I would have thought you would have been at the centre of that little storm.’
‘Do you have any idea what kind of a storm you’re caught up in, Don?’ Edison exploded.
‘What on earth are you talking about, dear boy?’
‘The money,’ Edison rolled on breathlessly, ‘you’ve got at Penwill’s. Your friend, Anna. There’s going to be an attack. Terrorists. You need to get out. Whatever it is you’re doing, get out.’
‘What on earth are you talking about? Are you accusing me of something, son?’ The last word shot through him like a bullet. Memories of the time they’d spent together, the relationship they’d shared, akin to the one Edison had longed for as a child growing up with an absent father.
Donald moved over to where Edison sat, clasping his tumbler in both hands to stop himself from shaking. He laid a hand on Edison’s shoulder, and the younger man felt its menacing weight. ‘You and I are the same, Eddie. Both dragged ourselves up from nothing, married ourselves into better families …’
‘You and I are nothing alike, Don,’ Edison growled.
There was a knock on the door, signalling the arrival of the tea, borne in by the housekeeper. The tray was deposited on the coffee table. Edison sat in a leather bucket chair on one side of the table whilst Sir Donald loomed over him. He hadn’t removed his hand. The housekeeper carefully poured two cups of tea into the fine bone china and without speaking, offered Edison the silver milk jug. He took it and poured a minuscule amount of milk into the tea. He watched it swirl into the brown, hot water. ‘Thank you,’ he muttered. The housekeeper bobbed her head in response and turned to Sir Donald.
‘Thank you,’ Donald said once they were both furnished with tea and generous slices of fruit cake. The housekeeper retreated from the room.
Donald released Edison’s shoulder and sat down in the leather wingback chair opposite Edison. He picked up his teacup and fixed Edison with a piercing gaze. ‘So, what is all this Edison? You’re back working for the Service. There are arrests
at the bank where you are, I assume, working undercover and then, out of the blue, you show up here, in my home, bandying accusations of terrorism at me.’
Edison flailed under the gaze of the older man. He was twenty-three again, desperate to impress the senior spy.
‘Maybe you really weren’t ready to return to the field, Eddie.’
The allegation seemed to focus Edison’s mind. He decided to appeal to Donald Hughes’ compassion. It must be buried in there somewhere, he thought. He sat up straight and met Donald’s eye. ‘You may have the morality of a snake, Don, when it comes to some of the decisions you have made, in both the distant and recent past. That is what sets us apart. But the one thing we do have in common is that we’re patriots, and whatever you’re mixed up in, you need to get out of it. I am telling you that in deference to everything you did for me. Before.’
‘How dare you come into my house and talk of deference,’ Hughes snarled. ‘You have accused me once, with disastrous consequences for us both. And now you have the audacity to do so again.’
‘I am not accusing you.’ Edison gritted his teeth. ‘I am offering you a warning.’
Edison knew the words had fallen on deaf ears even before Hughes spoke again. ‘I think it would be best, Scott Edison, if you were to leave my home. I do not believe we have anything more to say to one another.’
Edison bowed his head and shook it.
Sir Donald smiled a hyena’s smile and got to his feet. ‘It was a pleasure to see you Edison. The news of Eloise’s death and the circumstances under which you left the Service really did break my heart.’ It was as though the conversation that had passed between them had never occurred. The two men walked through the house, back to the front door. Both dogs followed obediently, and Donald ruffled Angus’s ears fondly.
‘It is strange,’ Donald said as they paused in the hallway, one hand on the front door, ready to open it, ‘how life goes. How bad luck befalls people.’ He was speaking wistfully but his gaze was trained on Edison, making him feel uncomfortable. ‘One does wonder sometimes, what you might have done to deserve such luck.’ Sir Donald opened the door, and with his words ringing in his ears, Edison bolted for his car.
He saw Sir Donald Hughes in his rear-view mirror as he accelerated along the potholed driveway, still in the doorway, his hand raised in a regal wave. Edison urged the car to go faster. When he looked again, Donald was gone.
*
Donald Hughes peeled the forced smile from his face and allowed a thunderous scowl to arrange itself in its place. He stomped through the hallway, ignoring his wife who was wafting down the stairs in the hope of some news of their departed guest.
‘Donald,’ Lady Elizabeth ventured, trying to engage her husband in conversation. But the heavy oak door to the study slammed as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and she retreated to the garden room.
But for the ticking of the carriage clock, the room was silent. Donald found himself shaking. He crossed the room to the drinks trolley. The glass stopper tinkled against the decanter as his tremulous hand removed it and he sloshed a sizable measure into a glass. Holding it to his lips, the golden liquid vanished in a single gulp, and he poured another. He jumped when Angus’ wet nose nuzzled his hand. His nerves were on edge. Edison’s visit had rattled him. The best spy he had ever worked with was on his trail. But what on earth was he talking about? Terrorist threats to London linked to the crypto fund at Penwill’s – it beggared belief. Anna couldn’t be caught up in something so dangerous. All they wanted, she and him, was the money. For him to escape the shackles of his marriage and begin a new life together. If that meant a few illicit imports of very profitable collateral, so be it. He’d only invested in the fund because she’d asked him to. He needed to protect his own interests. Divert Scott Edison’s considerable intellect away from him and his business affairs.
‘It’s not like it’s hurting anyone,’ Donald muttered. ‘Time to call in a favour.’
