by N C Mander
‘Want a drink, Edison?’ Colin offered.
‘Cup—’ Edison began, but Colin interrupted him with a grin.
‘Of tea, of course. Why did I even ask?’
Edison smiled. While he waited, he checked his phone. There was a message from Charlie. Edison dialled his voicemail. ‘Edison, I’m sure I saw you on the news. There’s always some idiot with an iPhone filming these things rather than making themselves scarce like any sensible human being would. Everything ok? We’re on the road but will be back in London around supper time. Call me.’
Edison speed-dialled Charlie, and he picked up within a ring. ‘Edison – what can you tell me? Are you ok? Is Kat ok?’
‘We’re both fine. Where are you?’
‘Somewhere around Watford Gap. What about you?’
‘If I told you that, I’d have to kill you,’ Edison joked. They both laughed. Kat appeared and pointed toward Tanya’s office. ‘Listen, Charlie, I have to go.’
‘Ok – call me later on, Eddie.’
‘Will do.’ He hung up and followed Kat into Tanya’s office where Jock, leaning heavily on a crutch, and Mo were waiting with the head of section. Colin followed, thrusting a cup of tea – exactly as he liked it – into Edison’s hand.
‘Is Tony ok?’ Edison asked of Mo.
‘Very shaken up. I’ve left them with Jenny,’ Mo said, referring to a matronly analyst who’d been with the Service for over thirty-five years.
‘Shall we sit down?’ said Tanya, and they all took seats around the conference table. ‘First of all, well done. We’ve avoided any civilian loss of life.’ A frisson of apprehension circled the room at her use of the word ‘civilian’.
‘Is there any news on Nick Walsh’s condition?’ Mo asked the question on everybody’s mind.
‘Not as yet. My last report stated that he’s in a critical condition at St George’s.’ She paused to allow the team to absorb the news but didn’t linger on it. ‘Kat, what are our top operational priorities from here?’
‘Finding Murat Yousuf. Identification of the three bombers and investigation into any connections or sleepers they might be associated with.’
‘Do we have reason to believe there are more waiting in the wings?’
‘No, all our intelligence points to these three working alone, but a conversation with Yousuf could corroborate this. We believe they, all three, were brought into the country via the Grimsby fishing racket. And there’s no suggestion that any more have come through that way.’
‘You mention Yousuf. He’s been pulling the strings, is that right?’ Tanya directed her question at Colin.
‘Yes. Barinak Holdings – the property company linked to both addresses we found – the CEO, Murat Yousuf, alias of Kerim Dastan, is behind this.’
‘And how does Yousuf connect with the woman we have in custody?’
‘Evidence at her flat suggests they were lovers,’ Kat said. ‘Anna’s flatmate, Christoph, had been manipulating the trading algorithm at Penwill’s.’
‘And Murat Yousuf was a cover name for Kerim Dastan, whose brother was found murdered in a packing crate last summer,’ Colin continued.
‘What’s the link there?’ Tanya asked. ‘Do we have any idea what his motivations are?’
‘We know, from the background on the investigation into Metin’s death, that Kerim had some shady business activities to his name, but his profile doesn’t bear the hallmarks of an Islamic fundamentalist.’
Kat shook her head and shrugged. ‘Motive is still a mystery.’
There was silence in the office. Outside, dusk was closing in on the city, and the clock on the wall told them it was almost nine in the evening.
‘Jock, Mo, Colin, that will be all,’ Tanya dished out the instruction, prompting Jock to hobble after Mo and Colin as they left the room.
Tanya turned to Edison and Kat, ‘I need you two focused on Yousuf.’ Edison sat up a little straighter as he received the instruction. He couldn’t quite believe he was back at the heart of the team. He stood, preparing to leave. ‘But before you go,’ Tanya went on. Something in her tone made Edison’s spirits sink, ‘We need to talk about what happened on Friday.’
Edison’s legs buckled, and he felt the full weight of the day’s fatigue as he sat back down. Kat perched on the edge of her seat, looking from Tanya to Edison with concern. Tanya’s lips were set in a thin line. She looked stern. ‘I have moved heaven and earth to get you back on the Grid, Scott Edison,’ she began gravely. ‘Today’s heroics, your role in unmasking the Penwill’s mole and the location of the attack have been enough to deflect the worst of the criticisms I’ve fielded in the past couple of days.’
