The Becket Approval

by Falconer, Duncan

  By Saturday afternoon, her need to organise and tie up loose ends steered her towards her small dining table by the window where she’d placed her laptop and work papers. A gust of wind hit the window with a gentle thud and she looked onto the moor, never tiring of its prehistoric beauty. It was a cold, blustery day with a sweeping wind that stroked the tops of the heather in swirling waves. Rain sprayed against the glass as grey shadows eased over the folds of land like whale ghosts.

  Her phone chirped on the table. Who dared to interrupt?

  She checked the number. DCI Dillon. Anyone else and she might’ve ignored it. ‘Hello boss,’ she said in a cheery tone.

  ‘How’s your leave going?’

  ‘Well, you told me that I deserved it. Vigorously pursue diversions was your command. Forget all about work. Cleanse it from your mind. Yet you call.’

  ‘Your leave ends tomorrow,’ Dillon said. He was in his office in Scotland Yard, the River Thames outside his window.

  ‘Which is not today.’

  ‘Have you finished the Macaw report?’

  ‘Almost,’ she said.

  ‘Accounts need it to finalise the budget.’

  ‘Monday for sure.’

  ‘Did you get to the Carlton case?’

  She eyed the unopened file on her desk.

  ‘Not a problem if you haven’t,’ he said. ‘I have something else for you.’

  ‘That’s a shame. It was going to be tonight’s bedtime read.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Why are you sorry?’

  ‘I meant I was hoping you might be otherwise distracted.’

  ‘It’s not your place to hope for such things.’

  Dillon suddenly realised he’d been inappropriate. ‘What I meant was ... I’m just being fatherly,’ he said, backtracking.

  Bethan was amused by his stuttering. ‘Fathers don’t usually hope their daughters are distracted at bedtime in the manner you meant.’

  He fought to recover. ‘I worry about you at times, that’s all. You work very hard and I don’t like to think of you without companionship.’

  ‘I like being alone,’ she said, wistfully, picturing him rolling his eyes.

  ‘Okay. See you Monday.’

  ‘Why exactly did you call me?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You’re off to Albania.’

  ‘Albania?’

  ‘As in the Balkans.’

  ‘When?’ she asked, frowning at the thought.

  ‘Monday morning. Early. Don’t be late. The weather is warm but dress with cultural sensitivity. It’s seventy per cent Muslim.’

  ‘If you were culturally sensitive, you’d send a man.’

  ‘You’re the best man I’ve got for this particular task.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when you get here.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Don’t forget your passport.’

  Dillon disconnected.

  Bethan put down her phone. What was happening in Albania that required Scotland Yard?

  The week suddenly felt as if it had come to an end.

  Chapter 8

  Gunnymede entered the cavernous arrivals hall of London Heathrow Terminal 3 amongst a stream of people, trolleys and luggage. As he moved with the flow, he glanced along the line of cards in the hands of drivers and greeters waiting behind a long, steel rail. None bore his name or a phrase that meant anything to him.

  Gunnymede had no baggage. All his clothing, including a garish t-shirt bearing some inane slogan across the chest partially covered by an oversized jacket had been purchased from a market stall in the Green Zone in Baghdad two days before. The embassy staff member who’d bought it had either poor taste, a small budget or a wry sense of humour. Gunnymede had no say in the matter. As soon as he arrived at the embassy he had been taken to the infirmary where his wound was cleaned and stitched and immediately after he was shown into the bubble room with a tray of tea and sandwiches where he was connected with Dubai operations and debriefed on the failed operation. Gunnymede had been anxious to report not only Saleem’s survival but his threat to carry out a major attack on London. But Ops hadn’t seemed particularly interested in the attack. Gunnymede supposed their lack of curiosity was justified. Saleem was a low level fighter. It was one thing for him to make such threats and another altogether to carry them out. The fact he was in Syria and had a slender chance of getting out of there alive decreased the priority. In short, Saleem had been all talk.

