Deadly Game

by Matt Johnson

  Two weeks after returning to Plymouth, her Commanding Officer had called her into his office with the news she had been selected for an interview in London. The CO had immediately surmised it was with one or other of the intelligence services and warned her what to expect. He was aware that MI5, in particular, was looking to recruit candidates from red-brick universities rather than the Oxbridge officer class it had traditionally focussed on. Toni had read modern languages at Sussex. Fluent in French and Spanish, and with a working knowledge of Russian, in the opinion of the CO, she was ideal MI5 material.

  The first interview took place in a nondescript office block behind Tottenham Court Road in London. Much to her amusement, the taxi driver who picked her up at Paddington recognised the address and even wished her luck if she became a spy.

  Inside, the offices were austere, bland; the magnolia emulsion that decorated the walls peeling and in need of repair. There was just the one interviewer, Kate – a tall woman in her late thirties who looked to be dressed more for a day’s shopping in Harrods than conducting interviews. Kate was the typical Roedean type, the kind Toni had seen many times in Brighton while she had been at university. For an hour, they had talked about Toni’s school life, her reasons for joining the navy and about all manner of other subjects, including her opinions on political matters and terrorism. Several times during the interview Kate unexpectedly switched languages – using both Spanish and Russian. Toni’s responses in the former were fluent, in the latter, slow but correct.

  At the end of the interview Kate pushed a form across the desk and asked Toni to sign it. The heading read Official Secrets Act. After completing this formality, they undertook a short tour of the building. Most doors were closed but those rooms Kate showed Toni around were, without exception, cluttered and untidy. Her guide apologised for the conditions and was at pains to stress it was the nature of the work that was interesting and not the cramped working environment which, apparently, had always left a lot to be desired.

  Toni was enthralled by the whole experience. The secrecy, the kudos, the very thought of knowing she might become an MI5 officer, all excited her.

  During the following week back in Plymouth, she repeatedly checked her correspondence tray for any indication as to the result of the interview. One day, a brown envelope appeared. She had been invited to sit the Civil Service Selection Board; she would undertake a two-day series of tests, which involved verbal and numerical reasoning, written and management exercises, and, finally, interviews with another MI5 officer and a psychologist.

  A month after the brown envelope arrived, Toni heard from her parents that they had just been visited by a ‘very nice man’ who had asked a lot of questions about her school life and political interests. It was part of the vetting process. Two weeks later, Toni attended the selection test. The interview went well and, a little under four months from the day she had boarded the ‘Foxtrot Five’, she walked into the MI5 training office in Grosvenor Street, Mayfair with five other successful candidates to start the Security Service induction course.

  Nine years later, and Toni was now a team leader in ‘T’ department, T2E section. In that time, she had moved department six times, been promoted three times and moved office eight times. Her current role was working with the Met Special Branch and, as such, she was now based in a rather bland office on the eighteenth floor of New Scotland Yard. With twelve months now under her belt here, this was the longest she had been at the same desk.

  She reported through her line manager, Dave Batey, to Director ‘T’, or ‘Dirt’ as he was affectionately known. Dirt had given her an assignment which had, at first, appeared to be something of a burden. She was to resettle and liaise with the family of a police officer who had been the subject of a personal terrorist attack. And that was how she had met Robert Finlay, a cop who had kept his army service secret for nearly twenty years, until forced to take extraordinary steps to protect himself and his family from harm.

  As things had turned out, the responsibility had given her a great deal of pleasure. Although he was currently experiencing some emotional difficulties following the attacks on his family, Robert Finlay was unlike any cop she had ever met. Unorthodox and possessing skills that enabled him to solve problems in ways many police officers would deem unacceptable, he was, in many ways unique. He was a survivor, but he was also a problem. The career that had given him such an interesting pedigree was now his curse. To many, he was persona non grata – an outcast, a difficulty for supervisors and perceived as a threat by many of his peers.

  Working with Finlay, an idea had come to Toni about how to overcome this particular challenge – a thought that had niggled at the back of her mind, refusing to go away. So, when she got wind of Commander Grahamslaw’s decision to create a small team to look at slave-trafficking in the capital city, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

  Jenny – Finlay’s wife – was a fighter, a determined personality who seemed to be the glue that held the family together. Their daughter, Becky, well … she was a delight, pure and simple; the kind of child who would make any woman want kids of her own. They seemed a solid family unit, if a little out of the ordinary.

  But, just recently there had been problems. Jenny had reported her husband was suffering flashbacks and nightmares. On several occasions Robert had woken from a violent dream, soaked in sweat. During quieter moments, when she and Toni had been able to talk, she confided that she and Robert had been forced to start sleeping in separate rooms.

  There were also times when he seemed to drift into a world of his own, deep in thought and unaware of his surroundings. Often he was agitated, short-tempered and impatient, even paranoid – continually checking his car for IEDs. Not that this latter behaviour surprised Toni. Having had a bomb placed under your car once, it would be a long time before a person would be able to feel comfortable getting into a vehicle.