Edison shifted in his seat.
‘But I can’t have you gallivanting across the country and dragging old beefs into investigations.’ Edison opened his mouth to speak, but she held up her hand, ‘You have to promise me you’ll set aside your grudge against the former DG.’
Edison bowed his head. His mind was racing. What mattered more to him? Returning to MI5 as an intelligence officer or pursuing his vendetta against Hughes? He longed to see him face the punishment he deserved, but in that moment, sat in Thames House, with the dust of the day’s atrocities still a patina on his skin, he knew what he had to do.
‘I promise,’ he said.
As they all stood up to leave, Tanya slid a security badge on a lanyard across the table toward him. ‘Make sure you get a more recent photograph taken as soon as possible.’
The brittle plastic of the security pass felt warm in his hand. He snuck a look at it. A much younger version of himself looked back from the mugshot – his features chiselled and dark hair coiffed. It was a far cry from the jowly jawline and tousled salt-and-pepper mop he sported now. As Edison walked from the office, he felt dazed. Those around him made congratulatory and welcome-back noises. He realised, with a rushing sense of relief, his time in exile was over. It truly felt like he was home.
*
2136, Sunday 9th July, Thames House, Westminster, London
The exhausted team gathered around Kat’s desk. Kat’s T-shirt was still bloodstained, and her hair was matted with dust. Despite her dishevelled appearance, her eyes were bright and alert. ‘Ok, Mo, Jock, time to go home. Get some rest.’
Neither of the exhausted officers objected. Kat offered Colin an apologetic look. ‘Is Pete expecting you home?’ she asked, referring to Colin’s long-suffering partner.
‘He knows better than to expect to see me, with headlines like today,’ Colin replied, smiling. ‘What shall I work on? The bomber IDs?’
‘You read my mind. Is Helen still around?’
‘Yes, I think I saw her lurking in the kitchen – hopefully, she’s caffeine’d up for this,’ Colin grinned.
‘She only recently left Oxford, she’ll be primed for an all-nighter.’
‘This is no Keats essay crisis though.’
‘Much more exciting,’ Edison joined the conversation. He’d been perched on the desk, listening to Colin and Kat’s banter.
‘Very true,’ Colin said.
‘I need a change of clothes,’ Kat said. ‘What do you think on how to smoke out Yousuf?’ she directed the question at Edison. ‘I’ll leave that with you to ponder whilst I go get changed.’
Edison looked dazed. The speed with which he had gone from expendable agent at the periphery of the investigation to being on the front line was unbalancing him.
Kat hurried away to her locker, smiling to herself. The Edison of old, Head-of-Section-Edison, had been so calm, inscrutable and well put together. His response to being invited back onto the Grid was endearing.
Whilst he waited for Kat to return, Edison drank in the familiar buzz. Colin watched him. ‘It’s good to have you back.’
‘It’s weird to be back.’ Edison daren’t say he was pleased yet. He couldn’t yet admit that to himself. It would leave him too vulnerable, should he be relegated off the team once the reality of Kat and Tanya’s adrenalin
-fuelled decisions become clear. ‘So, what do we think on tracking down Yousuf? One of the Barinak Holdings properties?’
‘That’s a great shout, Edison. There were three addresses that Natalie—’ the name of their dead colleague caught in his throat and Colin swallowed hard. He took a deep breath before continuing, ‘That Natalie found.’ He gestured at the board.
‘Twenty Danesdale Road,’ Edison read.
Kat reappeared. Her hair brushed, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. The T-shirt fitted her in all the right places, Edison thought, appraising her figure in the simple outfit. He checked the thought as it crossed his mind. If this was a permanent return to the Service, Edison would need to deal with his emotional entanglement with the senior officer. ‘Do you have an answer for me?’ she said.
Edison pointed at the address.
Kat’s face lit up, ‘Of course.’ She snatched a set of keys from her desk, ‘Let’s go.’
Edison ran after her as she hurtled from the building into the night.
