by J B Holman
‘Yes, sir. That works for us.’
‘This is a matter of the greatest sensitivity. It is a moment in time that could change history; for the worse. I need to depend on you. It has to be handled like this. If you have any doubts, leave now and we will deal with it.’
‘No, sir. My team is discreet. We’ll handle it.’
‘Good. My team will pull out. Call me when it’s sorted. I’ll arrange for you and your team to meet the PM, so he can thank you personally.’
After exchanging respectful valedictions, Storrington, flanked by Captain de la Casa and followed by the team, marched with purpose down the track behind the house.
‘This is where he fell,’ announced the captain to the team, as they passed the spot. ‘We put a bullet through his head.’
The team had switched off all outside communication to maintain Operational Radio Silence. Storrington clicked Comms back on.
‘Sir,’ crackled the shaken voice of Hoy. ‘The Prime Minister is dead. His plane was shot down over France. We have a whole jumbo jet of witnesses that say they saw it. It’s already all over the news. There’s even a clip of the fireball aftermath on YouTube. It was the French. The French Air Force shot him down.’ Storrington cursed under his breath. He had failed in his prime duty as leader of the SSS.
Maria heard the transmission. She felt her failure hard. They had killed two assassins, but not saved the life of the Prime Minister. She would be cast out, back into the Syrian desert, by the only man she wanted to be close to.
Storrington seethed within. He wanted revenge, he wanted retribution. The episode at the cottage was too little, too late. What would Captain de la Casa think of him now?
‘One more thing,’ added Hoy. ‘We have Connor in custody, in Borden. How do you want her dealt with?’
‘Decisively! I’ll handle it.’
They approached the choppers. The team boarded. Storrington took off his headset and beckoned de la Casa to join him at a confidential distance from the team.
‘I have one more job for you. Drop the boys at the base and give them beer and whisky. Tell them they did good. There will be no repercussions. Then get back on the chopper. I need you in Borden. I need you to deal with Connor. Alone.’
She nodded. He gave her precise instructions. She boarded the chopper and was gone. Storrington made his way to his helicopter. Ten paces out, his phone rang, his personal phone. He stared at it. It never rang, not since Lewis died.
‘Storrington! It’s Julie Connor.’ His shock was palpable. ‘I’m in Borden. Get me out.’ She had asserted her right for her one phone call and had chosen Storrington. The transformation was complete. The self-effacing civil servant from Cheltenham had gone from invisible to invincible as she told the country’s most powerful man what to do. ‘You don’t want me talking to the people here. You need me there. Get me out.’
Storrington’s thoughts raced. How did she know they’d just been talking about her? How had she got his personal number? Who the hell did she think she was? His reply was curt.
‘First, you’re on the hit list; shoot-on-sight. Second, I don’t take orders from you.’
He hung up.
Two minutes later, the cell door clanked shut. Julie stared at the dark gloomy, windowless wall and realised that it might be the last room she would ever see.
The DI was on the ball. He cordoned off the house and kept his team on guard. As requested, he called Hoy, who agreed to handle the investigations. He cleared the scene before SOCO got there and asked two of his team to bag the body of the assassin, if SSS had not already done it. He knew Storrington was a powerful man, he had influence; the DI was determined to get a long overdue promotion out of this.
Foxx listened to the Prime Minister, his father, and watched the reaction of the PM’s chief and respected advisor, his mother. It was late and the whisky in his father’s hand was not his first.
‘I won’t stand down. I won’t give way to terrorists.’
‘Do you want to be Prime Minster?’ asked Foxx.
‘Hell no. Who would right now? I’d give it up tomorrow, if I could. But if I resign, it weakens our hand in the Brexit negotiations. It shows we’re in disarray. It would be even worse . . . if that’s possible.’
‘Actually, not really possible, to be honest.’ The PM’s Chief Advisor looked at him with deep maternal disapproval. ‘Sorry, I thought this was a family honesty session.’
‘But,’ continued the Prime Minister, ‘I don’t want to put you and the family at risk. And that scar-faced driver threatened everyone I know. Nor do I want to be remembered as the cowardly PM who ran away. There are times when duty supersedes desire.’ He was talking himself in circles.
‘If there was no Brexit and no terrorists and you had a free choice, what would you do?’ asked Foxx.
‘Retire.’
‘So you want to strengthen our Brexit negotiations, not give way to terrorists, keep the family safe, be a hero and retire.’
‘Yes. Impossible. I know.’
‘Not necessarily.’ A plan was forming the mind of the tactician whose parents thought he still called himself Simon and worked as an innocent administrator deep in the heart of the Civil Service. ‘What if we see it differently? What if the news is right? What if the French Air Force did shoot your plane down? How would that strengthen negotiations?’
‘That’s not what happened!’
‘It didn’t have to. We just need enough people to believe it did. There were French fighter planes right behind the jet when it blew up. And there’s a jumbo jet full of witnesses. And in the current jingoistic climate, we only need people to think it might be possible. Look at JFK.
‘True. People love a conspiracy theory. It would be an embarrassment that would put the French on the back foot. It would mean that the French killed two of my close protection guys and slaughtered Tenby, poor guy.’