Donald picked up the telephone. He didn’t need a secure line for this particular call – he didn’t mind if this conversation was broadcast to the world – it was time to cause Scott Edison a good amount of discomfort. He dialled.
Chapter Seventeen
1546, Friday 7th July, Thames House, Westminster, London
‘Tell me everything,’ Kat demanded of Colin as she flew through the doors at Thames House.
‘Anna Graham,’ Colin said, his eyes shining, ‘was picked up as she tried to access the Barinak Holdings account at an ATM in Canary Wharf.’ He tailed Kat across the floor to the investigation board, which she surveyed with her hands on her hips.
‘We don’t have a picture of her.’ She pointed at the collection of mugshots of the Penwill & Mallinson’s team, clustered at one side of the board.
‘Can Edison tell us anything about her?’
‘Has the analyst you put on calling him got through to him?’ she spat at him with a degree of vehemence she regretted immediately. Edison’s disappearance was playing havoc with her emotions.
Colin held his hands up in mock surrender, ‘We’ve not managed to get through to him.’
‘Sorry,’ Kat muttered. She looked up to see Tanya advancing across the floor, weaving her way purposefully through the banks of analysts. She looked livid – her mouth set in a grim line, her eyes narrow. Kat turned to Colin and reeled off instructions, ‘Get in touch with Colchester, and tell him I’ll be there for the interview. Get me a picture of Anna up here too, and start digging into any possible links with Yousuf.’
‘My office, now.’ Tanya towered over Kat, delivered her missive and turned on her heels to stalk back to her office. Kat followed, thinking, what now?
*
1723, Friday 7th July, Carpenter’s Road, Stratford, London
Mo yawned loudly – the warm fug in the back of the car was almost overwhelming. The sweltering July day was slipping into a sweaty, claustrophobic evening. Early that morning, he, Nick and Doug had arrived at Carpenter’s Road, the first of the two addresses Kat had phoned through from Barinak Holdings.
‘Is this it?’ Mo asked as they pulled into the car park. He craned his neck to look up at the block of flats.
‘Yup,’ Doug said.
‘We’re interested in flat thirteen.’ Mo opened the door and hopped out, ‘I’ll go take a look.’
He strode across the car park toward the entrance of the tower block. He was examining the buzzer system when a young man pushed open the door from the inside. ‘Doesn’t work, bruv,’ he told Mo and held the door open for him to enter.
‘Thanks,’ Mo replied and went inside. He glanced around. The communal area was shabby and smelt faintly of urine. The brick staircase led up to a balcony, open to the elements, that wrapped around the building. Off the balcony, Mo counted five front doors. The second floor was a carbon copy, so Mo expected to find his target address on the next level.
The flat in question didn’t offer much to differentiate it from its neighbours. The paint on the front door was peeling, the windows were grimy, and Mo, not wanting to draw attention to himself, only took a cursory glance through them as he passed. The place was in darkness, and the curtains were pulled. Mo moved past the flat and kept on ascending, affecting the air of someone in search of a particular address. He considered the drawn curtains as he climbed the next flight of stairs. Would an empty flat have drawn curtains?
On the sixth floor, Mo shrugged for the benefit of any onlookers, to all intents and purposes, he had not found the address he was looking for, turned and jogged back down the stairs.
He got back in the car. Doug had been to a corner shop and handed Mo a coke. ‘Thanks,’ Mo said and took a long swig.
‘Anything?’ Doug asked.
‘No, the curtains are drawn. Pretty empty up there. Didn’t see anyone. If we pull round to the other side of the building, we can keep an eye on the door.’ Nick did as Mo recommended and parked the car in a shaded spot with sight lines to number thirteen, and th
e neighbours at number twelve, on the third floor.
‘And so, we wait,’ Nick said, sitting back and drawing on his can of Sprite.
But wait for what, Mo wondered. He busied himself, noting the details and plates of the handful of vehicles in the estate’s car park. A clapped-out Ford Escort that was almost as old as he was. A couple of hatchbacks. An expensive-looking estate car. And a white Ford Transit van bearing the insignia of an industrial laundry company called ‘LaunderLoad’. He called Colin at Thames House and gave him this information’ to run through the system, more in hope than expectation that there might be anything noteworthy about them.
Colin picked up his phone. He sounded harassed. ‘Everything ok?’ Mo asked.
‘The shit has well and truly hit the fan here,’ Colin replied.
‘What’s going on?’
‘The Home Secretary’s on the rampage.’
Mo glanced at his companions, who were listening with interest to his side of the conversation. He got out of the car, unwilling to share the Service’s troubles in public, ‘What's happened?’
‘Tanya was summoned to Whitehall with the DG not long ago …’ Mo heard Kat’s harried voice in the background and a reply from Colin. He came back on the line. ‘Listen, I have to go. Patch over those details, and I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not making any promises.’
Mo hung up the phone and shot an email with the vehicle details over to Colin with no expectation that he would be able to look at them.
From their roasting vantage point, the three men watched a handful of school-uniformed children arrive home at about 4.00 p.m. Shortly afterwards, a few of them reappeared, uniform shed in favour of jeans and football shirts, and kicked a ball around in the car park for a while. An hour later, from a lofty floor, a woman screeched a summons, and two of the boys disappeared inside, in search of their supper.
