by Andy Maslen
‘Come here,’ he said, when he was naked.
Eli closed the gap between them and put her hands on his shoulders. Gabriel held her around the waist, braced his knees and lifted as she jumped up.
She reached down with one hand and found him, guided him into her, gasping as she leaned out from him, and arching her neck to expose her throat.
Slowly they began to move together, she raising herself up and then letting herself push down onto him, he moving her hips rhythmically in his grip, easing himself into her tempo.
As she approached her climax he leaned forwards and lowered her onto the bed, driving himself deep into her as she came before his own climax erupted, causing him to cry out.
‘Oh, Eli! I love you!’
Afterwards, they lay entwined for an hour, watching the light fade outside and listening to the gulls keening and the halyards clinking against the masts of the boats in the next door boatyard. It was to be a long time before they would experience such peace and contentment again.
11
PADDINGTON GREEN
Amid the muted conversations and hum of centrifuges in the lab at Paddington Green Police Station, lead forensic scientist Lucian Young adjusted the focus of his microscope.
The picture sharpened. He looked at the array of particles one of the CSIs had lifted from the concrete platform at the top of the fire station training tower. At x10 magnification, they resembled boulders, crusted and rugged, varying in size but all tinged in various shades of rust-red and speckled with silvery flecks like diamonds.
Soil. He’d already analysed dust and grit from the same location. The samples were completely different, both in morphology and colour. The concrete samples were sharper, with larger plate-like areas of reflective mica. And they were grey and yellow.
He increased the magnification to x100 and moved the slide around beneath the lens. Different boulders swam into focus, though all displayed identical characteristics. Then he saw something that piqued his curiosity.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What are you?’
The object capturing his attention was black, curved, shiny and ended in a needle-point. The blunt end was ragged. Had it been broken off? He pressed a button on the side of the microscope and took a high-resolution digital photograph.
After printing out a large-format copy, he took the sample over to a bank of high-tech equipment tended by a young woman in a white coat. Her blonde hair tied up in high mini-bunches gave her the appearance of a science club schoolgirl.
‘Jess, can you run this soil sample through the gas chromatograph and mass-spectrometer for me, please?’ he said.
She nodded wordlessly, accepted the slide and placed it reverently on her desk.
Lucian returned to his own desk and made a call. The ringing was cut short before the first digital purr ended.
‘Magda Szabo.’
‘How’s my favourite forensic entomologist doing?’ Lucian asked with a smile.
‘Lucian?’
‘One and the same. I’ve got a toughie for you.’
‘Ooh! Sounds interesting. From a body?’
‘For once, no. We’re working on Operation Birch. I’ve got a soil sample from the sniper nest and—’
‘Soil? I’m insects.’
‘…and I’ve found something that looks like a stinger. It’s no more than a tenth of a millimetre long.’
‘And you were wondering if I could identify it for you.’
‘If you had time.’
‘You have picture, yes?’
‘You want me to email it to you?’
‘I’ll have answer for you as soon as I can. I’ll do it straight away. There are various databases I can consult.’
Two hours later, Lucian’s mobile rang. He glanced at the screen and smiled.
‘That was quick, Magda,’ he said.
‘It’s Operation Birch. I would be sitting on my hands for this?’
‘Of course not. So. What can you tell me?’
‘It’s very strange.’
‘Come on, Magda, don’t keep me in suspense. What is it? A spider fang? A wasp sting?’
‘Neither. It is mandible. Right mandible, to be precise. From termite.’
He could hear the triumph in her voice. And understood why.
‘A termite? You’re sure?’
‘What? You doubt your, what did you call me, “favourite forensic entomologist”?’
‘Sorry, no. Of course not. What kind, could you tell?’
‘Absolutely! It is soldier of species Macrotermes michaelseni.’
‘Habitat?’
‘Very interesting, given you found it in Windsor.’
She paused.
‘Please, Magda!’
