by Mark Powell
‘Indeed I will. Gentlemen.’ She stood up, stretched out her hand and waited for Ogilvy to reciprocate.
As Ogilvy got up he noticed she had offered her left hand.
‘Yes, stay in touch.’ Ogilvy shook her hand gently.
Morley had no time for such formalities and returned to his seat.
Following her with his eyes as she breezed through the door, Ogilvy contemplated her reaction to the update and looked back to Morley. ‘You believe her, sir?’
‘No I do not, look into it and let me know. I have to update the PM tomorrow and I would like to give him some positive news. That’s all for now.’ Morley dipped his head and went back to his work. The meeting was over.
As Ogilvy left Morley’s office under the watchful eye of Margaret, and waited for the elevator to arrive, his mind pondered for a moment Morley’s reaction. It wasn’t at all what he expected, which in a way he knew was exactly what he should have expected. He then recalled Astor’s suspicions, which thus far didn’t amount to much, at least not towards Morley’s potential involvement. The Rain Angel, who had in her own way toyed with him by offering the strange handshake, was, as he recalled, not in the slightest flustered by the revelation. None of it yet made any sense. As the elevator doors slid open, Ogilvy felt his spirits lift. ‘Hey, how are you?’ he asked the lovely Amanda as she joined the descent to the ground floor.
‘Great, thanks.’ Amanda beamed back a warm smile.
‘Meeting?’ he asked, to stimulate some idle banter amid the other stone-faced occupants of the elevator.
‘No, just popping out for coffee, care to join me?’
‘Sure.’ Ogilvy looked pleased with himself.
As they stepped outside, Ogilvy caught sight of the Rain Angel standing at the curbside. As if she could sense him, she turned and looked directly back at him, her eyes emotionless. Then with the wave of a hand, she flagged a taxi, climbed in and was off.
Turning fast, he said to Amanda, ‘Listen, I’ll have to catch you later, okay – must dash…’ He moved at pace towards the road, raising his hand but narrowly failing to hail his own taxi. Harry stepped out with a more forceful approach, causing another to skid to a halt. ‘Follow that cab will you,’ Ogilvy said as he climbed in the rear and closed the door.
‘You having a laugh, mate?’ The baritone voice of the driver clearly indicated his surprise at the request.
‘No I’m not – now step on it!’
Ogilvy sat back and gestured the cabbie to move on. Amanda looked over at him, shaking her head in bewilderment as Ogilvy moved off.
Ogilvy had no idea where this spur-of-the-moment pursuit would take him. He followed his quarry, leaving a two-car gap, over Vauxhall Bridge and on to the Victoria Embankment. They continued along Upper Thames Street, past Tower Hill and across Tower Bridge before his target finally alighted at Butler’s Wharf. After paying the driver, he exited and followed her on foot. Ogilvy carried himself with ease and had the look of a man from the city heading out for lunch, or off to buy his wife a gift, or even just popping out for coffee. He could certainly blend in despite standing a head taller than most people around him. Tailing someone was an art he had perfected – and perfected well. Having strolled for a few minutes, he drew himself to a steady halt, cupped his hands and lit a cigarette before glancing up as she vanished inside the Bar One; a restaurant he knew well. He only needed to cruise past once to see what he needed; Sterling was not a man to mistake easily. Without even stopping, Ogilvy moved on past and was gone.
But not before receiving a sideways glance of recognition from the Rain Angel, who was now engaged in conversation with Sterling.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
London
The view through the window was one of a flat, greenish-grey, broken up by the rooftops of various office buildings, blocks of flats and churches; all of which were blurred on account of the rain driving against the glass. The murky brown river below, carrying an array of vessels going about their business, was not visible as Ogilvy maintained his fixation out of the window from across the room. He had noticed Sterling enter, as he had the Rain Angel five minutes earlier. Indeed he had noticed many people arrive, their opaque reflection giving them away. But Ogilvy had chosen not to make eye contact yet. As Simon Jones, the polished fresh faced, blue suited PM arrived, Ogilvy spun his chair back to facing front and stood up as the ceremonious chorus of ‘good morning, sir!’ ran around the room.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ Jones announced, seating himself in the vacant chair at the head of the large rectangular table, followed by his aides and two members of his cabinet.
