by Adrian Wills
‘Hold tight,’ said Blake. As he rammed his foot onto the accelerator and the van raced towards the police car, his hand closed around River’s seatbelt buckle and released it with his thumb.
Blake braced, locking his arms and shoulders, hoping the police officers would have the sense to jump clear. He could only pray Jenni wouldn’t be too badly hurt.
Chapter Five
Blake stared at the open window over the sink and wondered how he could have been so stupid. He should never have let Jenni out of his sight. She’d played him and won, and now she was gone. If she was picked up by the police his mission would have failed as surely as if he’d allowed her to become caught up in the protests. He had to find her, and fast.
He peered out into a narrow alley piled high with bags of stinking rubbish. ‘Jenni!’ he called out.
The woman with the toddler stood watching in the doorway with her mouth open.
‘Sorry, it’s out of action,’ Blake muttered, barging past and noticing the door hanging off one hinge.
Everyone in the coffee shop had fallen silent, watching. A Japanese teenager in a baseball cap and a ‘I Love London’ hoodie was even filming on his mobile phone. Great, just what Blake needed, his face plastered all over the internet.
He reached the exit in a dozen hurried strides, but as he yanked open the door he almost bumped into a policeman. The young officer, ruddy cheeked and fresh-faced, began to step aside, but hesitated as he looked Blake up and down, taking in his scruffy clothes and matted hair.
‘Back up, please, Sir,’ he said, his hand reaching for a baton clipped to his belt.
Shit.
‘What’s the problem, officer?’ said Blake. He’d not seen a mirror for the best part of two days, but knew he looked a mess and by now the descriptions of the man and woman who’d fled the scene of a crash involving a police vehicle near the Bank of England had no doubt been circulated to every officer in the vicinity.
‘Turn around, lie on the floor and keep your hands where I can see them,’ the officer said, glancing briefly over his shoulder, which suggested to Blake his partner was somewhere close. They never operated alone.
Blake edged back inside the cafe with his hands raised, aware he had an audience, and that the Japanese teenager was about to get the sort of footage he imagined would probably go viral.
‘Okay, take it easy.’ Blake stooped and bent one knee as if he was going to get on the floor, but instead lunged at the officer, jabbing two fingers into his windpipe just below his chin.
The cop gasped, his eyes opening wide with shock and pain. He dropped to his knees, struggling to breathe and his baton clattered to the ground. Blake took him by the elbow and helped him down.
‘Try not to panic,’ he said. ‘You’ll be fine in a minute or two.’
Blake left him clasping his throat and approached the teenager with the phone. With a disarming smile, he snatched it out of his hand and found four video clips, a little shaky but clear enough for the world to be able to identify him. Not good.
‘What you just saw didn’t happen.’ With four quick swipes of his finger he deleted each of the clips. ‘Enjoy the rest of your day,’ he said, handing the phone back.
A moment later, Blake was out on the street, scanning for Jenni among the tourists, office workers and shoppers bustling along the road. To his right, he saw another police officer emerge from a shop, so turned left and broke into a slow jog, pushing his way unapologetically past anyone in his way.
Ahead he saw a slim, boyish figure dressed in black. Jenni had her hands in her pockets and her head down. Blake caught up with her as she slipped into a side street where the pavement narrowed, and the crowds were thinner. She squealed when he grabbed her arm and guided her into a doorway.
‘Neat move,’ he said.
‘What do you want?’ she snapped.
‘You really want to do this the hard way?’
‘How many times? I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t even know you.’ She pushed him away and walked on.
Blake counted to five, giving her time to think he was letting her go. Then he turned with a sigh and caught up with her again. With a heavy hand on her shoulder he pulled her violently backwards and took her off balance. He caught her in his arms and whispered in her ear. ‘From now on, you’re going to do exactly as I tell you,’ he said, speaking in a slow, measured tone when he was sure she was under. ‘You’re going to follow my precise commands without question or resistance. Do you understand?’
