by Adrian Wills
Blake threw a leg out of the opening, ducked under the sash, and lowered his body out of the house until he was dangling from the frame by his fingertips. He calculated that it reduced his fall to less than four yards, and lessened considerably his risk of turning his ankle, or worse.
He broke his fall with a commando roll, and sat up in a crouch beneath a ground floor window. When he heard no sounds from the house, he stood and ran for the cover of the woods. He vaulted the low stone wall, and sprinted for the trees, not daring to look back until he was safely hidden in the copse.
Within twenty minutes, he was back at the pub. He changed out of his soiled clothes, and took breakfast alone in the bar, washed down with strong, black coffee. When he was finished, he returned to his car that was covered in a light film of dew, and checked his phone. No signal. He needed to find higher ground.
The road out of Nutwick meandered along a valley lined with trees, and fields intermittently filled with sheep and cattle. Eventually, Blake found a remote layby on a road that had climbed steadily for several miles. He pulled in, and tried his phone again. The signal was patchy, but better than in the village. He dialled Patterson's number.
'Blake, where've you been?'
'Trying to find Proctor. He's moved out of the London flat, but I've tracked him down to a cottage in Sussex.'
'Okay, so what's going on?'
'He was sent by the BFA, or more specifically the Phineas Priests, to keep a low profile. I think they own the cottage. It was sold recently, but could you check it out for me? If there's a paper trail back to the BFA, it connects Proctor and Longhurst.'
'Slow down,' said Patterson. 'First of all, have you spoken with Proctor?'
'Yes,' said Blake. 'I carried out a full debrief. He confirmed what we suspected. Longhurst has recruited him as a Phineas Priest. He told Proctor the aim of the priesthood was to close Britain's borders to new immigrants, and declare war on non-Whites living in the country.'
'So they're effectively acting as the BFA's secret military wing?'
'I hadn't thought about it like that, but yes, I guess so. Proctor says they're trying to keep a lid on the whole thing, and Longhurst's forbidden them from even acknowledging the existence of the group.'
'Okay, it's a worry, but good news that we have a man on the inside. But realistically, what are we talking about, half a dozen brainwashed thugs looking to stir up trouble at the odd political rally?'
'It's more organised than that, I'm afraid. This isn't a band of lawless vigilantes.' Blake paused for effect. 'Proctor's been instructed to plant a bomb.'
Patterson's sharp intake of breath was audible even on the poor mobile connection. 'You're absolutely sure?'
'It's the last thing he told me before we were disturbed and I had to end the debrief. The problem is I don't know how serious to take the threat.'
'Any mention of a target?'
'Not yet. They've told Proctor to keep his head down and wait for further instructions.'
'Anyone else involved?'
'He's been teamed up with Mike Clark who's staying at the house too. So you see, if we can prove that Longhurst owns the cottage, it directly connects him with the plot,' said Blake.
There was silence on the other end of the line.
'Harry? Are you still there?'
'Blake, I need to call this in. It's a credible threat to national security. I can't sit on this kind of information.'
'Not yet, Harry. You have to give me time to find out what they're planning. Look, there's no bomb and no plot. Just two guys who've been told to go away and wait for further instructions. If you raise the alarm now, we risk losing control of Proctor. He's my responsibility. I have to keep him safe. We owe him that much. Let me use him to find out what's going on so we can reel in Longhurst and the rest of them. Once they've identified a target, we'll call it in. I promise. But give me a few more days. A week at least.'
'Alright. One week, then we'll review it. But I want regular progress reports, understood? And for God's sake, don't let Proctor out of your sight.'
'Of course. Thanks, Harry. I appreciate it.'
'So what's your next move?'
'I'm going to ground to keep an eye on the house, but there are some things I'm going to need. Do you think you'd be able to get them together for me and have them couriered over to where I'm staying?'
'I'll do my best. What do you need?'
