by Andy Maslen
“I’ll get it, Mum!” came Nathalie’s voice from the other side of the door. He watched as the shadowy outline of the thirteen-year-old girl grew larger in the panes of stained glass set into the upper half of the door.
He heard the scrape as Nathalie put the chain on – sensible girl – then the door opened and her brown eye scrutinised him through the crack.
“Oh, hi, Gabriel. You’re up early.” The eye disappeared. “Mum! It’s Gabriel.”
The door closed a little and the chain scraped again. Then Nathalie opened the door. She was dressed in school uniform. A dark blue blazer with sky-blue trim, black and white tie, white blouse under a black jumper and black trousers.
“Hi, Gabriel,” she said. “Do you want to see Mum? She’s just getting dressed. Are you hungry?”
“Hi, Nathalie. Yes I do and yes I am. Got any toast?” He was starting to understand how to talk to teenagers, or this self-possessed teenager, at least.
“Come in, then. I’ll make you some.”
He followed her along the hall to the kitchen and sat at the table while she dropped two slices of bread into the toaster.
“I can make you tea if you want?”
“That would be lovely. You look very smart, by the way.”
“Thank you. I go to an academy.” Adopting a stagey “posh” voice, she intoned, “We require all our students to maintain high standards of behaviour and to wear the correct uniform at all times.” Then she giggled. “That’s from our website. You get sent home if your tie’s crooked.”
“A bit like the Army.”
At this, her face clouded, just for a moment, but Gabriel realised he’d said the wrong thing.
“Have you come about Dad? Here’s your tea, by the way.”
He took the proffered mug and sipped the tea.
“Yes. Did your mum tell you?”
The girl nodded. “She said you tried and you got really close to your objective but then you got into some trouble and had to abandon the mission.”
He smiled, impressed with her self-control and easy way with military language.
“That’s right. But I’m not giving up. I have a plan and I’m going back to Mozambique. But that has to wait, just for a while.”
Melody appeared in the kitchen doorway and, grateful for the interruption, Gabriel rose to meet her.
“Wow!” he said. “Are all the women in this part of London as smart as you two?”
She was dressed for work in a tailored, dove-grey suit over a white shirt. She stepped forward and hugged him.
“Flatterer! How are you? Pour me a tea would you, Nat?”
Munching the toast and drinking tea, the three of them sat round the kitchen table, for all the world like a little nuclear family on a workday. Daughter ready for school. Mum off to work as a lawyer for an international corruption-monitoring charity. Dad trying to escape his past and avoid being slung in prison for breaking into Number Ten and brandishing a loaded pistol at the Prime Minister. While the adults talked, Nathalie was texting her friends.
“I saw what happened to Marsha,” Melody said. “Please tell me that wasn’t anything to do with you.”
He shook his head. “I promise. But I was there. She was . . .” he looked across the table at Nathalie.
“Oh, fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’m going round to Georgia’s house to pick her up. Tell me everything later, Mum, OK?”
Her mother smiled. “The good bits, darling.”
“Fine. Bye Gabriel. Hope you liked your breakfast.”
Then she did a surprising thing. She leaned over him and kissed him softly on the cheek. Before he could even react, she’d turned and was out the front door.
“She can tell when people are troubled,” Melody said. “She’s always been drawn to hurting souls, ever since she was a baby. Are you hurting?”
Gabriel realised that he was so troubled he didn’t know what was preventing him from collapsing physically, weeping, running into the street screaming, or all three. Yes, he did. Training. Self-discipline. The mission. He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, willing his shoulders to drop from the position adjacent to his ears where he’d jacked them.
He nodded.
“Marsha Agambe was killed by a sniper. And her brother, too. It sounded like he was taking kickbacks from someone who wanted her out of the way. I tried to get a copy of her dossier from her lawyer’s office, but someone got there before me and blew the place sky-high.”
“So I heard. Do you think it was the same person? The killer and the bomber?”