Ogilvy ran his eyes around each person in turn whilst mentally ticking off who was present. Morley was sitting to his left and Whitten to his right and opposite. Interestingly, he noted Sterling and the Rain Angel had taken up their seats at the opposite end of the table, next to an array of armed forces top brass, and Charles Astor.
Jones opened the proceedings. ‘Well, thank you, everyone, for joining me this morning. I’m keen to get an update on Terry.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister. I have an update as promised,’ Morley began, clearing his throat and leaning forward.
‘The team that we sanctioned to go in have pinpointed the location of the Maddens. At this time they are concluding their reconnaissance and will attempt an extraction imminently.’ Morley paused and waited for questions.
‘Excellent, do we know if they are…well?’ Jones enquired, as if afraid to ask.
‘At this time, sir, we don’t know – we can only confirm their location,’ Morley told him.
‘I see.’ Jones looked quite deflated.
‘If I may,’ Sterling interjected. ‘Given you don’t have physical confirmation of their sighting, how do you know they are in the location your team claim to be observing?’
The question had been directed at Morley. Murmurs ran around the room as if each person wanted to make it known they were paying attention.
Ogilvy stepped in. ‘Sir! If I may – the intel my team has is how we know. And we are hardly going to stand here and update the PM if we were not sure.’ Ogilvy’s tone gave away his annoyance at Sterling’s machinations.
‘Okay, Ogilvy that’s enough; our CIA friends have every right to ask.’ Morley wanted to prevent a war on words; a war he could sense was coming.
Ogilvy took the opportunity to poke Sterling one more time. ‘Perhaps you have news, Mr. Sterling. I hear that you too have a team on the ground there.’
More murmurs followed.
‘Is this true Sterling?’ came the immediate response from Carter-Jones, the head of the UK Special Forces.
After a momentary pause Sterling coldly responded, ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
Whitten joined the affray. ‘What then gives you the idea they have, Harry?’
‘Intel,’ Ogilvy said, knowing that this solitary word would play on Sterling’s nerves.
‘Then share it, man,’ Sterling said, now clearly on the attack.
Astor spoke up: ‘Gentlemen, if I may…the PM wants an update, which, unless I’m mistaken, Morley here has given. As to what other activity is going on is not for open debate. As head of MI5 I also have a view and Madden is in fact my responsibility. Let’s take it offline.’ As the room fell silent it became clear his words had resonated.
The PM nodded. ‘I tend to agree. Keep me informed the moment you know anything more.’ Jones made address and stood up, thanked everyone and left the room.
‘Okay, Ogilvy what’s really on your mind?’ Sterling hissed.
Ogilvy half turned and regarded Sterling, flicked his eyes on the Rain Angel, turned again and walked out of the meeting.
‘Morley, I strongly advise you have a word with your boy; he seems to have lost his mind.’ Sterling was now red-faced and clearly annoyed.
‘Indeed, I will have a word, but leave my own policies to me, will you?’ Morley’s response was one that many in the room knew could mean anything.
Morley stepped into Ogilvy’s office for the next private meeting, followed by Carter-Jones. Ogilvy had already run through in his head what he would say to them.
‘Well, Harry what was all that about?’ Morley opened up.
‘Sterling is up to something and I’m working on finding out what,’ Ogilvy told him.
‘That’s it, you just suspect?’ Carter-Jones sat down.
‘How long have I been in this job, Jones? Enough time to smell a rat is how long.’ Ogilvy was fired up.
‘Okay, Ogilvy reel your neck in. Sterling is CIA; of course he’s up to something, they’re all rats,’ Morley said, stating the obvious.
Ogilvy looked at Morley. ‘Listen, what I have I can’t share – it possibly implicates members of Six. All I can tell you is, I have it on good authority that a hit squad sanctioned by the CIA are trying to sabotage the mission.’
‘Good God are you serious?’ Carter-Jones slumped back in his chair.
Ogilvy got up and moved around his desk. ‘My team have narrowly thwarted two attacks on them; now that’s more than coincidence.’
‘You mentioned members of Six may be involved. You suspect me, I suppose,’ Morley said with disdain.