Chapter 21
After studying a map of the terrain around Nutwick, Blake came up with a plan. Ben Proctor had disappeared once already and he wasn't about to let that happen again. He needed twenty-four hour surveillance, a job usually requiring a dedicated team of at least half a dozen men. But there was only one of Blake. No back-up to call on. No one to trade places with after a four-hour block. But Blake relished the challenge. It was what was he was trained to do.
He drove back to the village, and slowed to a crawl as he approached the entrance to Stoneleigh Cottage, craning his neck for a glimpse down the track to the house, but the building was hidden behind thick bushes and invisible to anyone passing. So he accelerated away, out of the valley and onto a car park he'd identified half a mile farther on.
The car park, laid with loose stone chippings and edged neatly with pine timbers, was deserted. Blake pulled up under the branches of an immature horse chestnut and locked the Audi remotely with a key fob he slipped into his pocket. He crossed the road, and vaulted a wire fence into a rolling green field that clung to a steep hillside.
He set his sights on a grove on the crown of the hill, which consisted mainly of oaks and elms, their leaves a spectacular riot of russets, yellows, and burnt reds. When he reached it, he was breathing hard from the exertion, and sweat plastered his clothes to his skin.
The grove marked a point where three fields converged and comprised no more than forty trees, which sat starkly against the skyline. Blake hustled through a tangled carpet of dead leaves, fallen branches, and sinewy brambles until he emerged onto a ridge on the eastern flank, overlooking a pasture of cattle and, more importantly for Blake, Stoneleigh Cottage to the southeast.
It was the perfect location for an observation post, on high ground, and with the trees for concealment. Blake dropped onto his stomach, supporting his body on his elbows, and studied the cottage, noting the mud-splattered Renault was still parked outside with its bonnet angled in towards the house, the only indication that anyone was at home.
Satisfied he'd found his spot, Blake shuffled backwards into the cover of the grove and brushed himself down. He located a hollow between three close growing trees and concluded it would suffice for a camp. Ideally, he'd have used a tarpaulin strung up between the trunks to make a shelter, but he'd not planned on sleeping out when he'd left London in a hurry and had to improvise using his rusty survival skills.
He found a straight length of fallen timber and hooked it into the crook of an overhanging branch, then supported shorter branches along its length like ribs fused along a spine. He finished the roof with interwoven ferns, to keep out the worst of any rain, and laid the floor with green leaves. Weather permitting, it would hold up for at least a couple of weeks and had the advantage of being camouflaged from all angles.
When he was done, Blake crawled back to the ridge, made himself comfortable, and fixed his sights on the cottage. He cleared his mind and slowed his breathing, concentrating on entering a kind of hibernation in which he could sustain himself immobile for hours on end. It was a technique that had ensured his survival during countless undercover missions for Echo 17, the now defunct black ops unit, whose specialism was in operating covertly in hostile environments, waiting for days or weeks to target selected individuals for interrogation, often under the noses of their enemy.
It had been uncomfortable, mind-numbing work punctuated by sudden, intense bursts of activity in extremely volatile situations. Blake had quickly learnt to control his mind and body so that he could blend into the background, hidden in ditches and foxholes without be
ing detected for as long as the mission required. Psychologically, the demands were as tough as any physical challenge the SAS had thrown at him, even considering the hell of 'Selection', abandoned on a rain-scarred mountain in Wales with a fifty-five pound Bergen strapped to his back and days of endless route marches in the freezing cold with feet blistered raw.
Mental toughness was a pre-requisite, but Blake found he had a natural aptitude for the job. While others struggled with the isolation, Blake thrived on the solitude the role demanded. He never considered himself a recluse, but found the company of other people a drain on his energy, and was never happier than when left alone with his thoughts.
The weak, autumnal daylight was fading rapidly and the temperature dropping fast when Blake finally checked his watch. Throughout his entire five-hour vigil, not a soul had stirred in the cottage. He edged away from the ridge and stood stiffly, stretching all his major muscle groups and rubbing sensation back into those parts that had long gone numb.