He nodded. “Had to be. Those sorts of skills tend to walk around together in the same body. So we’re buggered, basically. I even tried to confront Barbara Sutherland last night but she’s just denying everything. I mean, what if she’s clean? That’s still a possibility isn’t it?”
“Wait. What? How did you . . . I mean where did you confront Sutherland? Surely you didn’t . . . ?”
Somehow his actions of the last twelve hours suddenly struck him as funny. He grinned.
“Surely I did. Went over the rooftops and down through a maintenance stairwell.”
Melody’s eyes popped wide open.
“Gabriel! You broke in to Number Ten? What are you, insane?”
He was laughing now and she joined him.
“I think I may be.”
“What, I mean, did you climb into bed with her and have a little chat with her under the duvet?”
“Couldn’t. Her husband was there. Didn’t think a threesome was appropriate.”
She shrieked at this. Gabriel felt his laughter threatening to turn into an unstoppable fit and he suddenly slapped himself on the right cheek. Melody stopped instantly at the violence of the action.
“Sorry,” he said. “I could feel myself losing it there. The point is, without evidence, either she’s going to get away with it, or . . .”
“Or what?”
“Or isn’t there just the smallest chance she’s telling the truth? Couldn’t your contacts have got it wrong?”
Dabbing at her eyes with a paper tissue, careful not to smudge her eye makeup, Melody sighed and shook her head.
“Come with me,” she said and stood up from the table, pushing her chair back.
She led him out of the kitchen, along the narrow hall and up the stairs. At the end of the upstairs hall was a door. She opened it. Beyond was a home office, PC humming on a desk facing out over the road, the wall to the left of the desk lined with filing cabinets, the one to the right occupied with a small leather armchair and a swan-necked reading lamp on a side-table.
“Do you always dress like that just to work from home?” Gabriel asked.
“I’m going into the office today. Normally, I’m a little less formal. But with Nat in her uniform, I like to make the effort. Can’t have her looking down her nose at slummy mummy, can I?”
“I suppose not.”
“Now, sit there,” she said, pointing to the armchair. He did as he was told and watched as she jiggled the mouse to wake the PC. “There!” she said, double-clicking on an icon on the desktop and then keying in an unlock code.
Gabriel leaned forward and watched as the zip-file unpacked itself and several dozen files of different types popped up in a new window.
“She sent you a copy?”
Melody nodded as she double-clicked a PDF file. “I met Marsha two years ago at a conference. We hit it off. When you killed . . .” she turned in her chair, her face a confused mask of emotions, including anger and embarrassment. “When Philip was killed, she sent the dossier to me through a secure file-sharing site we all use. Look.”
She pointed a finger at the screen.
There, in crisp detail, almost as if someone had taken it and simply stuck it behind the glass of the screen, was a document. It was a list on a World Diamond Exchange Ltd letterhead. The type was an old-fashioned font like Times or Garamond, the logo a remarkably crude drawing of a multi-faceted diamond resting in th
e pan of a weighing scale. It was some sort of account statement.
Against the pre-printed heading, “Account holder”, someone had written, in blue biro by the looks of it, “Gemma Northfield”. But there was also a ‘1’ by the final ‘d’, set as a superscript character, balancing above the tip of the ascender. At the foot of the page, the meticulous book-keeper had added, in small but completely legible cursive script, a matching superscript digit, and two words.
Barbara Sutherland.
The rest of the details were hard to decipher, but one phrase gave Gabriel no trouble:
Seven (7) diamonds, 19.25 carats total, mix., F colourless – VVS/VS, Cognac, Intense Pink, Fancy Blue.
Beside the description of the gemstones were three letters: KPC.
Gabriel pointed. “Kimberley Process Certificate. That guarantees they’re not conflict diamonds. She’s innocent. They’re legal. This isn’t evidence of anything.”