  Gunnymede omitted the part where he’d actually been hanging by his neck, swinging off the ground and choking to death seconds before he got away. He put it down to security reasons, protecting something other than his dignity. It was in fact the truth. He was protecting the existence of his saviour.

  When Mustafa kicked away the log and ran, Gunnymede was, to all intents and purposes, a dead man. He had seconds to live. But as the noose tightened and he began to lose consciousness he hit the ground. At first he thought the scaffold had been felled by an explosion. They seemed to be going off all around. But then the rope was removed from his neck and the bonds cut from his wrists. An explosion nearby threw a load of sand over him. Gunnymede was turned onto his back. He fought to focus on a man looking down on him. It was one of the Daesh fighters. The Arab looked around, wide-eyed, afraid. ‘Can you hear me?’ he shouted.

  Gunnymede was still dazed.

  The man slapped his face. ‘Can you hear me?’

  Gunnymede raised his hands against another blow. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Run!’ he shouted. ‘Run! Get out of here! Or we’re both dead!’

  And with that the man sprang to his feet and took off.

  He was a friendly. He could only have been an undercover operator. There was no other explanation. He’d taken a huge personal risk in saving Gunnymede. And Gunnymede had to respect that to the point of not even telling the Dubai team. The spy was above their level and probably only known to his handler. Gunnymede would be eternally grateful to him whoever he was.

  As the spy ran off, Gunnymede struggled to his feet unsteadily and set off at the run. But with his first step came a searing pain in his side. His hand was covered in blood after inspecting it. It was not the time or place to worry about a mere flesh wound. He looked back to see if he was being pursued and caught sight of the Kurdish soldiers he’d shared the scaffold with, all hanging limply by their necks. He ran on as hard as he could. The air raid was coming to an end. The fighters would soon emerge from their hiding places.

  He pushed on, holding his bloody side, through the remnants of the ancient city. He paused to get his bearings using the sun and headed due west. Lebanon was that way. How far, he’d no idea.

  A mile from the Daesh compound he came across a farmer loading goats into the back of an old truck. Without being seen, he crawled inside and hid amongst the animals. It wasn’t long after the truck was on its way that Gunnymede realised they were heading east not west. Towards Iraq.

  It didn’t matter. He didn’t care at that point, as long as they were moving away from Daesh. His wound had stopped bleeding but it was going to need stitches. After patching it up with strips of his clothing he explored his confinement.

  As the truck bumped along the sand road Gunnymede moved between the goats and found the mesh back door was held shut by a twist of wire. Hanging by a hook was a plastic bag containing old clothes. Gunnymede removed his military fatigues and exchanged them for a grubby pair of trousers and a shirt. He looked like a beggar, which would do perfectly. He was reluctant to give up his boots though. The alternative was bare feet. But there was so much military gear lying around the desert these days the boots would not attract any particular attention.

  Gunnymede made himself as comfortable as he could on the grubby floor and spent the next few hours keeping the goats from falling on him whenever the truck jolted. Several hours later they arrived at a market town. He lay flat in the middle of the bed, the goats surrounding and concealing
him. Daylight was fading and when the truck came to a stop he had no problem slipping away. He found some much needed water and made his way to a vantage point from where he could get a look at the place. He had no idea if he was still in Syria or not until he saw a police station with an Iraqi flag hanging outside. There were no border checkpoints in this area.

  Being weathered and unwashed helped disguise his western features. Not that they’d stand out as unusual in Western Iraq where the British Army had been in occupation for long enough in the 1920s to contribute to the gene pool. He walked through the town to find something to eat. A man preparing falafels saw him staring hungrily and scraped up a pile of offcuts, wrapped them in a sheet of unleavened bread and gave it to him. He ate hungrily. The next objective was to find a ride to Baghdad. He repeated the name of the city to the driver of every truck making ready to leave the market and eventually one allowed him to sit in the back. Before dawn he was on his way.

