by Guy Roberts
Sir Johnathon looked up to see footage of the party he had been at only minutes before. Highgrove cycled through a number of camera views and Sir Johnathon had a few glimpses of the crowds and treasures of Apsley House before the screen settled on the vision of the nearly empty basement, showing a swarthy figure running his hands over the central pillar of the room with a look of almost comical confusion.
‘Who on earth is that?’ Sir Johnathon frowned mildly. ‘He was not there when I arrived.’
There was a murmur as Jack and Cleo entered the frame, followed by a shout of surprise as the man pulled a gun on Jack and was felled in one savage blow. People stared with tense expressions as the man was trussed up and dragged off screen.
‘Tell the forensics crew to look for that man.’ Brice spoke sharply. Highgrove quickly relayed his instructions as the rest of the room watched the footage in silence. Sir Johnathon saw himself emerged on the screen talking into his phone.
‘That was you on the phone, Ms Highgrove.’ Sir Johnathon announced. ‘They turned it off, but put a location-trace on that cell-phone, priority A1,’ he ordered. ‘They will probably throw it down the next drain they find, but if it ever does get turned back on again I want us to know straight away.’ He sat back and continued to watch the tableau unfold, eyes narrowing at the confrontation with Starling. The angle of the camera gave no clue to what the pair was looking for around the pillar, nor did Cleo’s minute bomb register on the footage. Seconds later, Jack and Cleo were striding swiftly from the room, for all the world like an attractive couple leaving a party for some more glamorous field of play.
‘Pause it there,’ Sir Johnathon declared decisively. The movement on the screen ceased, leaving a clear image of the faces of both Starling and the woman, just before they would have disappeared from view beneath the camera. Starling was looking straight ahead, eyes dark and rugged face taught with strength. There was a lithe elegance to the woman’s features which suggested a formidable determination. His eyes flickered across to Highgrove. As he had suspected, the trim brunette was frowning at the black and white screen shot of the blonde woman with a hypercritical eye.
‘The girl from the library,’ Brice declared heavily. ‘Like I thought – a Russian contact in cahoots with Jack Starling. Blonde hair and cheekbones like that, she’s got to be his Muscovite controller.’
From where he was sitting he didn’t see Highgrove roll her eyes in exasperation.
‘Time to go public?’ Sir Johnathon looked to him questioningly.
‘Not yet,’ Brice decided after a moment. ‘Police only, no media.’
‘Send through pictures of both of them,’ Sir Johnathon nodded. ‘All-Points Bulletin – suspects are armed and dangerous.’
‘She’s armed?’ Highgrove raised an eyebrow. ‘Hard to see where she would hide it.’
Sir Johnathon smiled. Highgrove was correct - the blonde woman had worn a very sheer garment. ‘Explosively so, believe me and Jack Starling is armed with a Beretta pistol.’
‘We have footage from outside the building,’ Highgrove reported and Sir Johnathon was able to watch the pair sprint across the road and into a red sports car. The Aston Martin pulled out smartly into the flow of traffic and the camera clearly picked up the licence plate as the car raced into the night.
‘Good,’ Sir Johnathon smiled. ‘Trace that licence plate and get a Rapid Response Team in the air on top of them as soon as you can. I want that car identified and boxed in by helicopters in three minutes or less.’ Staffers grabbed phones and muttered instructions. Sir Johnathon and Brice shared a sigh of mutual relief. Even if the fugitives got past the police blockade there was no escape – they had been found on London’s overwhelming surveillance camera network, now it was just a matter of chasing them down, CCTV camera by CCTV camera if necessary. There was no tube station they could hide down, no taxi they could take, but that they would be identified, monitored and caught. Then COBRA could really get down to the bottom of this entire mess. Sir Johnathon quickly glanced back at Brice. The man was staring at the screen, a look of hunger painted across his face.
‘One other thing,’ Sir Johnathon ordered a nearby analyst. 'Get me everything we have on a Frenchman called Deschamps, possibly connected to David Starling. I want a file in my hands in the next fifteen minutes.’
‘We’ve got them, real time,’ a staffer reported.