“Isn’t it? Look closer.” Melody pointed at the acronym. There was a superscript ‘2’ half a millimetre northeast of the ‘C’.
Gabriel registered the tiny digit then searched for its twin at the foot of the page. And there it was. Was this final, irrevocable proof that Barbara Sutherland was been playing him all along?
47
A Trip East
2 UNVERIFIED serial number. Prob. forgery. Apply discounted value to trade.
“It’s still just a document,” Gabriel said. “These days anyone with Photoshop on their PC could knock up something like that.”
“You really want her to be innocent, don’t you?”
“Don’t you?”
“I haven’t decided. It’s complicated.”
“Because exposing the British Prime Minister for something she might never have done would destabilise the country?”
“Oh, believe me, it would definitely do that. But there are all sorts of other considerations. Aid payments could be affected, relations with the developing world. All kinds of delicate negotiations. In truth, I’m really not sure what to do. If she really is dirty then, yes, I do want to take her down. But I’m not sure if that’s just my heart ruling my head. I was going to take it in to work today and ask to speak to our Director.”
Gabriel’s mind was working overtime on very little sleep. But it had come up with an idea.
“Listen, I’m going to leave the country for a bit. There’s something I need to do. But can you send me a copy of the dossier, then sit on it until I get back? Please? I can get to her in a way you can’t, and I think I can find out the truth – whatever it is – without the shit hitting the fan. Plus, she’s dangerous. You could be targeted if you go public.”
“I don’t know, Gabriel. People have died because of this. And she’s behind it all.”
“I know you think that. And if you’re right then I hate it as much as you do. More, actually. Look, strategy was never my strong point, but you have to see the long-term impact. You could just send that to the media and drop a bomb on her head that would take her out completely. But it might take a lot of other people, too. Or you could box clever, use it against her, but only her. Call it a surgical strike, if you want.”
Melody turned her swivel chair around so she was facing Gabriel.
“Why are you so keen to protect Barbara Sutherland?”
“I’m not. But,” he pressed his lips together then released them, “I love this country. My father said something to me once that I’ve never forgotten. He said, ‘Politicians come and go. And so do diplomats. But the institutions we serve, they endure.’ I believe that. It’s what I’ve always fought for. And if you go public, I’m just afraid of what the fallout would be. We’d look like some banana republic where the president’s using the economy like their own personal piggy bank. I don’t want that. Do you?”
She shook her head. Then she spoke.
“I’ll do you a deal. Bring me concrete proof – of her guilt or her innocence. And bring me something of Mike we can bury.” She reached across the foot of space between them and took his hands in hers. “I loved him, Gabriel. With all my heart. I never blamed you for his death. Not even for a second. But you’re the only person on Earth I trust to find him for me.”
She was dry-eyed as she said this, but Gabriel wasn’t. He felt a tear force its way out of his eye. He dashed it away with a knuckle.
“It’s a deal. I won’t come back until I have.”
*
Gabriel called Britta while he sat in the car outside Melody’s house.
“Hey, you,” she said. “Where did you disappear to?”
“I needed to see someone. About Sutherland. She could be dirty. I’ve seen some documents. If they’re genuine then she’s as dirty as fuck. I mean up to her elbows in the shittiest, most corrupt . . .”
The realisation hit him like a round from an M16. There was a real possibility that his own Prime Minister, the woman who’d been giving the orders as Defence Secretary when he’d been in uniform, was bent. Britta spoke, interrupting his thoughts.
“Back up a little. What do you mean ‘if they’re genuine’?”
He swiped a hand over his mouth and jaw. “All I saw were some digital files. Not actual paper.”
“Huh! My sister’s kids could whip you up a Swedish driving licence on their laptops in less time than it would take you to apply for a real one. I told you before, she’s a democrat. A British democrat. You do know the rest of Europe looks at your politicians and wishes they were ours.”
“What, even the Swedes?”
She laughed. “No, we’re far too perfect. But everyone else does. I mean, the Italians?”