  The most challenging part of his journey was getting through the Iraqi checkpoint into the Baghdad Green Zone. It was crowded with people coming in and out, mostly labourers, domestic and government staff and shopkeepers. It was a struggle to get the guards to even acknowledge him the way he looked. After some barracking, the guard commander was eventually called and as luck would have it the man spoke some English. Gunnymede gave a false name and explained he was a British businessman who’d been visiting an oil facility when he had a car accident after which criminals robbed him of everything including his identification.

  Gunnymede was driven to an army office where he spent more time waiting around and being questioned. Eventually, a tall white man arrived and introduced himself as a member of the British embassy. Not long after, Gunnymede was taken to the embassy where he revealed his true identity. After his debriefing he was given a room where he could clean up and rest while his documentation was prepared and transport organised. While in the shower, his rags were removed and replaced with the cheap civilian garb.

  Gunnymede’s only possessions were a new passport and change from a few quid given to him to buy a cup of coffee and a sandwich while waiting in Amman airport for his connecting flight to London. The only sign of his ordeal was some weathered flaking around his face and a nasty rope burn across his throat from one ear to the other.

  After getting to the end of the line of greeting cards he decided the rendezvous system had failed until he saw a familiar figure standing back beyond the main body. Aristotle. The tall, grey man set off towards the exit and Gunnymede followed on an interception course. Aristotle spoke into a phone as Gunnymede joined him and by the time they reached the road outside the terminal a car had arrived and they climbed in.

  The car pulled away. Gunnymede waited for Aristotle to say something but after several minutes of silence he couldn’t help himself. ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be so attention seeking.’

  ‘It was a comment on your lack of social graces.’

  ‘I read your report,’ Aristotle said. ‘I know you’re fine.’

  Gunnymede sighed and sat back in silence. He looked at his cheap sandals and white socks, looking forward to getting out of them. ‘So, where do I live? Hopefully not with you.’

  ‘You have one of the firm’s apartments in Docklands.’

  That sounded nice.

  Aristotle held out a package to him. ‘Your new phone. Don’t lose this one or you’ll be charged. There’s a credit card with a five thousand pound limit, for operational use only.’

  ‘What about money? Cash? Wages? I assume I’m being paid.’

  ‘There’s two hundred pounds in cash in the bag.’

  ‘That’s my wages?’

  ‘An advance. You’ll have a bank account in a few days and a cash card.’

  ‘I need to buy some things today.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Living things. Things that make life comfortable. Clothes for instance.’

  ‘I bought you some clothes.’

  ‘You bought me clothes? Why did you buy me clothes?’

  ‘Because you don’t have time to buy them for yourself.’

  ‘Why don’t I have time to buy some clothes?’

  ‘You’re going to Albania.’

  Gunnymede turned in his seat to look at Aristotle. ‘Why am I going to Albania?’

  ‘You’re helping the police.’

  ‘The police?!’

  ‘Scotland Yard.’

  Gunnymede processed the revelation. ‘And this has to do with Spangle.’

  ‘Everything you do has to do with Spangle.’

  ‘What has Albania got to do with Spangle?’

  ‘That’s your job to find out.’

  Gunnymede shook his head in disbelief. ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s the business you’re in or have you forgotten?’

  ‘I seemed to remember getting time off between operations.’

  ‘Harlow told you things have changed. We’re now getting our money’s worth out of the field spy department.’

  Gunnymede shook his head. ‘You have to be kidding me. I can’t go – I’m wounded.’

  ‘The task does not require anything physical. You should be back tomorrow.’

  ‘Can’t you put it off for twenty-four hours? I’m knackered.’

  ‘You’re pathetic.’

  Gunnymede looked at him angrily. ‘And what if I tell you to shove this job up your arse?’ Gunnymede spat.

  ‘You’d rather go to jail for five years than a day trip to Albania? I don’t think so.’

  ‘I think you need me and I don’t like the way you’re pushing me around.’