Jenni’s eyes had fluttered closed. She nodded slowly.
‘Good,’ said Blake. ‘Then finally we’re making progress. This is all for your own good, you know, so stop giving me grief.’
He’d not planned on putting her into a hypnotic trance, but he’d had a gut full of her whining, especially after a long night without much sleep. He’d normally only use shock hypnosis in interrogation situations, but she’d tested his limits. Enough was enough.
His methods were similar to those employed by stage hypnotists who also used sudden shock disorientation to put volunteers into an instant dreamlike trance. Few people, however, understood the full potential of induced hypnosis for loftier purposes, and most believed it was impossible to put someone into a trance against their will. Blake knew otherwise, and specifically how hypnosis could be used to extract information from people who had secrets to hide.
Years spent with a Special Forces black ops unit developing and crafting his methods meant he now possessed a virtually fool proof interrogation tool. It was quick, painless and success was almost one hundred per cent guaranteed, unlike more orthodox methods. It didn’t matter what age, gender, race or religion, almost everyone’s brain reacted in the same way. When unexpectedly disorientated, like suddenly falling, a huge electrical spike travels from the brain stem, through the mid-brain and on into the cortex, leaving the subconscious wide open to suggestion and programming. Under hypnosis, his subjects became putty in his hand.
‘Right, Jenni, you can open your eyes now. You’ll be fully conscious and aware of everything going on around you, but you will not resist me. I’m going to take you home, back where you belong.’
Jenni’s eyes peeled open. She blinked several times and looked around as if she was emerging from a deep sleep.
‘Do you have a phone?’ Blake asked, remembering he still needed to contact Patterson.
She shook her head. ‘River doesn’t like us to have mobile phones,’ she said.
‘Come on, seriously?’
He took her by the elbow and steered her back onto the main street where a row of cars were parked along the kerb. Mostly anonymous saloons, Mercedes, Alfas and the odd Lexus. Perfect for a quick getaway.
Casually, Blake tried the doors of each car in turn, disappointed but not surprised to find they were all locked. Even with Jenni under his spell, he couldn’t risk taking public transport. He needed a car.
A black Audi, one of the bigger models polished to such a high sheen it looked as if it had just come off the showroom forecourt, and probably owned by one of the rich financiers River and his cronies were so keen to bring down, accelerated through a set of traffic lights towards them.
Through the light reflecting off its windscreen, Blake made out the silhouette of the driver. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and tie and wearing round-rimmed glasses. He looked like a businessman travelling alone. No wife or kids, so no added complications.
‘Stop!’ Blake darted out into the road waving his arms. The Audi lurched to a halt inches from Blake’s legs. ‘Help me,’ he said, sliding around to the driver’s door and pulling it open. ‘My daughter’s ill. I need to get her to a hospital urgently.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
Blake reached into the car and grasped the man’s wrist, wrenching his hand backwards until he howled in pain.
‘I’m sorry, Sir, I need you to get out of the car. It’s a national emergency. You’ll be compensated for the inconvenienc
e.’
‘You can’t just take my car.’
Blake bent his hand back further and the man’s face twisted in agony. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, unbuckling his seatbelt and staggering into the road.
‘Jenni, get in,’ said Blake as he escorted the man to the pavement and forced him onto his knees. ‘How’s your memory for numbers?’
‘What?’
‘You’ll need to make a call to get your car back.’ Blake reeled off a telephone number for an unlisted Government claims hotline they used in situations like this. They’d arrange for the car to be returned, any damage repaired, a full valet carried out and a small compensation payment made to smooth things over and buy the guy’s silence.
Blake left the businessman slumped on the ground clutching his limp right hand as he jumped into the Audi and pulled away with a screech of tyres. The leather seats creaked as he shifted his weight and adjusted the mirrors. ‘Are you okay?’