He picked his way through the gloom back to his car, and turned the heater up to full as he drove back to the village square, the streams of warm air reviving his frozen extremities. He made a mental note to pack warmer clothes and a pair of gloves. If he was going to survive any length of time out in the open at this time of year, he needed decent kit.
The pub was empty when Blake walked in.
'Good day?' asked the landlord, emerging from a room behind the bar.
Blake nodded, not in the mood for small talk. He ordered food from a greasy menu and took a table in the corner near the fire.
'Almost forgot,' said the landlord, pouring Blake a pint of beer. 'Parcel came for you earlier. It's in the office when you're ready.'
'Thanks. I'll grab it when I've eaten.'
The food was nothing special, a reheated meat pie with lumpy mashed potato and a selection of vegetables, which had had most of their nutrition boiled out of them. But Blake was determined to enjoy it. He knew it might be his last decent meal for days.
He collected the parcel on his way back to his room. It was wrapped in brown paper with a white envelope taped to the top, addressed to Daniel Jackson, the name he'd used when he'd checked in.
Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper. A solitary line of text printed on it: "As requested. Keep safe. HP"
The package was filled with hundreds of multi-coloured polystyrene chips that spilled out when Blake cut open the top with a pen knife. Buried amongst the packaging were six plastic containers, which Blake lined up on the bed. At the bottom of the box, swathed in bubble wrap, was a miniature electronic monitor and a high-powered, military grade sighting scope and tripod.
He packed all the items in a rucksack with some warm clothing, and placed the bag by the door with his boots. He set an alarm on his mobile phone, lay on the bed, and closed his eyes.
Chapter 22
Blake woke at one minute to three in the morning, sixty seconds before his phone sounded a shrill alarm. He rose without hesitation, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. He splashed his face with cold water, threw on a thick jacket, and sneaked silently out of his room with his rucksack and boots. He stole around the front of the pub to the square, and from the boot of his car, retrieved a few essential items he always carried in case of emergency. A military sleeping bag, one that was actually guaranteed to keep out the cold, a selection of foil ration packs, a camping stove, billy can, tin mug, four spare mobile phone batteries, and a two litre bottle of water. He packed the rations, batteries, and camping equipment in the rucksack and threw it on the back seat with the water and sleeping bag.
It took precisely four minutes to drive to the car park on the far side of the village. Blake parked in the same spot under the horse chestnut tree and headed to the grove on top of the hill, guided by a bright moon hanging low in a cloudless sky.
He stowed his equipment in the shelter, repacked the rucksack with the six plastic boxes, and returned to the ridge where he could see Stoneleigh Cottage in darkness. He slipped over a wire fence and into the cow field, turning his feet sideways to stop himself sliding down the hill. Through the misty murk, he could make out the indistinct shapes of dozing cows, lowing mournfully, and as he picked his way through the long grass, slippery from recent rainfall, he was careful not to disturb the sleeping herd. The last thing he needed was a stampede in the middle of the night.
The field levelled off at the point it adjoined an overgrown garden on the blindside of the cottage. Blake stepped over a green and decaying wooden fence and trod carefully through the weeds, conscious that bruising the vegetation would give away that someone had been trespassing.
With his body pressed against the brickwork, he sidestepped around the cottage towards the living room, aware that Proctor was asleep in the room directly above. The old sash window gave way an inch when Blake tried the lower casement, and with a second effort grudgingly opened wide enough for him to slip inside.
He checked his watch, and noted the time displayed by the luminescent tips of the hands. Time was of the essence. He gave himself fifteen minutes to be in and out. Not a second longer. It was good discipline. From his trouser pocket, he pulled out two sachets he'd taken from a hotel during a recent stay in Prague and fitted the transparent shower caps over his boots to protect the carpet from his muddy footprints. From his jacket pocket, he took a head torch and pulled it on.
Inside, he scanned the room, following the white torch beam as it floated across the wallpapered walls. He found an electrical socket low down to the floor, its faceplate yellowed with age. Kneeling on the carpet, he removed one of the plastic boxes from his rucksack, together with a tool kit rolled up in fabric and secured with black ribbon. Blake selected a medium-sized flathead screwdriver, and removed two long screws securing the electrical plate to the wall. It came away easily enough, exposing a mass of coloured wires extending into the brickwork.