Brice staggered up and assumed belligerent control. ‘Well, where are they? Quickly now.’
Sir Johnathon stifled a grimace of annoyance. It seemed the Prime Minister’s staffer wanted to make sure he could claim credit for the evening’s work.
‘Past the police cordon,’ the staffer relayed the information tightly.
‘Damn,’ Brice cursed, throwing a look of daggers at Sir Johnathon.
‘Not to worry, Mr Brice, they’re not getting away.’ Highgrove looked up from her monitor. ‘They’re onto the M4. We’ve got recognition software locked onto that car – we’re following them in real time and a road block is being established about twelve miles away. We’ll have undercover cars around them in minutes.’ She gestured up to the main screen, now showing the three-lane M4 motorway, painted orange by the street lights overhead and crowded with cars flowing smoothly in and out London. Even as Brice and Sir Johnathon watched, a green square was imposed onto the image, zooming in to reveal a car weaving skilfully through the traffic. They had just enough time to see the red Aston Martin race past, a tuxedoed figure at the wheel, before the screen changed to another section of the roadway further west, with the green square focusing once more on the distant vehicle as it swept toward this latest CCTV tower, one of a series stretching out along the M4 like beads on a string.
‘Good,’ Brice declared confidently. ‘They’re already caught, they just don’t know it. It’s only a matter of time now.’
Sir Johnathon frowned slightly in response to Brice’s optimism and silently receded into the shadows in a corner of the room, carefully going over Jack’s conversation in his head. All other eyes remained glued on the image of the red Aston Martin racing toward the West.
2240 hrs 15 June 2015, Knightsbridge Road, London.
GR 510501911, -0.159512
Shifting bars of street lights flashed across Jack and Cleo as the car thrust onward. Jack drove with aggressive care, eyes constantly scanning the road ahead, pushing the car through every gap in the traffic he could find. A tense silence had been building since they left Piccadilly.
‘Who was he?’ Cleo asked suddenly.
‘Who?’ Jack asked, shaken from his own thoughts.
‘You know who I mean,’ she declared. ‘The old man in the suit back there. You two knew each other. Who was he?’
Jack shook his head. ‘Someone from my past. Someone unimportant.’ The memories were painful.
‘He said you killed your brother. Did David know him?’
Jack was silent for a long moment. He could feel Cleo’s eyes looking at him, studying his face carefully.
‘His name is Sir Johnathon Fairchild,’ he said eventually. ‘He was David’s boss at COBRA. He and David left me to rot in a jail in Afghanistan.’
He opened his mouth to say more before his face tightened grimly. The words were left unspoken. A string of police lights were visible on the road ahead.
2240 hrs 15 June 2015, COBRA, Whitehall, London.
GR 51.503721, -0.126270
Brice sat back in satisfaction watching his plans unfold. Any minute now Jack Starling will be caught and this whole mess will be cleared up. A police cordon was in place on the M4, ready to snap shut on the unsuspecting Aston Martin and its passengers while the COBRA monitors were carrying video of the Aston Martin relayed from a long-distance camera bolted beneath a police helicopter.
‘All sections are in place,’ Highgrove declared. The main television screen switched from the helicopter to a fixed CCTV camera, showing the Aston Martin slowing down in front of a cordon of police cars. Most other traffic h
ad been allowed to drive past before this crucial moment arrived.
‘The car is nearly there,’ Brice snapped over the radio, his eyes locked on the monitors overhead. ‘Get ready and be careful, apparently one of them has a pistol.’ There was a touch of sneering in his voice as he relayed the information. ‘Full authority to use all appropriate force for immediate arrest.’
‘Roger that, sir.’ The voice on the radio was calm and unhurried and a moment later the COBRA TV screens showed police cars lurch forward, cutting off the avenues of the passing cars. A moment later a swarm of police in full riot gear descended onto the Aston Martin. The doors of the vehicle were wrenched open and the figures inside dragged out at gunpoint. Two figures, one slender and blonde, the other tall and dark-haired, were pinioned against a waiting police van. Brice turned away from the camera and squinted at Sir Johnathon with a look of triumph.
‘And that’s how we do it,’ Brice declared triumphantly.