‘I suspect everyone, sir.’ Ogilvy knew his hand had now been played and he would wait to see what reaction came back.
‘Very well, go with it and keep me in the loop…’ Morley caught himself, ‘that is, of course, if you can…’
‘Anything you need from me?’ Carter-Jones asked.
‘Nothing – just keep what the team are up too as classified as you can.’ Ogilvy returned to his desk.
‘One more thing…Astor…does he know?’ Morley asked.
‘And why would you think he would, sir?’ Ogilvy was giving no more away.
‘Very well, over to you then.’ Morley left the office with Carter-Jones following in his wake.
Ogilvy found himself again gazing out of the window to collect his thoughts. Morley’s reactions had given no hint that he might know anything.
‘So how is it going, Harry?’ The voice of the Rain Angel was unmistakable.
Spinning around in his chair, Ogilvy snapped, ‘How in the hell did you get access in here?’
‘I was in the building, as you know, Harry, calm yourself.’ Her eyes smiled and she seated herself in the still-warm chair Carter-Jones had occupied only minutes before.
‘That said, having free range of the building, in my view, is hardly acceptable, I’m busy.’ Ogilvy stood up as if to make a gesture for her to leave.
Remaining ice cool, she crossed one leg over the other and shifted her posture a little to get more comfortable. ‘Then you have no interest in knowing you are right?’ She glared at him, her face now deadly serious.
‘What?’ Ogilvy found he had been taken off-guard.
‘Tea would be nice, Early Grey with lemon not milk and a dash of honey.’ Her wry smile returned.
‘Do you think this is a damn country club?’ Ogilvy fell back into his chair, noting her raised eyebrows and pursed lips in response. He reached for his phone. ‘Mary can I get a pot of tea, Earl Grey, lemon and honey…thanks.’ Ogilvy hung up and leaned forward. ‘Happy now?’
She smiled. ‘Good, now let me begin. The man that seeks your team is no joke; a known terrorist, incidentally, who gets used by the CIA in exchange for them turning the odd blind eye to his activities.’
‘His name?’ Ogilvy was more than keen to get the facts.
‘Bashir, Farid Bashir.’
Her reply caused Ogilvy to turn a shade paler. ‘Jesus Christ!’
‘Jesus won’t help you, not with this man – he’s the very incarnation of Satan,’ she replied.
‘His intent is to kill off Madden, I suppose,’ Ogilvy ventured.
‘Yes, making way, as I’m sure you also suspect, for Whitten.’
‘I knew it!’ Ogilvy thumped his fist on the desk, which in turn caused Mary, who had now dutifully arrived with a try of tea, to freeze like a statue.
‘Mary, please just set it down, thanks,’ Ogilvy said softly, realizing the effect of his action. Having placed the tray on a side cabinet, Mary scuttled off.
‘Allow me.’ with elegance she got up and proceeded to pour the tea, handing Ogilvy a cup before sitting back down.
‘I have to ask why,’ Ogilvy said.
‘Very simple, and that I will leave for you to work out.’ She sipped her tea.
‘Why. I mean you come this far why not tell me all you know?’ Ogilvy picked up the china cup, which even in his hand looked strangely out of place.
‘Because I need to maintain an edge also – enough of an edge for you to validate what I am telling you is true before you work it all out. And enough time to get what I want.’ She smiled behind her tipped cup.
‘The meeting you had with Sterling, what was that all about?’ Ogilvy put down his tea.
“Ah yes, not very good at tailing me are you, Harry?’ she teased.
He held his line of questioning. ‘Whatever…so?’
‘Sterling is a man with whom I must work. That does not mean I do all he asks or trust him implicitly. I have my own reasons.’ She stiffened her posture, placed down her cup and edged forward in her chair.
‘Okay, for now, anyway…’ Ogilvy said, indicating he would not drop the point. ‘So what now? I know this, I pass it on to the team and…’
‘Your team must extract Madden as you wish, alive if possible, but given the fact Bashir is in their way, it’s almost an impossible task. But let us assume they can. In fact McCabe and Stowe perhaps are the two men that stand a semblance of a chance–’
‘You know Stowe?’ Ogilvy interrupted.
