Maalouf’s silence said it all. For Moroccan secret service, such a figure would be impossible to gain access to.
‘Leave that to me,’ said Eleanor.
Sam looked over at her. Eleanor’s face had reddened, the eyes were blazing. She might have had fond memories of Aidan, but she was going to give her father a fair hearing, with all the evidence available.
‘You said you knew him?’ said Maalouf.
‘That’s right.’ Eleanor’s face was tightly set.
‘Then we leave this with you. Get the prints to the Moroccan embassy in London. Leave the rest to us.’
Sam was suddenly aware of the gear shift, their virtual imprisonment now about to end.
‘You look concerned, Mr Keddie,’ said Maalouf. Sam noticed the gap between what had been said and the tone of voice that had accompanied it, one wholly lacking in any empathy.
‘I’m a little worried about our safety in the UK.’
‘Get this done swiftly and you’ll soon be safe,’ said Maalouf, virtually sneering at Sam’s concern.
Sam was unconvinced.
‘Think of the attempts on your life in the UK and here,’ Maalouf said, a note of exasperation in his voice. ‘They are discreet, deniable, meant to look like accidents or the work of a petty criminal. Few people involved. No questions. That’s what they want.’
‘But they know we’re here. Do you think they’ll just let us re-enter the UK?’
‘The last thing they want is for you to be processed by the police,’ said Maalouf. He paused for a moment, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him.
‘But just to be safe,’ he said, ‘we will get our Tunisian friend to contact his handlers. Tell them his job is done. And one other precaution may be necessary.’
Maalouf then turned to Badaoui and, in Arabic, started firing off what sounded like instructions. It was as if Sam and Eleanor were no longer in the room. Sam suddenly realised that, in one respect, they weren’t. They were now simply pawns in a game.
Part III
Chapter 59
Downing Street
‘Enchantée de faire votre connaissance, Madame,’ stumbled Stirling, his French far from slick.
The French President’s wife didn’t seem to mind, giggling nervously and offering him a coy smile. In truth, she was not a patch on the previous incumbent, but with her slightly rounded behind and short legs, she was somehow far more human. And besides, Stirling was positively brimming with bonhomie, in love with life and indeed with everyone he spoke to.
The reception was in the Pillared State Room, its walls of cheery yellow matching his frothy mood. It was the first meeting between Stirling and his French counterpart, a deliberately light affair designed to confirm that, with their countries’ long established friendships, the two leaders were already pals.
Stirling salivated at the prospect of the forthcoming lunch. The fact that his appetite had returned was a sure sign that life was back on track after the nightmare of the past days.
They were drinking a sparkling wine from the Camel Estuary in Cornwall with their canapés, before moving into the State Dining Room for a lunch of potted shrimp, rare Aberdeen Angus beef and new potatoes, finished off with a pudding of raspberries and cream.
Stirling was feeling as enthusiastic about the British food the chef was showcasing as he was about Britain itself. There really was no finer country to govern. Now that Keddie and Eleanor Scott were no longer in the way – as confirmed by Frears that morning – he could get on with the job he was elected to do. The negotiations with Morocco would, in all likelihood, come to nothing – the place was simply too volatile for the project they’d discussed – but maybe that was a lesson. Domestic issues were clearly where his energies should be directed.
They were being summoned to lunch. He watched Charlotte link arms with the President. The French leader was clearly charmed by this tall dark woman, a sharp contrast to his shorter, more rotund wife.
He marvelled at the journey Charlotte had made. Her current role would have been unthinkable just a few years back.
He studied her briefly as she exited the room, the straight line of glossy dark hair against the pale skin of her neck, her strong, broad back, firm athletic arse and long shapely legs. God, was he getting turned on by his wife again?
He followed Charlotte’s example and linked arms with the President’s wife. She giggled again. He’d watched her necking the sparkling wine and was fairly certain the woman was well on her way to being pissed. Marvellous, he thought. She was, like him, only human. How he’d beaten himself up about everything that had happened since that fateful night in Marrakesh. How unnecessary that had been. After all, we were all flawed in some way.