‘Sir?’ Highgrove’s voice carried a hint of caution. Brice looked back at the screen. Another vehicle directly behind the Aston Martin was projecting a search light onto the milling police officers, a handful of figures spilling from the van and pushing forward toward the arrest. Highgrove’s fingers were audible as they tapped across the keyboard and then the camera zoomed in, showing video cameras on the shoulders of the milling civilians.
‘What the hell?’ Brice demanded, ‘Is that… the press?’
‘Sir, there seems to be a situation.’ The radio in Brice’s hand suddenly blared into life. ‘We’ve apprehended the people in the car, but they are not the priority targets. I repeat, they are not the priority targets.’
‘What?’ Brice’s face popped with rage. ‘Who the hell are they?’
‘Sir,’ Highgrove’s voice was urgent. One of the TV screens had been turned over to BBC news and the room was confronted with a firsthand view of the scene, baffled police officers pushing back against a crowd of paparazzi, with journalists shouting out questions and demands like a great flock of birds. The camera was held up for a moment, showing a clear view of the glamourous blonde as she was handcuffed against the side of the vehicle. A famous face, beloved by millions, looked into the watching cameras, her eyes scared and vulnerable.
Highgrove frowned in puzzlement. ‘Wait, isn’t that…?’
The banner across the bottom of the live feed ran out a damning indictment of the scene: ‘Brit Awards Singer Arrested, Live Footage.’ Brice went pale, his mouth opening and shutting in confusion. Highgrove turned to look for Sir Johnathon, but his corner of the room was empty.
2300 hrs 15 June 2015, Long Road, London.
GR 51.461188, -0.152162
The switchover had been quick and simple – and utterly unexpected. Cleo had hunched over her mobile phone in the seconds after they raced westward on Piccadilly away from Apsley House, before snapping her head up and yelling instructions. ‘Left at this roundabout. Good, now get ready to turn – there,’ she shouted excitedly, pointing a finger across Jack’s face. ‘Right, up that lane.’
Jack had spun the wheel desperately, screeching across the road and racing up a narrow laneway. He had a moment’s glimpse of ‘Paxton Road, no entry’ in the headlights and then he was driving the car the wrong way up a one-way suburban street. A set of headlights were glaring in front of them, a ponderous old Range Rover blocking the entire road.
‘Dammit Cleo, what are you doing?’ Jack swore. They had jammed themselves into a trap.
‘Right up to the car and stop.’ She ignored his question. Jack pulled the car to a smooth stop inches from the Range Rover’s battered grille. The truck obligingly reversed, showing a clean path way out to a road ahead. Jack was about to slam down on the accelerator when Cleo pushed her door open. ‘Come on,’ she muttered. ‘Leave the keys.’ Jack left the car idling in neutral, leapt out on his side and followed her across to the other car. With Sir Johnathon Fairchild on his tail, Jack knew not a moment could be spared to question Cleo’s plans. All he could do was wait and hope that it would work. A man and woman jumped from the Range Rover and Jack had time to notice that they too were dressed for dinner – he in a tuxedo, she, a slim blonde, in a flattering dress similar to Cleo’s.
‘Here,’ the man smiled, throwing an anorak across to Jack, while the woman draped a tartan shawl across Cleo’s shoulders. The women air kissed and then Jack was herded behind the wheel of the Range Rover by Cleo while the other pair vanished into the Aston Martin and raced it up the side street and back into the traffic heading west. The entire manoeuvre had taken seconds.
‘Ok, Farmer George,’ Cleo declared, ‘Drive me east and make sure you drive like grandpa.’ She flashed a warm smile and Jack nodded in return, letting the strong engine of the Rover carry them back the way they had come. There had been a moment of caution as they passed the flashing lights of a police car setting up a road block, but within a few minutes they had crossed Putney Bridge and were south of the Thames and Jack began to breath easily for the first time since they had fled Apsley House.
Now he was driving eastward, his tuxedo hidden beneath the anorak – a suitable outfit for the driver of a country Range Rover, while Cleo’s s borrowed shawl had transformed her from beautiful blonde into motherly housewife.