  ‘You’re going to Albania today or you’re going to prison. Make up your mind.’

  Gunnymede frowned as he sunk back into his seat. This was bullshit.

  Chapter 9

  Saleem sat in his sterile room, the bare plaster walls severely cracked, the glass long since blown out of the windows that looked down onto the Daesh vehicle compound. His simple furnishings were a metal hospital cot, a chair and a desk. Hanging from hooks on the door was his meagre wardrobe including a well-worn AK47 rifle and ammunition harness. A gnarled copy of the Koran rested on the desk in the top left corner, a stack of paper neatly piled beside it, a couple of pens. Spread over the rest of the desk was a frayed map of the City of London.

  Saleem closed his eyes, reached for a piece of paper, placed it on the map to cover it, opened his eyes, took a pen and began to draw a long curving line. He drew another curve parallel with the first. A section of the River Thames. He drew a bridge. And another. Roads followed the course of the river, specifically the north bank. He was attempting to replicate major streets and landmarks between the Thames Barrier and Blackfriars. He drew a small circle and an underground train station symbol and wrote the words Temple beside it. A line from the station followed the river to Blackfriars Station.

  There was a knock on the door. He quickly folded the map and placed it inside the desk drawer.

  Another knock. ‘Saleem? It’s Araf.’

  ‘Yes,’ Saleem said.

  The door opened and a young Arab stood in the doorway. It was the man who had saved Gunnymede’s life. ‘Alright, mate?’ he asked cheerily in a South London accent, a smile on his bearded face as he looked around the room. ‘Rajik wants to see you?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘He didn’t say. Fat bastard doesn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘You shouldn’t talk about ’im that way,’ Saleem said, placing his chair tidily under his desk.

  ‘Why not? He’s a fat wanker.’

  ‘You should have respect for our superiors. Without respect, we’ll fall apart.’

  ‘We’re already falling apart.’

  ‘You think this is the only place we’re at war?’ Saleem was calm and preachy.

  ‘Well, I’d like to go somewhere we’re winning.’

  ‘Stay alive and maybe you will.’ Saleem walked out of the room
and waited for Araf to exit.

  ‘You know we’re neighbours,’ Araf said, stepping into the corridor.

  ‘Neighbours?’ Saleem closed the door and walked on.

  Araf followed him along a dilapidated corridor racked by the violence of bombardments. ‘I’m from Clapham. You’re from Wandsworth, right?’

  ‘Not a good idea to get nostalgic, mate.’

  ‘I ain’t. I don’t expect to see the place again. I just thought it was a coincidence, that’s all.’

  They walked down a creaking, unlit staircase illuminated by daylight from below.

  ‘Is Rajik in his office?’ Saleem asked.

  ‘Where else would ’e be? Bomb-proof basement, next to the food store. Fat fucker.’

  They reached the ground floor then continued along a short corridor and down a narrower, dingy stairwell lit by bulbs that dimmed rhythmically to the uneven purr of a generator beyond the walls.

  Araf led the way along a narrow corridor to a door that was slightly ajar and knocked on it.

  ‘Come in,’ a man’s voice called out in Arabic.

  The two men stepped inside Rajik’s office which was crammed with crates and boxes of equipment and foods. Rajik, a fat, sweaty man with a long black beard, greasy face and wearing a black turban sat behind a desk finishing off a tin of beans with a plastic spoon. Evidence of the beans and past meals was in his matted beard. He dumped the empty tin in a nearby bin, burped as politely as he could, licked the spoon clean and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, all in one swift action. ‘Ah. Saleem. Come in. Come in. Can I offer you something?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Saleem said.

  Rajik placed a slender bar of confectionary on the table in front of Saleem as if it was some kind of award. ‘That’s for you.’

  ‘Like I said, I’m fine,’ Saleem said dryly.

  Rajik lost his smile, miffed by the rejection. Araf made eyes at him in an effort to convey that he’d happily accept the sweet. Rajik put it back in a box.