Chapter 60
Biggin Hill, London
The jet taxied to a standstill before a small terminal building. From the window, through a veil of drizzle, Sam saw Canary Wharf in the distance.
A moment later, a car sped towards them, the side of the vehicle emblazoned with the words ‘HM Customs and Immigration’.
The steps of the jet were lowered and a member of the cabin crew met the vehicle, handing two passports to the driver.
Maalouf, who had accompanied Sam and Eleanor on the flight from Marrakesh, explained what was about to happen.
‘As far as that man out there is concerned, you are a Moroccan diplomat and his wife. This means you are granted unimpeded entry into the UK. You will not be required to pass through the immigration building out there. Once those passports have been examined, a car will draw alongside the plane and you will be free to go.’
They’d heard this twice already. It was clear that Maalouf was now feeling anxious. In his airless interrogation room in Marrakesh, he was in charge and could talk with ease about a hypothetical operation on foreign soil. But now they were actually in the UK, Maalouf’s discomfort, his obvious desire to extricate himself from any further involvement, was plain to see. Sam had no doubt that foreign powers did all sorts of things undercover in London, but getting caught up, however indirectly, in an operation that targeted the son of the British Prime Minister would be a diplomatic disaster. He and Eleanor were on their own from here on.
The HM Customs and Immigration vehicle was driving away and now a dark Mercedes was heading towards the plane. As the vehicle stopped alongside, Maalouf stood, offering his hand to both of them. His face had returned to normal – utterly devoid of emotion.
‘Good luck,’ he said.
Sam drew no comfort from the words. Christ, he thought, this man is the nearest thing we have to an ally. And he can’t get away fast enough.
Eleanor was off the plane first. She wore a knee-length skirt and jacket, her thick hair contained in a hijab in case anyone happened to be watching too closely from the terminal building. Sam was down the steps next, wearing a black suit, his face covered with a dark baseball cap.
The door of the Mercedes closed with a soft but heavy thud. The car moved past a series of hangars – the huge doors of one open to reveal a black helicopter and the sleek white lines of a private jet not dissimilar to the one they’d arrived on – then a car park filled with high-end vehicles, before speeding out of the airport’s exit.
There was no relief at their safe re-entry into the UK. All Sam could see was the challenge ahead, something he and Eleanor had run through on the flight back.
Eleanor planned to use her father as an excuse for getting in contact with Aidan Stirling. As Aidan’s godfather, Charles Scott had seen him regularly over the years. Eleanor had concluded that it was perfectly logical to ask Aidan whether he could spare some time, maybe over a drink in a bar or pub, to reminisce. It was then a question of discreetly removing the glass he’d drunk from.
It was, as Sam had repeatedly said, an incredibly risky plan. What if Aidan Stirling was a killer? What if the people who’d so ruthlessly hounded them also minded him? What if, in contacting him, she alerted them?
But Eleanor’s blood was up. T
ime after time on the plane she talked of what they’d seen from the interrogation room window.
‘People died,’ she said. ‘And unless we act, more will. I have to do this, Sam. Not just for the Moroccans, but for myself. I have to prove Dad wasn’t a murderer. And all we need is a glass.’
A glass, thought Sam. But what if Eleanor was captured? And even if Sam did then manage to get the glass – and it provided proof of Aidan’s guilt – would that be enough to guarantee Eleanor’s release?
The Mercedes was slowing to a halt. Sam had asked to be taken to King’s Cross so that they could book into the same anonymous bed & breakfast where he’d holed up when this nightmare had first erupted.
They stepped out on to the pavement, a chill wind hitting them both in the face. The drizzle that had greeted them at Biggin Hill was now a steady rain.
The car sped off with indifference, joining a busy stream of morning traffic on the Euston Road. People spilled by them, heads down to avoid the elements. Sam took Eleanor’s hand and led her down a side street.