  Keen to be helpful, Toni had spoken to a police-appointed psychiatrist about Jenny’s concerns. He explained post-traumatic stress to Toni, its symptoms and its causes. It appeared that Robert Finlay was a classic case. The psychiatrist had recommended Finlay make an appointment with him, so they could talk about beginning a course of treatment. But, he warned, Finlay would first need to accept there was something wrong and would have to agree to being helped. The psychiatrist had also suggested getting Finlay away from the work environment for a period – perhaps for a holiday; something that would give him a chance to relax. Toni had passed this suggestion on to Jenny.

  If Robert accepted the idea of a holiday, she had the perfect trip in mind.

  Chapter 6

  As Toni left the tube train at St James’s Park, she began to plan her day.

  First on the ‘to do’ list was to dictate an update to be added to Commander Grahamslaw’s Operation Hastings report. After that, Director ‘T’ wanted a full report on Nial Monaghan. Until he derailed and started organising the deaths of ex-SAS soldiers worldwide, Colonel Monaghan had been a team leader in T5E/3 department, responsible for the study of Middle Eastern terrorist logistics. He had also assumed administrative responsibility for ROSE – a now defunct department that had looked after the relocation and placement of retiring field agents and certain former special-forces soldiers. The Director, she had been told, was anxious to bring matters to a close as soon as possible. It was her job to see that happened.

  A lot of people were making the short walk from the tube station towards the entrance to New Scotland Yard. After the 9/11 attacks, security had become exceptionally tight. Inside the main entrance, armed SO19 officers now stood guard, and, in the adjacent streets, officers from the Diplomatic Protection Group made regular patrols. The crowd from St James’s Park underground station became a scrum as it entered the revolving door to New Scotland Yard, and the queue for security checks at reception was a test of patience. With everyone in a hurry to get to their desks, the long delays were incredibly frustrating.

  Waiting patiently in li
ne, Toni took the opportunity to look at the Eternal Flame and to read the Book of Remembrance, which listed, in date order, the names of officers killed on duty. The book had recently been absent while the names of the four officers killed in the preceding weeks were added to it.

  She was especially pleased Rod Skinner’s name had now been placed in the book. Skinner was one of Finlay’s former colleagues and had been at home at the time he was shot. At great personal risk, he had bravely saved the life of a young boy.

  The Police Federation had argued that, by saving the boy before himself, PC Skinner had placed himself on duty. There had been some resistance from the official channels, mainly due to the financial implications and the increased benefits such a decision would accrue to his widow. But in the end, the Federation prevailed. Skinner was named in the book and his widow received her full pension. There was even talk of a posthumous decoration.

  Today, the Remembrance Book page detailed a number of officers whose deaths had occurred in circumstances ranging from a collision with a lorry while on motorcycle training through to a WPC who had been stabbed while attempting to detain a man during the course of a house search. One entry listed the death of an Explosives Officer who had been killed in 1981 when he had been attempting to defuse a bomb. They were all sad reminders of the price some paid to keep the streets safe.

  With security checks complete, Toni headed for the lift and the eighteenth floor. Access to the Security Service offices was very limited, so she was the only person who pressed ‘18’.

  Once in the Security Service corridor, all directions were restricted by solid doors that only opened in response to a digital security code or through a CCTV and buzzer-entry system controlled from the inside. If the occupants didn’t like the look of you or weren’t expecting a visit, you didn’t get in.

  Toni tapped in the code, waited for the door to release and pushed the door open. Nell, her assistant, was already at her desk. Slipping off her coat, Toni slung her handbag beneath her workstation and headed straight to the small room at the rear of the office where they kept the kettle. She needed a coffee.

  ‘How did the meeting go?’

  Toni turned to see Nell standing close behind her. ‘OK … I think.’

  ‘Did he say yes, then?’

  Steam emerged from the spout as Toni tipped a second spoon of granules into the least-stained mug she could find. ‘I think so. He agreed it was a good idea.’

  Nell was standing too close. It was something she did – invading your personal space. But Toni was used to it now. Nell had peculiar traits but, as a researcher, she was second to none. Questionable social skills were a small price to pay for her expertise in the world of digitised information.

  ‘Good,’ said Nell, as she returned to her workstation. ‘The Finlay file you requested is on your desk.’

  Toni added milk to the coffee, walked over to her desk and turned on the PC. She sipped at the hot drink, felt the caffeine beginning to do its job, and picked up the thin file. It looked old, as if it had been stored for many years without being previously referenced. It bore the Ministry of Defence logo.

  As she read, she made notes in a Word document she labelled ‘Finlay’.

  Grammar school in Pinner – near where she lived herself. Joined Royal Artillery aged eighteen and selected for 22SAS. In 1980, shot in the foot during a firefight in Northern Ireland shortly before playing a support role at the Iranian Embassy siege.

  All very interesting, she thought, if a little lacking in detail. After that it wasn’t clear what Finlay had been posted to. There was a gap in the record that perplexed her; she made a note to ask Nell to look into it.