Jenni sat staring out of the windscreen, her hands tucked under her thighs. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Right, let’s get you home.’
Blake snatched a mobile phone from a cradle attached to the dashboard and tossed it into Jenni’s lap. ‘I need you to call someone for me,’ he said.
Jenni expertly dialled with two thumbs as he reeled off Patterson’s number. The call connected through the car’s speakers. After three booming rings, Patterson answered.
‘I’ve got the girl.’
‘About time,’ said Patterson. ‘What’s your ETA?’
‘We still meeting in the same place?’
‘Yes, I just need to pick up her father.’
‘In which case, I reckon about forty minutes with the traffic.’
‘I’ll see you there.’
The call disconnected as Patterson hung up, and Blake slowed for a set of traffic lights turning red. As they sat waiting, he turned to check on Jenni. She was pale and shaking. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ he asked, touching her arm.
She flinched and turned to him with tears streaking her cheeks. ‘Please, don’t make me go back. You have no idea what my father’s like. You don’t know what he’ll do to me.’
Chapter Six
Henry Bowater emerged from a smart townhouse in an expensive part of town shrugging on a suit jacket and adjusting his tie. He brushed past a pair of armed police guards on the doorstep and hurried towards three black Range Rovers with darkened glass waiting with engines running.
‘Good morning, Sir,’ said Harry Patterson with a deferential nod.
A muscular personal protection officer with dark glasses and a suit jacket that strained across his wide shoulders guided Bowater into the back of the middle vehicle and shut the door.
Patterson jumped in the other side. ‘As you’ll have heard, we’ve located Jenni,’ he said, disguising his irritation that Bowater seemed more interested in his mobile phone than the update on his daughter. But he was a busy man with a lot on his plate, especially with the anti-capitalist protests turning violent across the city.
‘Well, about time.’
The convoy of cars took off at high speed with blue lights blazing from behind their radiator grilles.
‘She’s with one of our operatives en route to the agreed rendezvous.’
Bowater had been insistent that his reunion with his daughter should be at a neutral location, and not at his home. Patterson guessed he was worried about the paparazzi snatching an unfortunate snap of his wayward child.
‘Christ, have you seen this?’ Bowater flashed his phone briefly in Patterson’s face. ‘They’re rioting through Trafalgar Square now, and it’s getting worse.’
‘I did see that, yes, Sir.’
‘Still, looks like it’s the same in Paris. Berlin, and Madrid too.’
Patterson wondered if Bowater was really that surprised. The national day of protest had been publicised weeks in advance and been the talk of most news channels for the last few days. He must have been briefed on what to expect. ‘I’m sure it’ll blow over once they’ve let off a bit of steam,’ Patterson said.
‘I hope so because this country has bigger problems to worry about than a bunch of jobless no-hopers attacking Harrods. Have you seen this, Tony?’ Bowater thrust his phone at his personal protection officer in the front seat.
Tony glanced around briefly to look at the news website Bowater was trying to show him before returning his attention to the road ahead. ‘We should lock ‘em all up and throw away the key,’ he said, in a gruff, deep voice.
Bowater busied himself composing a message with two thumbs as rows of terraced houses flashed past.
‘At least your daughter’s safe,’ said Patterson.
‘Where did you find her?’
‘In a squat in Highgate with some of the protesters. We sent in one of our best men to bring her out quietly.’
‘You know that girl’s been nothing but trouble from the day she was born. Do you have children?’ Patterson shook his head. ‘One of your best men, you say?’
‘That’s right, Sir.’
‘Tell me about him.’ Bowater finally put his phone down.
‘Sir?’
‘This man of yours. Who is he?’
Patterson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I can’t really tell you. His identity’s classified, but like I said, he’s one of the best.’
‘Yes, but you can tell me.’
Patterson glanced at the driver and Bowater’s PPO, whose head was pivoting left and right, constantly scanning for threats.
‘Don’t worry about them,’ said Bowater. ‘Their ears are closed. They have my complete trust.’