‘And you, nearly. Embarrassing? It would be colossal. We would have them over a barrel. We could threaten war! We could bring a new negotiator in without a loss of face and they could start at the beginning again, on a totally different footing. It would reposition the defence negotiations completely. We could bring in a real tough ball. I have someone in mind who would do that very well.’
‘But that means the terrorists would still have won, and we’d have let the French take the blame.’
‘Don’t worry about them. The terrorists are finished.’ Foxx looked at his watch. ‘They’ll be dead or behind bars by now.’
‘You’re very well informed for a Foreign Officer researcher?’
‘Meh.’
‘Oh, do speak properly, dear,’ said his mother.
‘You want to be a hero?’ continued Foxx. ‘The plane was shot out of the air at 35,000 feet and everyone knows that you were on it. Let me tell you what happens next: you survived! Now that is a hero! And an honourable reason for retiring.’
‘Don’t be stupid, son. No one will believe that. It’s not possible.’
‘Really? What about, oh . . . what’s her name? That woman on the Yugoslavian DC9 that got blown out of the sky by a terrorist bomb in 1972, Vesna Vulović. She fell 33,000 feet and survived with two broken legs; and to stir up political enmity, the Croatians blamed the Czech Air Force. Or that Lancaster tail gunner in 1944, Nicholas Alkemade. He jumped at 18,000 feet with no parachute. True, he landed in fir trees, but when they found him, he was sitting in the snow completely unharmed, having a smoke, giving them the thumbs-up. You’ll be a hero; injured, but not dead. All you have to do is keep out of the way for six months, recovering. So off you go. Upstairs and pack.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Tonga.’
‘Tonga!’
‘Yes. It’s heaven.’ He thumbed through his screen and showed them pictures of paradise on earth. ‘And you’ll be completely incognito. You need a rest and you can catch up on all the things you always wanted to do. Come home when you’ve recovered, get knighted or lorded or
something and live your life in peace and harmony. It’s the perfect solution.’
The footsteps echoed up the long dark stone-floored corridor that led to the dark and dismal cell in a basement in Borden. The door to her prison opened. Julie waited for the figure of man, six foot four, with a gun in his hand. She turned, she looked up. It was a woman.
‘Are you Julie Connor?
‘Yes. Am I on your shoot-to-kill list?’
‘Yes . . .’
Julie nodded stoically.
‘. . . terday, but apparently not today. My name is Maria. Will you come with me, please?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Yes,’ said Maria looking round the hell hole she was holed up in. ‘You can stay here if you want.’
They marched together out of the building and strode across the concrete pad to the waiting helicopter. Thirty seconds later they were airborne and heading for Westminster.
Storrington’s chopper flew straight to Biggin Hill. The car took him to the door of the house of the Prime Minister’s widow. He knocked. She answered.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss. It’s a sad day.’
‘Not so much. The country’s loss is my gain,’ she said breezily. For the second time in an hour Storrington was taken aback. He’d never imagined that the Prime Minister’s gracious and beneficent wife was a lady so callous. But he pressed on. This was the address that Foxx had called him from and it was Foxx he’d been expecting to open the door.
‘Is Eduard Foxx here?’ he asked, as he stepped into the hall. The Prime Minister’s widow led him through to the drawing room.
‘No. I’m afraid I don’t know an Eduard Foxx, but please come through.’ And standing six foot tall by the fireplace was Eduard Foxx. ‘You don’t know my son, Simon, do you? He works for the Foreign Office.’
‘He’s your son?’
‘Yes, I am. Simon Palmer, pleased to meet you,’ said Foxx. They shook hands as Storrington’s brain raced to catch up.
‘I’m very sorry for what happened to your father,’ said Storrington.
‘Me too. Bloody liberty,’ came a familiar voice from the kitchen. The Prime Minister walked in with a fresh bottle. ‘Whisky, Commander?’
Foxx looked at the shock on the Commander’s face and added,
‘Best make it a double.’
34
The End
Julie Connor sat at a table in the middle of a large room, in the heart of a large building, in the epicentre of Westminster. She had been led down an old wooden staircase from the roof to the fourth floor, along a short corridor and into an interview room. There were no guards, she was not handcuffed, she could have attempted escape, but was disinclined. She sat, elbows on the table, head in hands, not dispirited just disinterested; not depressed just tired and hungry. She had done all she could do.
The door opened behind her. She couldn’t even be bothered to look up.
‘I have questions for you, Ms Connor,’ said a voice with an artificially aggressive tone. ‘You’ve got yourself into a lot of trouble over the last week: shooting people, perverting the course of justice with the promise of sexual favours, riding a stolen motorbike with no licence, hacking the DPM’s computer system and wasting police time in St James’ Park. And then you get yourself arrested under anti-terrorist legislation. All because you’re involved with Mr Foxx. You are involved with Mr Foxx, aren’t you?’
She gave no reply.
He went to the front of the table, pulled out a chair and sat. She didn’t look up. The voice became less formal and more familiar.
‘Because he’d be a very good person to be involved with, intimately and permanently, wouldn’t he?’
