by Robert Young
Continuing the roll he was back on his feet quickly but he had taken his eyes off the other man for a moment and now couldn't see him at all as he stood and frantically scanned all about, waiting to be rushed again.
As he stepped gingerly forward in the shadows he could see the flattened grass at his feet and then, as he searched the ground ahead of him there was suddenly a loud sound of sliding, scraping and a shifting of stones followed by a brief silence.
And then he heard a short cry from below him, full of terror and desperation.
Then a thick, crunching, thud that sent a feeling through Campbell like there was ice in his veins and he thought he was going to vomit.
Eyes wide and chest heaving he dropped to his knees and stared blankly at the cliff edge. Then he crawled to it and looked over.
III
43
Monday. 11am.
The cold, pale light of the day outside told of approaching winter and he could almost feel the chill as he stood in his warm, comfortable office.
On his desk lay that morning's newspaper. The lead story was about a terrorist atrocity in a tourist resort in Turkey, which had been blamed on Kurdish extremists.
There was a small column about the possibility of the Government's opponents lowering income tax as an election pledge. There was also a banner across the top about the extensive picture coverage of the wedding of a leading British actor.
Geoffrey Asquith's name was nowhere to be found but he worried all the same. If not today, then perhaps tomorrow or sometime soon.
Days were passing in agonising silence with no word from anyone about who was behind the break in at Griffin Holdings or what their intentions were. Andrew Griffin had come to see him and told him all about the evidence of Horner's activities in the early 1990's, how the paper trail had remained hidden deep in the company's records for long years.
Horner had then admitted this to him without too much of a fight. Once it was apparent what Asquith already knew, Horner had surrendered any pretence of innocence and admitted to it all. Initially flippant and dismissive, Horner had seemed gradually to lose his nerve and the tables had turned almost completely now. More than once Asquith had angrily hung up the phone on the man, telling him not to panic, to wait and see what would happen. Until then he had other things on his mind, things that he could deal with, that were within his control.
By the end of the week Asquith would have to deliver his verdict on a proposed Dam building project in Malaysia. The project would be part funded by the British Department for International Development, which existed with the official mandate to help eradicate poverty and hunger in the poorer countries of the world. Most often this came in the form of aid packages and grants to the countries in question which would often go to large infrastructure projects; gas and electricity supplies, schools and hospitals, roads and bridges.
As a matter of course however, such projects, sometimes on a massive scale, requiring expertise, experience and sophistication in order to implement them, the contracts for their construction went to companies outside the recipient country. Usually, in fact, to companies within the donor country.
This was nothing new and Geoffrey Asquith knew it. He did feel more than a little guilty and hypocritical that 'aid' packages for these poor countries often amounted to little more than back-door investment in British industry. But he still believed that in most cases, if the execution might leave something to be desired, the end results still benefited the people they were supposed to.
If a dam helped provide electricity to the homes of many thousands of families who might otherwise be without it, what did they care whether a British company built it instead of a local one? What matter that a foreign firm was paid to construct much needed municipal facilities in a poor and run-down city?
This Malaysian project was not without its critics though. Thousands of acres of land would be flooded as a result of the dam and many thousands of local people displaced. An ancient religious site would also be lost beneath the reservoir as well as the breeding sites of rare birds that existed in only a few other places in the region now.
But the hydroelectric power plant would need to be manned and run and that would create long term employment. Also, with the power it provided to the local area, industry could flourish and more jobs would be created, helping improve the economy and the quality of life for hundreds of thousands of people.
Asquith's task was firstly to decide whether it would go ahead in the face of the opposition it had received and then to decide which of the firms that had tendered for the multi-million pound contracts would get them. The first point he knew was a formality. The opposition could not stand in the way of the project, the fate of which had long ago been decided. It was the latter job that would occupy his time now and he would need to meet with the last of various committees and interest groups and non-governmental organisations before presenting his final decision.
That his professional reputation and political future might be in jeopardy was something that he had no control over at present and this work needed to be finished either way. The livelihoods of many people depended on it, and on him.
44
Monday. 12.30pm.
The strain was clear on Gresham's face and he turned away from the reflection in the glass and stared at the floor. He knew the others in the room could see it too and he didn't like them to see him weak or scared.
Right now he was both.
He had not been able to sleep in the two nights that she had been gone. When finally exhaustion overtook him, the dreams that he'd seen in sleep were too awful to bear and he had woken shouting her name more than once.
He had sent Slater and Warren to see what they could find out, see what people knew about Walker. But no-one would talk even if they did know anything and Gresham was well aware that he would find out where she was only when Walker told him.
But the waiting was worse. The inactivity and the feeling of impotence as he stared at the phone were more than he could take. At least if he was doing something to find her, however futile, it was better than the waiting.
'Have we heard anything about Campbell? Did Drennan's man get to him yet?' Gresham asked them.