A little later, in a small, dark room that overlooked the pipework and windows of the back of another building, they stood just inside the door, holding each other tight. The weight of the task ahead had been momentarily suspended when the door closed and Eleanor dropped her bag, wrapping her arms around Sam. There was a pause and then she looked up at him. The eyes Sam had got to know so well in the past days – dark pools set in delicate, gently freckled skin still pale despite the intensity of the Moroccan sun – bore into him. The previous night, exhausted after their ordeal with Maalouf and Badaoui, they had collapsed fully clothed on the hotel bed and not moved till morning. Now, as if a precious opportunity had presented itself, Eleanor kissed Sam. He felt her tongue in his mouth, her breasts pressed against his chest and would have loved nothing more than to cast aside the task ahead, and escape with her into the warm haven of the bed. But the job that needed to be done hung over the room like a black cloud and, a moment later, a tacit agreement passed between them, and they peeled apart.
Eleanor phoned home and spoke to Jill, Wendy’s carer. In addition to passing on the message that she was now home from her trip and would be back by the weekend for her father’s funeral – and at this, Sam tensed, hoping to God that Eleanor was right – she asked Jill to root out her father’s address book in the study. In it, Eleanor said, Jill would find a mobile number for Aidan Stirling.
There was a pause, and then Jill returned to the phone. Sam watched Eleanor’s long fingers, the nails gnawed to the core, as they scribbled down the number on a scrap of paper. She then thanked Jill, and hung up.
‘Right,’ she said, her voice tight and breathless. ‘No time like the present.’
Her fingers were trembling as they pressed the keys of her mobile.
‘Oh hi,’ she suddenly said, ‘this is Eleanor Scott, Charles’s daughter.’
It was clear from her tone that she was leaving a message. Sam’s shoulders dropped a fraction.
‘I realise it’s been a long, long time.’ She laughed slightly at this, clearly as much from nerves as from the effort of sounding light and breezy, ‘but I was wondering if we might get together for a drink. It’s kind of hard to explain on the phone, but I guess I just want to talk to people who knew Dad. Anyhow, if you’re free, and you can spare a bit of time to meet, it would be lovely to see you. Here’s my number.’
She repeated the number for good measure, then hung up, collapsing on to the bed.
Ten minutes later, her phone began to ring.
Chapter 61
King’s Cross, London
‘He was a little taken aback at first,’ said Eleanor, ‘but then full of sympathy.’
Sam stood staring at the cheap brick of the building opposite, the windows with their bubbled, opaque glass, a stain of algae below a leaking pipe. Eleanor’s description of the man she’d just spoken to – and his ‘normal’ reactions – did nothing to reassure him. Nor did the meet he’d suggested that very evening, in a pub in St James’s. It all seemed too quick. Too convenient.
He turned and went over to the bed, where Eleanor was still sitting. ‘You don’t have to go through with this, you know.’
Eleanor looked into his eyes. ‘I do, Sam,’ she said. ‘You know I do. And it will be fine, I promise. ’
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’ll be in the pub. Any problems, I’ll be right by your side.’
She nodded, her smile uncertain.
As a distraction, Sam suggested they plan their next steps.
Shortly after 5.30pm they’d take the Tube to St James’s, giving them both a chance to check out the pub and layout of the streets around it before Aidan turned up at 6.30pm. Sam would then find himself a discreet place to sit, a little way from Eleanor. If, for whatever reason, Eleanor failed to remove the glass before she left the pub, then it was up to Sam.
It was, as plans went, flimsy as hell. But as Eleanor had said, all they needed was a glass. And as soon as Sam could deliver that to the Moroccan embassy, the dynamics would soon shift. He hoped to God she was right.
‘I can’t talk about this any more,’ said Eleanor. She lay back on the bed, breathing out deeply.
Sam felt a hand on his back and turned to see Eleanor looking straight at him, her eyes beckoning. He lay down next to her. They kissed again, hands slowly exploring each others’ bodies. He began to unbutton her shirt, reaching inside to touch her breasts, her hardened nipples. Eleanor sighed with pleasure.