From the plastic box, Blake took a metallic disc, the size of a low denomination coin, and slotted it into the socket before screwing the faceplate back into position. Then he moved into the dining room and kitchen, and repeated the procedure at sockets in each of the rooms.
When he was finished, he returned to the hallway at the bottom of the stairs and popped out the bulb hanging from a length of wire from the ceiling, replacing it with an alternative from another one of the boxes. It wasn't identical in shape to the original bulb, but close enough that Blake doubted Proctor or Clark would notice.
Eight minutes had already elapsed, and downstairs was supposed to be the easiest part of the operation. He still had two more audio listening devices to fit in the bedrooms where Proctor and Clark were sleeping.
Blake took the stairs slowly, judging his weight on each step to avoid the creaks, and made it onto the landing. A nasally rumble of snoring was coming from Mike Clark's bedroom. It was a good sign he was sleeping deeply, but Blake decided to leave the room until last.
He turned off the torch, and eased opened Proctor's door. The agent was wrapped up tightly inside a heap of bedclothes beneath the window, lying on his side with a pale, tattooed arm hanging out of the covers, his breathing deep and slow. The curtains had been only half pulled closed, allowing enough light from the bright moon for Blake to locate an electrical socket near the door. His fingers moved quickly and efficiently, by now warmed up to the task, and the two screws spun out easily. He fitted another bug and had the faceplate back in place within a minute.
With one last check that Proctor hadn't been disturbed, he backed out of the room and pulled the door closed. Four and half minutes left to complete the job and clear the house. Still on track, but he'd have to hurry. Now he regretted leaving Clark's room until last. His hand hovered over the handle of the door as he noticed that Clark's snoring had stopped.
Blake froze as he heard a groan followed by the creak of floorboards. Just Clark rolling over in his sleep, Blake tried to reassure himself. He waited with his heart rattling in his ribcage. But ther
e were more sounds. The shuffle of bedclothes, Clark clearing phlegm from his throat, and the floorboards creaking again. Someone was moving about in the room. Blake retreated and watched in horror as the handle turned and the door began to swing open.
He flung himself down the stairs, almost tumbling as the plastic shower caps on his feet slipped on the worn carpet. He hit the hallway with a thud, and hurled himself into the lounge where he clung to the wall and waited for the sound of pursuing footsteps.
But they didn't materialise.
Blake waited for what seemed like several minutes, but logic dictated could only have been a few seconds, before he heard a noisy stream of water. Clark relieving his bladder. Then the sound of a toilet flushing, echoing unusually loudly through the silent cottage.
Blake's instinct was telling him to get the hell out while he could, but his brain was arguing the toss. He'd installed four audio listening bugs in the sockets and a visual device in the hallway light. It was probably enough. But it left a major blind spot in Clark's room. Any phone calls or conversations in there would be missed. It wasn't acceptable. Blake knew he had to finish the job. So he waited, knowing that if Clark decided to head downstairs instead of returning to his room, he was in real trouble. He'd find the window open in the lounge, and then stumble on Blake hiding in the shadows.
There was no way of knowing how he would react, but Blake had a pretty good idea.
Chapter 23
Trent Garside prised open one eye and focussed on the digital display blinking the time at him. It was still early by his standards, but he resisted the temptation to roll over and drift back into his dreams. He had work to do. He gave himself a count to ten, swung his legs out of bed, and was struck by a chill in the air and the realisation that his ancient boiler must have cut out in the night.
With bleary eyes, he dragged his drowsy body into the kitchen and hit the reset button, listening with satisfaction to the muted roar of gas igniting and the clunk of pipes. It would take a while for the flat to heat through, but he denied himself the luxury of returning to the delicious warmth of his duvet. Instead, he threw on a chunky wool sweater over his T-shirt and flicked on the kettle. A hot mug of tea would soon revive his senses.