‘Sub-Saharan Africa. You know those big mounds?’
‘Yes.’
‘He is one of those. Long way from home, yes?’
Lucian nodded as he thanked her and ended the call.
A bloody long way from home.
He stared at the picture he’d printed out. At this magnification, the jaw looked like a particularly vicious knife blade, albeit one snapped off the hilt.
‘What’s that?’ Jess asked, as she arrived by his shoulder.
‘That,’ he said, ‘is the right mandible of a soldier termite. Exclusively found in Sub-Saharan Africa.’
‘That’s interesting,’ she said.
‘I know.’
‘No, I mean it’s interesting because I’ve been working on the soil sample you gave me.’
‘Go on,’ he said, feeling that a second revelation was only seconds away.
‘I compared the mass-spec and gas-chroma results to the UN’s Harmonized World Soil Database. There’s a ninety-two percent probability it comes from the Okavango Delta in Botswana.’
‘You’re joking!’
She grinned.
‘Actually, yes, I am. It matches the soil in the flowerbeds in Hyde Park.’
‘Shit! I thought we were onto something.’
She burst out laughing.
‘Sorry, boss, but you’re so easy to fool. No, it really is from Botswana. There’s a spike in the copper content that’s so distinctive it’s like a fingerprint.’
Lucian’s fingers flew over his keyboard as he tapped in a search query: Okavango Delta termite.
The very first search result Google returned was ‘Master Builders of the Okavango’. It led to an article about mound-building termites.
He turned and thanked Jess, then picked up his phone.
‘Stella?’
‘Hi, Lucian, what’s up?’
‘Someone in that sniper nest had recently been in Botswana.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got two data points that confirm the presence of soil from Botswana on the top floor of the training tower. A termite mandible and the soil sample we found it in.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘I knew you’d be pleased.’
‘You’re a genius, Luce. I’m taking this to Callie.’
12
Tammerlane looked up from his papers. He smiled broadly and rounded his desk to shake hands with his visitor.
‘Anthony! Please, take a seat.’
As commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Anthony Redding was the public face of the investigation, known as Operation Birch, into the assassination of Princess Alexandra.
‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’
‘Call me Joe, please,’ Tammerlane said with a smile.
‘We have some rather disturbing intelligence. About the killer’s identity.’
‘Go on,’ Tammerlane, said, cupping his chin in his hand.
‘It appears that he was an Israeli. Name of Dov Lieberman,’ Redding said, his hooded eyes maintaining contact with the PM’s.
‘Mossad?’
‘No, Sir. He was a schoolteacher. Physics, apparently.’
‘A physics teacher?’ Tammerlane repeated, arranging his features into an expression of disbelief. ‘What, you’re
telling me assassinating British princesses was a hobby?’
‘No, Sir. He was a marksman in the IDF. They all do national service in—’
‘Yes, yes, I know. Bloody warmongers.’
‘Well, that’s how he came to be such a good shot.’
‘You haven’t told me why, Anthony.’
‘Why, Sir?’
‘Yes! Why did he do it?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t know. We’ve asked the Israelis for his home computer, any laptops, devices at his home, but we’re still waiting.’
‘Yes, and I’m sure you’ll be waiting a lot longer. Thank you, Anthony, for coming today. Leave this with me. I think we need to rattle the can a little.’
The Downing Street press officer approached the microphone and waited for silence. The breeze flapped at a page of A4 in her hand but, otherwise, everything about her was poised, immobile, immaculate, from her tied-back blonde hair to the pencil skirt of her black suit.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the prime minister.’
Tammerlane smiled at the assembled journalists. Then he frowned and gripped the lectern. He waited for the harsh whine of the cameras’ digital shutters to quieten before he spoke.
‘I have just come from a meeting with the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service. He brought me the most disturbing intelligence imaginable. Princess Alexandra was assassinated…’ He paused and shook his head, frowning deeper. ‘No, let’s be blunt here, murdered, by an agent of the apartheid state of Israel. A former military sniper acting covertly in the guise of a teacher.’