“Isn’t that a bit racist?”
“Ja! Det är korrect! True, also. Listen, what are you going to do now? You’re not a documents expert. Or an IT guy. How are you going to check those things you saw are genuine? I’m about to go into the office, by the way, so we’d better keep this short.”
“Honestly, I hadn’t really thought. I mean look at the facts. I broke into Number Ten Downing Street last night and confronted her. She denied everything and she had no reason to doubt that I believed her. She thinks my PTSD is making me behave irrationally.”
“Yeah, but if I was her, I’d be starting to watch you like a hawk. Maybe put a couple of people on your tail from Special Branch.”
“Maybe. I think I need to get out of the country for a while. I need to find somewhere to go where I can put a plan together. I’m going to find out the truth. But I also made a promise to Melody to go back to Mozambique and find Smudge for her.”
“No pressure there, then. Where will you go?”
Gabriel had a vision of a harbour ringed by high-rise developments, a city of neon, with forested hills beyond, but he didn’t want Britta to be in possession of any information that might put her in danger.
“I don’t know. I’ve got a couple of ideas.”
“But you don’t want me to know because it would put me at risk.”
He smiled. “Something like that. Although I’m sure you could take care of yourself.”
“You better believe it. I have to go. Sounds like you do, too. Send me a message if you can. Just to let me know you’re all right.”
“I will.” He paused. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Wolfe. Now, go.”
*
The traffic out of London heading east was heavy. Gabriel’s route home lay in the other direction, but he’d decided on a whim to call on Don at his base at MOD Rothford in Essex. He wanted to see his boss face to face and try to winkle out of him what was making him so cagey.
Arriving at the gates of the base, he found himself hoping they’d be guarded by one of the men he’d met on a previous visit. They’d joked about his “flash motor” and urged him to “give it some” before he’d driven sedately round the perimeter road to find Don’s quarters.
No such luck.
He pulled up by the guard house and a tall, black soldier carrying an SA80 assault rifle a
cross his chest strolled over to meet him as he got out of the car.
“Good morning, sir. Can I help you?” the soldier said, his deep voice equal parts politeness and suspicion.
“I hope you can. I’ve come to see Colonel Webster.” Gabriel remembered that although Don had left the Army, the soldiers and civilian staff on the base had all referred to him by his old rank.
“Colonel who, sir? Webster? I’m sorry, sir. Our CO is Colonel Mayhew.”
“Sorry, I know that. Colonel is just an honorary rank. He’s just plain Mr Don Webster. He’s in charge of Special Operations. He’s based in the Admin Offices.”
“Sorry, sir, nothing like that here. This is a training base.” The soldier’s face betrayed no emotion, or understanding.
“Look, it’s fine. I served under Col –” he corrected himself, “Mr Webster in the SAS. I came to see him here not too long ago.”
The soldier squared his shoulders and stared down at Gabriel, resting his right hand over the trigger guard of his weapon.
“I don’t care if you served under him in the Galactic Space Rangers. Sir. I told you there’s nobody of that name working here. Now, turn your car around please and move on.”
Gabriel stood, rooted to the spot, for another couple of seconds. Then he shook his head, muttered an apology and climbed back into his car. He reversed out onto the road and roared away from the gates, tyres screeching as they struggled for grip. What’s happened, Don? Where are you?
*
Gabriel reached home in three hours, having exceeded the speed limit for all but a ten-mile stretch of road-works. Leaving the Maserati plinking and ticking on his drive as its engine and exhausts cooled, he went inside and packed for a trip. Suits, shirts, ties, cufflinks, polished black Oxfords, underwear, but also jeans, T-shirts, hoodie, black combat trousers, boots, and running gear.
Twenty-four hours later, Gabriel was descending the steps from a Cathay Pacific Boeing 777 onto the tarmac at Hong Kong International Airport. The air was muggy and warm, and Gabriel’s clothes stuck to his back and chest.