Nobody spoke. Slater shrugged.
'I want somebody watching Campbell's flat. All the time. If he even pops in to get his post I want him. We get him, we get the stick, we get the money and then we get Angie back,' he said quietly, his eyes still cast down.
Nobody wanted to suggest that there might be no Angie to get back. Or Campbell. They all knew that Gresham was already all too aware of that thought anyway. Now was the time to say the right thing and do what the boss said and find some way out of this. Ever since that fateful night the fabric of their world had started to tear and it got worse at every turn, not better.
'We'll do shifts then. I'll take first shift,' offered Warren.
They all murmured their agreement and the two men shuffled out the door, Warren patting a hand on Gresham's shoulder as he passed.
45
Monday. 2pm.
He had heard from his paymaster only once since the end of the previous week and been told to wait. The young man who had got himself embroiled in this situation was soon to be eliminated. Drennan thought this was over-cautious behaviour on his employer's behalf but was in no position to question or influence the decision.
Once he was out of the equation they could proceed with the plan as agreed. In the meantime he had been in contact with Gresham once more to tell the man to sit tight and to keep hold of the memory stick he had stolen and keep it safe. Drennan had felt that the further removed it was for the time being from himself and his employer the better. There would be no call for it yet.
Gresham had struck him as edgy and ill-tempered but gave no reason why. Bad night's sleep Drennan thought, or maybe he was just a belligerent bastard all the time. Maybe he was getting nervous keeping hold of the memory stick, which had, after all, got one of his m
en killed. Never mind, he'd just have to be patient if he wanted his money.
The phone rang and Drennan noted the caller on the screen of his mobile.
'Sir?'
'Afternoon.'
'Are we ready to move?'
A pause. 'It seems that our young friend is a more resilient man than we gave him credit for.'
'Sir?' Drennan thought he knew what he was getting at but knew better than to say so.
'My man failed Matthew. I have heard nothing in two days. I can only presume that something has gone gravely wrong. He was due to report in yesterday evening but has yet to do so and cannot be reached.'
Drennan remained silent, aware that they were both probably thinking the same thing: that there was more to Campbell than they had thought, or perhaps he had finally gone to the police despite Gresham's best attempts to threaten him into silence. What was clear was that Drennan's paymaster had sent someone to kill him but that Campbell had evidently escaped that fate as well. Which meant that he was still out there somewhere, still in a position to ruin everything for them.
'Do we wait?'
Another pause. 'No. No more waiting. There's no more time. We make our play now.'
'Very well. You would like me to make contact?'
'Yes. Today.'
'I'll make the call.'
'And Drennan, do me another favour.'
Drennan waited for it but knew what was coming.
'Get rid of Campbell for me. As soon as you can.'
46
Monday. 2.30pm.
George Gresham did not speak for a long time, but just stood silently assessing all the thoughts and impulses running through him. He stared at the man on his doorstep who looked right back at him with a bland expression.
He clenched and unclenched his fists and grappled with his boiling rage and fear.
'No need to invite me in old son,' said Frankie Walker. 'I'll be quick.'
Gresham's head moved a fraction in response, the most he could let himself react without exploding at the other man.
'She's quite safe George. I have my best guys with her, lots of them.'
'You-'
Walker raised a hand to stop him and Gresham bit his tongue and tried to keep his emotions in check. It wasn't the anger that worried him, it was the fear.
'We've been talking. I mean, she's not exactly chatty, but she loosened up after a while. Said something quite intriguing actually.'
Walker rolled his head back and looked at the sky, crossing his hands behind his back. He looked deep in thought, as though searching for the best way to say something. With his hands behind his back and his chin exposed he looked outwardly open, vulnerable to attack even, but Gresham saw it for what it was; a challenge. Go ahead, try something. Take a swing.
'Something about stolen data. Valuable information?' Walker said and then eyed Gresham. 'Am I close?'
Gresham's head nodded again, little more than a twitch.
'Close. Close. OK. Something valuable, but not to everyone. Maybe just to one or two people.'
Straight away Gresham could see where Walker was headed, however long he wanted to tease it out.
'Something that the other person wants very much to take possession of. Yes?'
Another head twitch.
'Yes. Something therefore that the one in possession should not give up too easily, not without a fair deal being struck.'
'Alright, get to the point,' snapped Gresham. 'You've had your fun.'
Walker wore an expression like 'not quite, not yet' and Gresham didn't think he meant this exchange. The threats against Angie may not have been explicit, but they were clear enough.
Walker pointed a finger at himself and his the expression on his face went dark.
'What I've got,' he said and then jabbed a finger into Gresham's chest. 'What you've got.'
Gresham looked at him for a long while, his eyes blazing. Walker returned the look without a flicker. Then he nodded again but he knew that it wasn't a deal he'd agreed, it was a surrender.