Sam felt the moment take over, the dark thoughts that had occupied his brain for days, finally evaporate.
Chapter 62
St James’s, London
The pub was a narrow building in a one-way street of Georgian townhouses that seemed, for the most part, to be divided into offices. Sam saw brass plaques for solicitors, recruitment consultants, accountancy firms and what appeared to be a private bank. There would be people around, and quite probably plenty of employees having an after-work drink in the pub. He couldn’t decide whether this was a good thing or not.
Sam and Eleanor took a few minutes to explore the area immediately around the pub. The streets were laid out in grid fashion, giving them a quick sense of the neighbourhood.
In front of the pub itself, underneath hanging baskets overflowing with brightly coloured flowers, were a couple of tables for drinkers. Behind was a bay window of dark glass that afforded a murky view of the interior. Inside, the pub was long and narrow, with seating spread along both interior walls, and a small beer garden at the rear. Eleanor planned to sit near the front, Sam in the middle.
The pub was already busy, most of the tables occupied and people beginning to throng at the bar. A group of men with loosened ties stood at a gaming machine, laughing as a colleague clumsily attempted to steer a Formula One car round a course. Beneath the hubbub of voices, Sam could hear Paint It Black by the Rolling Stones. In the far corner, a music video – a rap star gesticulating with his hands as he sat on the bonnet of a Jeep, two busty women in swimsuits writhing around him – silently competed for attention. While all this commotion and activity seemed comforting to Eleanor, Sam couldn’t help worrying that Aidan might suggest another, quieter venue, one that was beyond Sam’s control.
They bought drinks, a mineral water for Sam and a gin & tonic for Eleanor, who’d admitted to raging nerves. By 6.15pm, they were seated in position, Sam getting one of the last tables in the middle of the pub.
A discarded newspaper lay on the table and Sam opened it, while keeping an eye on the door. Eleanor sat with her back to him. The pub was filling, people now frequently blocking Sam’s view.
About ten minutes later, as Sam was about to go over to Eleanor and call the whole thing off because his view of her was getting too obstructed, he saw a solitary figure walk in.
Aidan Stirling wasn’t a regular in the media, so Sam was unsure if it was him. But he watched the man slowly look round the room, lock on to the spot where Eleanor sat, smile, and wal
k over to her.
It was Aidan Stirling. Sam saw Eleanor stand and receive a kiss on the cheek.
It was too late. Their amateur operation was in motion.
Chapter 63
Downing Street
Frears had taken the call in the small first-floor office he used whenever he was in Downing Street. It was shared by a variety of advisers who could plug in their laptops and make it their temporary home. Today he was alone save for a new drugs adviser, an articulate ex-addict the PM had met on a visit to a community centre in Sheffield. The adviser called everyone ‘man’, including women and Frears.
The Guardsman had felt his body go cold as his surveillance man, based outside Downing Street to the west, relayed the news. He was now trying to process it, despite the best efforts of the old junkie next to him tapping away incredibly loudly at his keyboard. Aidan was un-medicated and with Eleanor Scott. It was like the perfect storm.
He thought of the basic tenets of his military training. How it was about following orders but also about using initiative when a situation demanded more flexible thinking. Christ, was this such a situation. Whatever happened now, it was, he knew, probably over for him. This could not end neatly.
He began to shut down his laptop, not out of any desire to protect the secrecy of his work – that hardly mattered given the nature of his extra-curricular activities – but to give him some extra time to think. He then got up and walked briskly out of the office.
‘Later, man,’ said the drugs adviser.
Chapter 64
St James’s, London
Eleanor had almost finished her gin & tonic when Aidan strode into the pub.
A gap of almost twenty years might have passed since they’d last met but he was instantly recognisable. Despite the height he’d acquired in the intervening years, he still had the same round face and curly hair, now a mop that fell in front of his eyes. She watched him scan the room and then, when he spotted her, break into a broad grin.
Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1) Page 19