*
2142, Sunday 9th July, Thames House, Westminster, London
Mo left Thames House, deep in thought. He crossed the road and looked out over the dark waters of the Thames, smoking a cigarette. The high tide brought the water up to only a few feet below the balustrade on which he was leaning. The lights of the expensive flats on the opposite side of the river danced over the water, reflecting in Mo’s eyes as he considered the day’s events. His mind raced to the image of Nick Walsh being stretchered away from the scene, bloody and barely breathing, clinging to life.
To his left, the great bell of Big Ben began to chime, telling all those within earshot that it was quarter to ten. Mo considered the time, and spotting the orange light of an approaching black cab, raised his hand. He stubbed out his cigarette as the taxi slowed, and the driver wound down his window. ‘Where to, mate?’ he asked.
‘St George’s Hospital.’
The driver nodded, and Mo opened the rear door, knowing that the taxi was an extravagance his finances could ill afford. The Service paid well in job satisfaction, but the material compensation was sadly lacking. The taxi pulled away and made quick work of the drive to Tooting. London was beginning to come alive again after the day’s events, but still, the roads were emptier than usual, and only occasionally did Mo see an intrepid pedestrian on the pavements.
‘Days like today, make you wonder, don’t they,’ the driver said, and Mo looked up, feigning interest. ‘Whether it’s worth it? You know, I have a place in Barcelona. Always said to the missus that we’d go there more when I retire, but I couldn’t move there, you know, with the kids and the grandkids being here. But sometimes, I think maybe we’d be better off upping sticks completely. It would be safer there.’ Mo nodded not wanting to dispute the driver’s claim that somehow the Catalan capital would be a safer place to live. Mo had been seconded to MI6 for a short period to work on an investigation the previous year when a link had been discovered between a British group, formerly known to the security services for their sponsorship of the IRA, to terrorism in the region of Spain so heavily divided in its battle for independence. There had been some minor scuffles and suggestions of a plot to target a largely British ex-pat condo complex, but the investigation had been wound down. He wondered what the taxi driver would make of that.
They drove south through Stockwell, Clapham and Balham. The driver chatted incessantly, and Mo nodded, on autopilot, having long tuned out the sound. The taxi pulled into the car park at St Georges. Mo thanked the driver, tipping him as generously as his stretched finances would allow, and got out.
‘Could you direct me to ICU, please?’ Mo asked of a bored-looking administrator at the information desk inside the hospital’s cavernous atrium.
‘Is there a particular patient you’re looking for?’
‘Nick Walsh.’
‘The policeman? Are you family?’
‘A colleague,’ Mo explained, hoping that would be sufficient to justify a visit at this late hour.
The woman behind the desk sat up a little straighter, believing Mo to be another police officer. ‘Down the hall, to the end of the corridor and then take the lifts to the third floor. The nurses’ station is on the right as you come out.’
‘Thank you,’ Mo said and set off, following the instructions she had given.
He emerged onto the third floor and found the nurses’ station. He was met by three uniformed women. ‘I’m looking for Nick Walsh,’ he explained.
All three gave him a sympathetic look, and the oldest of them, reaching out and grasping Mo’s hand, said, ‘Mr Walsh passed away half an hour ago. I’m so sorry.’
Mo felt limp. He looked up and down the corridor as if looking for an escape. He saw a buggy parked outside one of the rooms, and his thoughts flew to Nick’s wife and baby. He began to run toward it, ignoring the protestations from the nurses. He heard one of them begin their pursuit. He reached the buggy to find it empty. He looked up and his eyes were drawn through a window into a room where Nick was lying peacefully beneath a white sheet, his eyes closed, the wounds on his head and neck cleaned and sutured. Beside him sat a young woman, Shelley, Nick’s wife, her face red and raw, tearstains streaking her cheeks. Her unseeing gaze was fixed on the face of her husband. The baby was asleep, laid carefully next to Nick’s lifeless body.
Mo gasped, he felt like a weight was pressing on his chest, and his eyes filled with tears. He pummelled a fist against the window, anger flowing through him. The nurse who had followed him begged him to stop. At the sound, Shelley slowly turned her head to look in his direction. She cocked her head, looking confused by the presence of the stranger. Wishing he hadn’t drawn attention to himself, he opened the door. He felt guilty for intruding on the young family’s moment of grief.