He waited for the brief susurrus of journalistic whispers to die down before resuming.
‘Britain is a sovereign nation. Whatever your views of the monarchy, and mine are no secret, it is an act of state-sponsored terrorism to deploy an assassin on foreign soil and murder one of its citizens.’
He found a TV camera and stared directly into its lens, pointing a finger as he spoke.
‘As of now, Britain is breaking off diplomatic ties with the terrorist state of Israel. We are expelling diplomats and closing its embassy. All Israeli citizens are given notice: you have one month to leave this island.
My home secretary and her colleagues at Defence, International Trade and Overseas Development will be announcing further measures later. Thank you. That is all.’
‘What the fuck just happened?’ Eli said to Gabriel as she stabbed the remote’s off button.
‘He’s mad.’
‘That’s me done. You know that, right?’
‘I know. I can’t think.’
‘Well I can! I’m going upstairs to pack. This country just put out a Jews Out! sign and I for one am not going to wait around until they start knocking on doors at three in the fucking morning!’
‘Eli, wait!’
She whirled round.
‘No! You wait. I’m leaving.’
‘He’s posturing. There’ll be legal challenges. It’s unenforceable. Parliament will never allow it.’
Breathing heavily, chest heaving, Eli took her foot off the first step. She came and stood right in front of Gabriel.
‘He’s the prime minister. With a huge majority. He’s also a hard-left dictator-in-waiting with a hard-on for Israel.’
‘What about the mission?’
‘I’ll do that. It’s in Africa anyway, so I assume Tammerlane’s tentacles don’t stretch that far. But that’s it.’ A tear crept down her cheek. ‘Gabriel, you know what’s coming, right?’
Unwilling to believe it, yet unable to process the press conference and deal with the grief of the woman he loved at the same time, Gabriel defaulted to operational mode.
‘Let’s both pack. We’ll head down to Rothford and stay there till we deploy. If it makes you feel any better, while Tammerlane’s in charge I have no desire to sit around and watch him dismantle everything I love about this country.’
‘You mean it?’
‘Yes, I mean it.’ He held her upper arms and looked deep into those grey-green eyes. ‘You are what matters to me. If it’s all going to get shitty here then we decamp somewhere until it’s over. People like Tammerlane don’t last for ever.’
‘No. But they last long enough.’
Gabriel cut the Camaro’s engine at the gate to MOD Rothford, the army base in the Essex countryside that housed, alongside its official residents, the small team that comprised the leadership and support staff for The Department.
‘Morning, Sir. Mr Wolfe, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, Corporal. Andy, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Sir. Miss Schochat with you?’ the uniformed soldier asked, bending to peer in through the open window. ‘Morning, miss.’
‘Morning, Corporal,’ she said, flashing him a grin that Gabriel had rarely seen since Tammerlane had swept into power. ‘How are you?’
‘Very good, miss, thank you.’
‘We’re here to see Colonel Webster,’ Gabriel said.
‘He’s expecting you, Sir. Said you’d find him on the range.’
‘The range?’
‘Yes, Sir. Said it was about time the old warhorse got his eye in again.’
Occupying a tree-screened acre or so on the north-eastern edge of the base, the rifle range was usually the preserve of uniformed recruits or squads undergoing specialist weapons training. Today, alongside the men and women in their twenties, in combat gear, Don Webster stood in a bay, an instructor by his side.
The air reeked of the sharp tang of burnt propellant and hot brass. Ejected cartridge cases flew in all directions, their spinning sides flashing in the smoke-filtered sun.
Two dozen or so SA 80 assault rifles being fired on full auto made talking at conversational volume impossible.
‘Don knows something,’ Eli shouted to Gabriel as they walked up to the rear of the line of shooters.