“I knew his brother; in fact it was me who killed him. So yes, I have an idea of what the family genes are capable of.’
‘So it was you…’ Ogilvy had heard a rumor.
‘That is a story for another time, but in exchange for this information I want this man left alone when it becomes apparent he is more than he seems.’ She withdrew a photograph and slid it across Ogilvy’s desk.
Ogilvy picked it up and studied it, then glared back at her. ‘I dare not even ask why. No deals until I know more,’ Ogilvy said.
‘Then you best hope you can work out the rest.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for the tea, Harry, nice chatting.’ She turned and left.
Ogilvy picked up the picture once more and studied it. It was a face he had not been expecting to see.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Somalia
After weaving their way back through the cruel thorn trees, rocks, ditches and sharp stones, McCabe and Stowe arrived back at their operating position, still under the cover of semi-darkness. The moon glowed bright, bouncing light from a sun that wouldn't rise for several hours. The deliberate snap of a stick brought Mooney to his senses. He stood-to as the exhausted pair emerged from the half-light. Having downed some fresh water and snatched a mouthful of bread each, McCabe gathered everyone around a solitary flashlight. Stowe had already begun to draw in the sand with a stick and maneuver a few stones and leafs around to represent the camp's structure and defenses. Mooney and Woodrow listened in.
McCabe began his debrief. ‘We have to move fast, on the way back we encountered a problem.’
‘Meaning?’ Woodrow asked.
‘Meaning every move we have made to date has met with us being discovered; no coincidence. The leader of the bunch we met on the way back spoke of a woman. Considering this bloke spoke in English, I suspect we're being set-up. Ogilvy has confirmed as much – the Yanks have played us. We have to get Madden out before they do.
‘Bastards!’ Mooney reflected.
‘You mean the Yanks want him,’ Woodrow said. ‘Why?’
McCabe paused before explaining. ‘That’s a need to know, but take it from me, this guy looks like trouble and from what we observed at the camp he doesn’t see eye to eye with the folks that already have Madden.’
‘You got a vi
sual on Madden?’ Woodrow asked.
McCabe narrowed his eyes. ‘No, but he’s there – I just know it.’
‘You think?’ Woodrow said, clearly doubting McCabe’s intuition.
‘If he thinks that way, good enough for me,’ Mooney jumped in.
‘And me.’ Stowe wanted his own view known.
Woodrow backed off. ‘Okay, just asking.’
‘The guy we bumped into virtually confirmed it, so yes, he is there.’ McCabe wanted no reservations within his team.
McCabe drew everyone’s attention back to the map in the sand. ‘Okay let’s go over the plan again – Stowe, you take call-sign uptown one, myself uptown. You and I will attempt the extraction. Mooney, you and Woody will be call-sign downtown and downtown one respectively. You guys cover our exit. Stowe and I will come in from the north; we observed fewer defenses and the guards tend to congregate at the entrance to the camp on the south side.’ McCabe paused to make sure everyone was following.
‘The Jeep will be left in cover, one klick north-east of the camp, here.’ McCabe jabbed the point of his stick into the dirt. ‘Any closer and we risk being compromised; any further and we may not be able to get Madden to run that far. We have no idea if he can still walk, even.’ He looked up.
‘How the hell do we pull this off, considering there’s only four of us?’ Woodrow said, concerned.
‘Listen, in an ideal world we all know we should comprise an eight man team, better kitted out, and with better intel and planning, but this isn’t ideal and we are what we are. It’s a snatch and grab by a team they don’t give a toss about. We are expendable; reality check, guys. So we grab him and bolt for the RZ. If we can’t make the RZ, we head for the border, got it?’
Mooney nodded. ‘Got it.’
‘You only said him – what about his wife?’ Woodrow asked.
‘Yeah, the woman is gravy we may not be able to afford.’ McCabe had to be clear on the initiative.
‘Okay, that’s fair enough,’ Stowe said.
Mooney summed up their situation. ‘So if we succeed, we make the morning papers, and the initial stink about a team being sent in to save Madden and leaving his poor wife out there to rot becomes “yesterday’s news tomorrow” and no one will give a shit. If we fail, we’ll be accused of being a bunch of renegade mercenaries who fucked-up…right?’