‘So who were those two?’ Jack asked eventually.
‘Oh, she’s a lovely friend I met in Ibitha a few years ago.’ Cleo declared. ‘She was happy to help me out this evening. I wasn’t sure if I would need her to, but better safe than sorry.’
‘But won’t they simply go back over the CCTV footage and see us getting into this car?’ Jack frowned, wondering how long their subterfuge would last.
‘A-hah-hah,’ Cleo had smiled. ‘That little alleyway is one of the few places in London not covered by CCTV cameras. ‘The leaves of those trees are so thick in summer that they obscure the view. We’ll have half an hour at least before the police realise how we did it and by then we’ll have ditched the car and be off the grid in Brixton,’ Cleo declared.
‘It’s that simple?’ Jack smiled at the elegance of their escape.
‘It’s that simple, Jack,’ Cleo confirmed, rearranging her shawl over her shoulders as primly as if she were Mary Poppins. ‘Life was designed to be simple, I’m just reverting to type.’
Jack smiled. ‘You’re a villain.’
‘I’m a realist,’ Cleo declared with relish. ‘The ones who invented tax returns and triplicate claim forms are the real villains. Now drive please, darling and for the love of God don’t get into a car accident. Not even I could fix that. Stay on this road, straight through to Brixton.’
She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes as if dead to the world, leaving Jack to drive on as unobtrusively as he could. Jack smiled again and focused on the driving. He could feel the square shape of the little wooden box from the statue sitting snugly in his suit pocket, pressing against his torso and he was interested in finding out the next step of the bizarre chase they had begun. Cleo shifted calmly and Jack stole a glimpse at her profile. In peaceful repose her face was strong and beautiful, with smooth white skin and finely drawn features. Without warning she opened her eyes and stared directly at him.
‘What happened?’ Cleo asked gently.
‘What do you mean?’ Jack turned his eyes back to the road.
‘You said David and Sir Johnathon left you in Afghanistan. What do you mean by that? What happened there?’
Jack sighed, eyes on the road as he turned over the past in his mind. Somehow she had earned the right to ask him what had happened.
‘After the Twin Towers came down in 2001, Afghanistan became the centre of everything.’ His voice was terse. ‘My brother was coordinating British intelligence in the region, I was a Major serving with the SAS. We were painting targets with laser sighters, identifying strong men who could be persuaded to change sides and fight the Taliban. One night I received a direct message from David in Whitehall, ordering me to lead a local group against a
Taliban command post.’ Jack swallowed. He could still feel the crisp mountain air filling his lungs, the hard rocks beneath his feet, the air so clear and pure and cold, with a million stars shining overhead, the mountains great shades of black and purple. His breath pluming out as he led the rag-tag collection of bearded warriors up the hill toward the unsuspecting enemy – each of his warriors was dressed as he saw fit, but each one had rifles and equipment that were well-maintained, accurate and reliable.
Jack gripped the steering wheel in his hands tightly, the bad memories coming closer.
‘It’s a fierce, dangerous place.’ He tried to explain, trying to skirt around the sense of failure and humiliation, even as he felt an urge to unburden himself to her. ‘Every man and woman in Afghanistan is a warrior born and bred – feuding against their family, or with their family against their village, or with the village against the next valley. Sometimes it just looks like nothing more than a snake pit pretending to be a country. Generations of conflict – victories and betrayals piled one on another for a hundred years. They’ll give you their word – and break it in an instant. Or they’ll call you a friend and die for you without question.’ He grimaced. ‘There’s an old joke in the intelligence community; you can’t buy an Afghani, but you can rent one. My brother thought he’d rented one for a week or two. It turned out he chose wrong.’ An edge of bitterness crept into Jack’s voice. He could remember the narrow defile he was leading the troops along, frost-rimed rocks glittering in the starlight overhead, footsteps crunching on the dirt and then, the sudden shouting from the rocks above, men with guns pointed down into the defile, covering him and his men. Above all, he remembered the smile on the face of the man at his side as he took the rifle from Jack’s arms and passed him over to the Taliban. ‘Good bye, Jack Frost,’ the man had whispered, laughing at the cleverness of his betrayal.