They stood a few yards behind Don. Unlike the regular soldiers along the line, Don was firing single shots. Gabriel looked down the range. His boss was shooting at a target at the five-hundred-yard mark. A female silhouette.
After squeezing off a shot, Don turned, smiled and handed the SA 80 to the instructor.
‘Morning, boss,’ Gabriel yelled, when they were within two feet of each other.
‘Morning, Old Sport, Eli. Let’s go to my office,’ he added, pointing at the administration block for good measure.
Inside and with mugs of freshly brewed coffee and a plate of biscuits sitting in front of them, Gabriel waited for his boss to speak. Eli beat him to it.
‘Did you get bored of paperwork, boss?’
Don grinned.
‘To tell you the truth, I did. Have been, in fact, since I took up the job. Needs must, eh?’
‘That the only reason you were brushing up your marksmanship?’
Don steepled his fingers under his nose.
‘Hmm. Mm-hmm. A teacher makes a five-hundred-and-fifty-yard head-shot through a ten-mile-an-hour crosswind over hot urban streets. Smelled fishy to me, so I checked with Six. Lieberman left the army in 2012 and I got to wondering how feasible it would be for someone that rusty to make that kind of shot.’
‘And?’
‘Well, I couldn’t. And I went through a hundred rounds trying. Paul Brooke is the best firearms instructor on base, and even with him spotting for me I couldn’t shoot for shit.’
Gabriel frowned, processing the information.
‘What are you saying?’
‘Not exactly sure, Old Sport. But I’ve put in a call to the Met. Asked if we could take a look at their analysis of the rifle.’
He pushed a thin brown cardboard folder across the desk. Gabriel read the top sheet and the fingerprint analyst’s clipped sentences. He passed it to Eli, who scanned the notes then closed the file.
‘The fourth print. You think there was a second shooter?’
‘I don’t know,’ Don said. ‘But at worst we know that there was someone else involved. I checked with the Met. The rules on handling firearms are strict. O
nly the armourer and the AFO to whom the weapon is assigned handle it.’
‘Tammerlane?’ Gabriel asked.
‘His prints weren’t on it. The Met asked him to provide a set for elimination purposes.’
‘Lieberman was a fall guy,’ Eli said.
Gabriel could hear the hope in her voice. That, even now, there was a chance normality could be restored. His heart was a weight in his chest. Because he didn’t see it.
‘I’ve passed on my concerns to the Met, along with a few carefully chosen thoughts on the marksmanship issue,’ Don said. ‘They told me they’d bear it in mind, but you know what the cops are like. At the moment it’s an open and shut case. Ballistics match the round to the G3K. They have a dead man with his prints on the murder weapon. And a witness in the person of our own, dear prime minister.’
‘But surely they can see it doesn’t make sense!’ Eli said, raising her voice. ‘Israel’s a friend of Britain. Why would the Mossad assassinate a princess?’
Sensing Eli’s mounting impatience, Gabriel changed the subject.
‘What about the mission? Are we good to go?’
‘There, we do have clarity,’ Don said. ‘I’ve booked you on a Virgin flight for tomorrow evening. Leaves at five past eight. You transfer in Johannesburg then on to Gaborone. You arrive 10.35 a.m. the following morning.’
‘Kit?’ Eli said.
‘Waiting for you in Gaborone. Our friend John has a contact in the region,’ Don said. ‘Chap runs a private security firm called Kagiso Group. Our intel team have checked them out. They look after Western interests in the region. Pipelines, factories, mines, that sort of thing. He’s sending a driver for you.’
‘What about a cover story?’ Gabriel asked.
‘The old standby: freelance journalists. We’ve prepared IDs for both of you. Poaching’s a big issue so it makes sense you’d be out there researching for a story.’
Eli shifted in her chair. Gabriel caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and turned. Her brow was furrowed and there was a tightness around her eyes.
‘Boss,’ she said, ‘there’s something I need to tell you.’