‘Of course,’ said Patterson, a hot flush rising from his neck. He ran a finger around the collar of his starchy, white shirt. He still hated having to wear a suit after a career spent dressed in military fatigues. Life in MI5, with its peculiar rituals and habits seemingly still run by a closed shop of ex-Etonians, remained alien to him.
‘So? Does he have a name?’
‘Yes, but officially he doesn’t exist. He’s a deniable asset. A ghost.’
Bowater raised an eyebrow. ‘Which would make him unaccountable for his actions,’ he said, with a snide smile and a tone that made it sound like a threat.
‘On the contrary. He’s accountable to me, and ultimately the Deputy Director General.’
‘But he’s off the grid?’
‘In a sense, yes.’
‘I see.’
‘We live in extraordinary times which sometimes call for extraordinary measures,’ said Patterson. ‘Don’t you want to know how your daughter is?’
‘Tell me about Echo 17.’
Patterson swallowed hard and fought to keep his expression neutral. ‘Sir?’
‘That’s the unit you command, isn’t it, Patterson? I mean, do correct me if I’m wrong.’
‘I wasn’t aware you’d been briefed on the programme.’
‘Programme?’
Patterson bit his tongue. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid —’
‘Echo 17 was a covert black ops squadron run out of Hereford until 2012, when it was supposedly disbanded,’ said Bowater. ‘Its primary role was as an intelligence unit which specialised in the interrogation of anyone you thought you had the right to squeeze for information, usually in the kinds of places the British military wouldn’t normally be welcome.’
‘You’re very well informed.’ Patterson wondered how the hell he knew so much.
‘But the unit was never fully disbanded, was it?’
‘The army formally terminated Echo 17 in 2012, just like you said.’
‘No, not terminated,’ said Bowater. ‘Transferred. Control of the unit was merely handed over to MI5, with you still at its helm, and from the sound of things still very much operational and employing the same unscrupulous practices as when it was run by the SAS.’
‘Terrorists threatening this country don’t play by the rules, Sir. Sometimes it’s necessary to fight fire with fire. I would
have thought you, of all people, would appreciate that. This country has never been more vulnerable to attack. Echo 17’s sole purpose is to neutralise those attacks before they become a reality. But the nature of the work means its existence has to remain a closely-guarded secret.’
‘It means you’re a law unto yourselves and that makes me very uncomfortable.’
‘Don’t you want to keep this country safe, Sir?’
‘Don’t you dare question my patriotism. We’re both military men. We’ve both put our lives on the line for Queen and country, but you can’t just take the law into your own hands.’
Military? Patterson had no idea Bowater had a background in the forces. He made a mental note to find out more. ‘With respect I’m not sure you fully understand the nature of Echo 17, Sir.’
‘Then please enlighten me.’
‘We’re a small unit, dealing specifically in intelligence as part of the security service’s domestic counter-terrorism mission. On the whole, we concentrate on embedding agents into suspected terror cells to either disrupt them or gather intelligence. That’s it. Our techniques allow us to operate deep undercover in a way that’s never been possible before. It’s true we operate covertly, but there’s nothing sinister about it.’
‘Can you at least tell me his name?’
‘Sir?’
‘The agent who saved my daughter.’
The driver glanced over his shoulder. ‘We’re five minutes away from the rendezvous, Sir.’
Bowater nodded, his eyes never shifting from Patterson’s face. ‘The least I can do is thank him personally for what he’s done.’
Patterson sighed. The guy wasn’t going to let it go. ‘His name’s Blake,’ he said. ‘Tom Blake.’
Chapter Seven
‘You’re only young,’ said Blake. ‘You need to be at home with your family.’ He’d never been comfortable with women crying and Jenni was no exception. But whatever was going on at home, it wasn’t his problem. His job was to return her safely to her parents. He wasn’t interested in why she’d felt the need to run away.