‘I’m sorry, I work with Nick,’ Mo said simply.
‘Were you there today?’ Shelley whispered. Mo was taken aback by the question.
‘Yes, I was,’ Mo spoke quietly, conscious of the sleeping baby. He took a couple of cautious steps into the room. The nurse hovered at the door.
‘He loved that job,’ Shelley said, looking at her husband. ‘It was everything to him.’
Mo didn’t know what to say. At twenty-four he had not really experienced death. He recalled his grandfather dying when he was ten years old, but he couldn’t remember much about that. The rest of his family had been blessed with longevity, his other three grandparents were still going strong, well into their eighties. He felt woefully ill-equipped to deal with the situation.
Shelley reached out a hand and laid it on her husband’s. On instinct, Mo moved across the room and sat down on the armrest of the uncomfortable visitor’s chair. Shelley withdrew her hand and leaned into Mo. He encircled the woman beside him in his arms, and she shuddered as a gargantuan sob escaped her body. Mo cradled Nick’s widow in his arms as she cried. He looked up. The nurse had disappeared.
When the tears finally subsided and Shelley had sat motionless in Mo’s embrace for a while, she spoke, her voice barely more than a whisper, ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘Do you have any family?’ Mo asked, thinking practically for the first time since the nurses had broken the news of Nick’s death to him.
‘My parents are on their way up from Crawley. Nick’s family are in Hull. They won’t be here until tomorrow.’
As if summoned, a couple in their late fifties appeared in the doorway and rushed toward their daughter. Mo stepped out of the way and watched as Shelley’s father enveloped his daughter in a bear hug. Her mother carefully picked up the baby and cradled her granddaughter in her arms.
Mo tiptoed from the room and down the corridor. He forced a watery smile for the two nurses, still keeping guard at their station and hurried out of the hospital, grateful for the cool night air that met him. He paused, his legs giving way beneath him, and he staggered toward a low wall where he sat and allowed the grief and the horrors of the day to release from inside him. He cried.
His shoulders shuddered and his head ached.
‘Are you ok?’ a woman’s voice cut through his sobbing. He rubbed his eyes and recognised the older nurse from the ward, standing nearby, puffing away on an electronic cigarette.
Mo pushed his shoulders back and collected himself, ‘I’ll be ok.’
‘Did you work with him?’ she asked.
‘Yes, in counter-terrorism.’
The nurse nodded. ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ she went on, flicking the switch on her vape stick and turning to go back into the hospital. ‘I’m so bloody glad that you do though.’ She smiled at him and retreated.
Mo smiled. He took a deep breath, collecting himself. He called Kat but didn’t get a reply. He left a voicemail, letting her know that Nick had passed away. He trudged off into the night. Unable to face the circuitous night bus route that would get him home to New Cross, he walked the eight miles and fell into bed three hours later.
Chapter Twenty-Four
2219, Sunday 9th July, 20 Danesdale Road, Hackney
‘Tell me you’ve still got that pistol on you,’ Kat said as they pulled up around the corner from their target property. Edison nodded. She looked relieved. She reached into the back seat of the car. ‘Here, put this on.’ She thrust a stab vest at Edison and grabbed a second for herself. Edison pulled the body armour over his bulky frame and breathed in to do the clasps up. It was an uncomfortable fit.
With a mounting feeling of expectation, the pair made their way along the dark residential street until they found number twenty. It was a modern, pale-brick, three-storey terraced house. On the ground floor, a battered garage door sat crookedly on its hinges to the left of the front door. Above, the house was in darkness. Kat walked to the front door and listened.
‘Nothing,’ she whispered as Edison joined her. She laid a gloved hand on the handle. It turned, but the door didn’t move. ‘Let’s try the garage.’
To Edison’s astonishment, the garage door slid open, screeching on its wonky runners as it did. Somewhere, a city fox responded with a shriek of its own. As the noise subsided, they both strained to pick up any sign that the cacophony had raised unwanted attention. Still the house lay silent.