She knew that voice. She raised her head to see Eduard Foxx smiling right at her.
‘You bastard!’ She slapped his face.
‘What was that for?’
‘The list is way too long!’
She stood, grabbed his shirt, pulled him towards her and gave him a hug.
‘I’m pleased to see you. Is it all over?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did we win?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are we safe?’
‘Yes.’ She released the hug and sat back down
‘So, how have you been since I saw you this morning?’ asked Foxx.
‘Was it only this morning?’
‘Technically, it was afternoon.’
‘I’ve been fine, y’know, except for the being shot at, chased all over London, having my driver killed, crawling out of a car wreck on my hands and knees to escape the police and then prostituting myself to a shop full of bikers, hanging on for dear life at 140 mph, walking the gauntlet of entering my office, waiting forever to get the answers from my assistant, whose only thought was my sexual humiliation, getting nabbed by security and having to slip away to alert the authorities, then getting arrested by the Military Police, being roughed up a little, stuck in a dark dungeon where I feared for my life, expecting Blackheart to appear at any moment, and then I get dragged off in a helicopter to god knows where, sat in a room and you walk in acting like a tit. So based on my life since I met you, a pretty normal day really. How about you?’
‘My father died a bit, which was a bummer. But apart from that the day worked out alright.’ Shock transformed her face.
‘Oh my god, he died?’
‘Only a bit, and not for long,’ said Foxx, smiling.
‘I think you need to explain.’
‘The Prime Minister’s plane was over France, Tenby at the controls, and it blew up, but it didn’t, it was shot down, the jumbo jet said so. But it wasn’t shot down, it did blow up, no survivors, Tenby was terminated, threat eradicated. Luckily he was alone in the plane, so, also luckily or unluckily, we put the PM on board, all dead, all over the Press, they said it was the French Air Force, except it wasn’t. It was Blackheart who blew it up, notionally killing my father, except he was in Kent at home, so we decided that he fell 35000 feet.’
‘What, in Kent?’
‘No, in France,’
‘Where he wasn’t?’
‘Exactly. You’re getting it now. And he landed in a lake.’
‘Can you land in a lake, technically?’
‘Technically, he didn’t land because he never took off, but publically he will have fallen, landed, splashed and survived.’
‘And what about Blackheart?’
‘Dead. Storrington thumbed him to death and just to make sure, the lovely lady who brought you here put a bullet through his head.’
‘And Slaker?’
‘Mincemeat.’
At that point the door opened and Storrington strode into the room.
‘Hello, Miss Connor. You’ve been a complete pain in the ass. Pleased to meet you. Commander Storrington.’ He held out a hand.
‘A pleasure.’
She shook it.
‘C’mon both of you, to my office. Can I offer you coffee, whisky? ‘
‘I suppose a pizza is out of the question?’ piped up Julie.
‘So,’ he said, once they were sitting in his office. ‘D’you understand what’s going on?’
‘Foxx has explained it all,’ said Julie, ‘which means, overall, I haven’t got a clue.’
‘That’s a shame because the PM is going to need you to understand. Basically, this whole damn shooting match was not about assassination, it was about money. Bettie Slaker needed money to pay for her house and finance her retirement. She’s wanted revenge on her husband for a long time and her privileged access to his computer gave her the opportunity.’
‘I think it was more than that,’ said Julie, looking at Foxx for reassurance. ‘She was using Tenby for her own political ends.’ She explained about the legislation he had passed and the select committees he’d been working on. Foxx explained about the majority they would get with the centralist party. Julie explained how the legislation would be used against the freedom and rights of a disenfranchised section of the commun
ity. Foxx showed the list of names on his phone and explained what they were. Julie brought it all together in five words.
‘She was planning a coup.’
Storrington sat in silence, pulled a tin from his top drawer and took a pinch of snuff.
‘I need a copy of that list. It’s the garrison of our new open-air Antarctic Military Base.’
‘I didn’t know we had a base there.’
‘We don’t, but for these traitors, I’ll build one.’ He sniffed the snuff and gathered his thoughts. ‘Hoy is gathering evidence now. We found the Risk Assessment on her computer and souvenirs of each assassination attempt stored in her upstairs bedroom. We’re going through the forensics, but it looks like she’s been planning this for some while.’
‘So where’s the PM now?’ asked Connor.
‘In my flat,’ replied Storrington, ‘with his wife, resting before their long flight.’
‘Where’s he going?’
‘Tonga.’
She looked at Foxx, raised an eyebrow and said, ‘Have you never had an original thought of your own?’
‘Connor, I will need you for the next week to unravel this mess. Then I have a temporary secondment for you, a special assignment supporting the ex PM over the next six months.’
‘Foxx, I have a vacancy in my senior team. My Head of Planning and Strategy has been assassinated. I want you to consider taking his post. You start by going to France tomorrow, as a special liaison to - how can I say - guide the investigations appropriately. You’ll be back next Friday.
Connor, we’ve reserved a room for you in the Marriot Hotel across the bridge. Foxx will show you how to get out of here. There’s a car downstairs waiting for you and a pizza on its way to your room. And . . . Thank you.’
Foxx led her to the front door.