'I don't have it here.'
'Well, get it to me fast then. After that we're square.'
Gresham stood and watched him down the path and into his car and watched the car start and pull away. After that he stared at the empty space at the end of the road where Walker's car had disappeared and he wondered what on earth he was going to do with all this terror and fury inside him.
47
Monday. 3pm.
His schedule was a busy one and allowed little time for relaxation. His working day began when most people were waking up and ended after they had all gone home again. Unless there were some meeting or function to attend he would snatch a quick lunch to eat in his office or between appointments.
Today he had few actual engagements booked in to his diary and he was trying to make headway with the Malaysian project. Two junior ministers from the Department for International Development sat on the other side of the table from him in the corner of his office poring over files and schematics, columns of figures and graphs. Asquith was starting to get the feeling that the more he looked the less he saw.
The ringing phone was a welcome distraction.
His secretary greeted him. 'Sorry to disturb you Minister but I have a personal call on line three. Insists that it's important. Name of Griffin.'
The call was patched through and Asquith put his back to the two men in the corner. 'Andrew?'
'Not quite but that should serve as a clue. Are you alone?'
Asquith turned around. 'Gentlemen would you give me a moment? I'm most terribly sorry. Take a ten-minute breather shall we? This is all getting a bit much.'
If they were offended by the dismissal neither man showed it and shuffled quickly out of the office with Asquith smiling his polite gratitude at each of them.
'Who is this?' he barked into the phone as the door closed.
'I represent certain interests Mr Asquith. Certain interests who are familiar with certain transgressions of your past.'
'That's nonsense!'
'You could argue the technicalities of that with the gentlemen of the press if you'd prefer.'
'Don't threaten me.'
'Well strictly speaking I'm not threatening you. The interests that I represent might not like that choice of word either. They seek only your co-operation in exchange for their own. Let's look at it as more of a statement of facts. Allow me to list these facts for you.
'Number one. You were, Mr Asquith, involved, knowingly or otherwise, in the shipping of illegal armaments to rebel organisations of Sierra Leone who were engaged at the time in a brutal civil war with that country's government. This was clearly in direct contravention to international law not to mention morally reprehensible. As a result you are directly tied to breaking several UN Resolutions, profiteering from an illegally waged war and, last but by no means least, the trafficking of conflict diamonds. Fact two. You are responsible for the award of numerous highly lucrative construction and engineering contracts to be carried out in Malaysia. Fact number three. You will award these contracts to the following tenders:'
Asquith listened as the voice set out the terms of the blackmail to which he was to be subjected. It was immediately clear what was happening. Of the various tenders that had been submitted for the Malaysia contracts the names of the companies he was hearing had submitted the weakest or most expensive. They were the least likely to succeed. Or had been.
'Number four, Mr Asquith. When the interests I represent are satisfied of fact Number three you will be sent a memory stick which contains evidence pertaining to fact Number one. This is the only copy of the data in existence. You will do with this whatever you choose. Is this clear Mr Asquith? Are you comfortable with these facts or would you like me to reaffirm them for you?'
'There will be no need for that.'
'Excellent. We will contact you in due course.'
48
Monday. 3.30 pm.
To Campbell this felt like a sie
ge. They had been in Sarah's flat since early Saturday morning, having packed up and fled the cottage almost immediately.
Campbell reasoned that Sarah's anonymity was safe. Whoever the man at the cottage had been, Daniel had told her, he could know nothing about Sarah. How could he? He must have followed Campbell down to the cottage and waited for his moment but the chances that he knew anything about Sarah were minimal. Her involvement had begun only that afternoon.
Since their return they had slept fitfully, read, and found various things to pass the time. Sarah had taken much convincing to go into work and looked nervous and scared when she left and would probably be on edge all day and watching over her shoulder. She had conceded that he was right however and that they must do something rather than sit and wait. That meant that she had to go to work. There she could help him, there she could be of more use than waiting at home.
For his own part he knew that he had an unpleasant task to complete and he'd put it off all day so far. There would be no avoiding it, not forever, but Campbell could fast the bitter tang of his own sharp fear each time he considered even making the call. He tried to rouse himself to action several times, telling himself that after all he'd been through and survived, a phone call was nothing, or that what Sarah might be facing today on his behalf should be spur enough to do his bit too. But there the phone lay, silent and untouched.
He thought about the first time he'd called this number, from the payphone at Paddington. A nice anonymous number. The last thing he wanted was for George Gresham to have his mobile number. Whether or not the man might have the means to use that to track him was almost beside the point. It just felt like removing one more barrier and letting him and his men get closer to him, closer to Sarah.
He knew he could block the number he was calling from this time, so Gresham would not know be able to get a number. But that wasn't it. He remembered the words he'd used and the tone of voice, he knew the kind of man Gresham was and what kind of reaction would be waiting.