  Toni had to admit, she was surprised by the file. She knew from personal experience that the Armed Forces would grind to a halt if it weren’t for records and documents. From your first walk-in through the door of a recruiting office to the day you left or died, every part of your military life was documented. Every posting, every interview, every inoculation, every course, every precise detail was written down and recorded by an officer or clerk.

  As she studied the documents further, she realised, in Finlay’s case, over three years’ worth of records was missing. They only resumed at a point just before he left the army in 1985 to join the Metropolitan Police. The Met’s records confirmed he had served as a PC in Camden, a sergeant at Barnet and then moved to Royalty Protection, where he had sat the Inspector examination and been promoted in situ. Then, it appeared he had become bored and had asked for a transfer back into uniform.

  And then, Monaghan had come looking for him.

  By the time the day ended, Toni’s contribution to the report on Operation Hastings was almost complete. But there was one element by which she wasn’t convinced: Monaghan’s motive for attacking Finlay and Jones. Grahamslaw thought it was an angry husband’s mistaken belief. Toni wasn’t so sure. And she disliked uncertainty.

  To that end, she logged on to the service network and placed a formal request on ‘the system’ – the intelligence services database that facilitated access to relevant files. She needed more information on Monaghan, and also on Webb – the Irishman he had enlisted to help him. Hopefully, someone with the necessary level of security clearance would approve the application. While she was there, she also ordered a full forensic analysis of Monaghan’s home. She prided herself on being thorough. To her mind, Dirt would expect nothing less.

  Chapter 7

  Grahamslaw’s letter had the effect he clearly wanted: I thought about little else for the rest of the day. Jenny seemed aware I was distracted and, by and large, she left me to mull things over in my own sweet way. I guessed she trusted me to work something out. In the end, I telephoned the Commander’s office and made an appointment to see him the following day.

  London tube journeys had changed since the terror attacks in New York. Many of the larger, better-known rail stations now had armed police on point duty outside and there were often police patrols on the trains themselves. At St James’s Park, where I left the train, there was a small team of officers with a sniffer dog checking every passenger who came through the barriers.

  At New Scotland Yard I made my way through the security checks, took the lift to the fourteenth floor and soon found myself wandering along the hallowed corridors of the Anti-Terrorist Squad. I turned in several directions, trying to get my bearings as I studied the nameplates on the huge number of doors – some closed, some open, but none the correct room. Most of the offices were occupied and on several occasions, unsympathetic faces lifted to glance in my direction before returning to a computer screen or conversation.

  Eventually I found an open-plan room with a plate bearing the name ‘SO13’ on the open door. Inside there were, perhaps, thirty detectives, all working industriously at their desks. To one side a small meeting seemed to be taking place, with a PowerPoint presentation holding the attention of everyone present.

  For a moment, nobody saw or spoke to me. Then, two young male detectives dressed in matching white shirts, suit trousers and departmental ties stepped quickly away from their desks and ushered me back out into the corridor.

  ‘Who are you, mate?’ the first one asked.

  I explained, adding I was there to see their Commander.

  The mention of Grahamslaw’s name caused an exchange of glances. Much of the Anti-Terrorist Squad’s work is highly confidential – internal eyes only and often very secret. The two detectives were clearly concerned I may have seen or heard something I shouldn’t have. They instructed me to wait while one of them left to check out my claim.

  Within a minute he returned, with Grahamslaw just behind him.

  ‘Follow me, Inspector,’ said the Commander. The greeting was formal, austere. No handshake, no warmth. I did as I was told.

  We crossed the large room to an internal office on the far side. The smaller office had glass walls, no doubt so the Chief could keep an eye on his Indians.

  ‘Shut the door, Finlay,’
Grahamslaw said, his tone no more mellow, and sat opposite me, behind the desk.

  Again, I did as I was told, without question, and stood for a moment, wondering what was about to unfold.

  The Commander seemed to relax. ‘OK, Finlay, sit down and take it easy. I won’t be smiling – for reasons which will become clear; but you can relax, we can’t be heard in this office. I’m glad you could make it.’

  ‘I got your note,’ I said.

  ‘Took you longer than I expected. You’ll forgive me if we don’t discuss the other bits and pieces that were sitting there waiting for you?’

  ‘Certainly. But rest assured, that has been taken care of.’

  Grahamslaw ignored this, and for a moment studied my face, which clearly bore a puzzled expression.

  ‘I won’t beat about the bush, Finlay; here’s why you’re here: there are many in my department who feel Kevin Jones and you should have been arrested. There are even several people who think you’ve been spared due to political interference; that you led the department a merry song and dance, and, if not totally hung out to dry, you still should not be allowed to get away with it. That said, I will tell you, the majority understand the predicament the two of you faced. However, I do have to respect the … shall we call it “spectrum of views” … and I can’t be seen to be too sympathetic towards you.’

  Grahamslaw doodled on a small pad as he spoke, his eyes moving between me and the windows that separated us from the larger room. ‘Fact is Finlay, your options are limited. The rumour mill on division means coppers are either scared of you or scared of working with you. Royalty won’t have you back with this kind of history and you are not the kind of bloke to settle in a desk job.’