by Andy Maslen
“What number?”
“No need. It rings in Franz’s little man-cave automatically. He’ll bring it round to the front for me.”
Gabriel did as she asked, held the hard plastic hand piece up to his ear and listened to a distant burr as the phone system routed the call. After four rings, Franz picked up.
“Sir Toby? Lady Maitland?” A deep voice, a man in his late forties or early fifties, Gabriel estimated. Not a smoker. Too clean and clear for that. And a slight German accent, a Swabian from the sound of it.
“I’m a friend of Lizzie’s,” Gabriel said, figuring that the unclear nature of their relationship wasn’t worth explaining at his point. “She wants you to bring the Testarossa round to the front.” He couldn’t help adding, “Please”.
“Certainly, Sir. I will meet you in the front in a few minutes.”
The line went dead and Gabriel clicked the receiver back onto its cradle.
“He says—”
“I know, ‘ziss vill take ein few minuten, ja?’” she laughed. “Come on, I’ll show you round to the front.”
“Won’t your father be expecting me back?”
“Well he might be, I suppose. But Gabriel,” she purred, coming closer again, “Where’s the fun in jumping when the Old Man calls? He’s not your commanding officer and he certainly isn’t mine. Come on!”
She shimmied between the cars to the far door, the soles of her shoes slishing on the ribbed metal floor tiles. The door was hard by the left of the steel roller shutter that protected the cars from the elements. It led onto a sweeping gravel drive that curved around the rear of the house on both wings. They walked, their feet crunching over the shingle, past ancient climbing roses pinned and wired to the walls, arriving at the front of the house just as the front door opened and Maitland appeared.
“Ah, Gabriel,” he said. “Something’s come up and I need to leave for my next meeting a little earlier than expected. I’d very much like you to start as soon as possible. I assume you’re happy now I’ve agreed to your terms?” It was phrased like a question, again, but carried no serious doubt in the speaker’s tone of voice.
Gabriel looked at Lizzie and back at Maitland. He thought of cars and the smell of her skin as he’d squeezed past her into the garage. Then he thought about the man’s rant about immigrants, and about the nervous churning in his stomach.
“I don’t think so, Sir Toby,” he said. “I’m not sure about the fit between us. But thank you for asking me.”
Maitland blinked. His lips tightened into a line. His face was immobile and his eyes never left Gabriel’s. He swept his hand over the floppy lock of hair that had fallen across his eyes. Then he recovered himself.
“Really. I’m surprised. I would have thought this position would be right up your street. Look, I have to dash. Don’t say no now. Take the day to think it over, all right? Now, forgive me, but I really must go.”
A short, dry handshake and Sir Toby disappeared inside again to call for the Bentley.
A low, rough-edged growl brought Gabriel’s attention back to the driveway. From the corner of the house the nose of the Testarossa emerged, like a predator creeping up on some unsuspecting herbivores. It stopped by Lizzie’s left side and a man in spotless brown overalls emerged from the driver’s door.
“Thank you, Franz,” she said, without turning, then, “Goodbye, Gabriel. Such a pity you’re not joining the team.”
She leaned towards him, kissed him on both cheeks, and climbed down into the Ferrari, pulling the shallow door closed behind her. He heard the transmission protest as she shoved the gear stick into first, then with a short spurt of gravel she was off down the driveway, the exhaust rising to an impatient yowl as she took the bend at the end of the drive without slowing. There didn’t seem any point in lingering. The German walked away, and Gabriel noticed he had a built-up shoe on his left foot that caused it to drag when he lifted it up. He retrieved the Maserati’s keys from his brief case and took a final look at the house.
As he drove down the gravel road through the trees, a movement caught his eye. He looked to his right and saw a squad of four men, dressed in all-black military-style fatigues, jogging in a tight square through the woods. Ex-forces he thought, noting the easy way they carried themselves despite the heavy-looking Bergens strapped to their backs. Then the road curved away from the tree line and they were lost to view.
Chapter 6
As Gabriel set off from his house for a drive the following morning, he glanced in his rearview mirror and spotted a Range Rover pulling away from the curb. Five minutes later as he left the village behind, the big black car was still keeping pace, a couple of hundred yards behind. The derestricted speed limit sign was approaching and he pulled the left-hand gear shift paddle towards him. The damped click under his fingertips was echoed by a harsher, more mechanical sound as the clutch meshed the fast-spinning gears into each other. He floored the throttle. The big coupe leapt forward, the acceleration forcing him back into the sculpted seat as the car rocketed away from the Range Rover. Gabriel snatched a couple more gears and took the car on to 120, a safe enough speed on a track or a deserted motorway, but too fast on a narrow country road. All it needed was a deer to amble out from a hedge, and buck, car and driver would be spread over half the neighbouring field. He risked a quick glance in his mirror, expecting the bulbous SUV and its have-a-go driver to be long gone. But not only was the Range Rover not gone, it was hard on his tail, headlights flashing. Gabriel didn’t dare go any faster, despite the famous motto of his former regiment – Who Dares Wins. More like, Who Dares Crashes.
“Jesus!” he breathed, as the driver, far from tailgating him, pulled out to pass him. Whatever’s under that hood isn’t the standard lump, he thought. With a roar, the six-foot-wide beast overtook him, then braked hard. Gabriel swore and switched his right foot from throttle to brake pedal, the anti-lock brakes juddering as the car squirmed to a stop. The Range Rover continued slowing, hogging the middle of the road to prevent Gabriel swerving round it. Within a few more seconds both vehicles were stationary, just twenty feet apart. Gabriel jumped out of the car, heart thumping. People who drove all-black Range Rovers as well as this one had been driven were worth meeting out in the open. He stood and waited, a yard in front of the Maserati’s bonnet. The Range Rover’s door swung open and bounced back off the hinge before being stopped by a scarlet driving shoe.
Gabriel slowed and steadied his breathing. He leaned from left to right and from forward to back, never letting his centre of gravity tip him off balance, but finding his body’s neutral position. The rubber-pebbled sole of the moccasin crunched down onto the road surface, followed by the rest of the driver. A driver with a gap-toothed grin and long, carrot-red hair tied back in a ponytail. What the hell?
“Hello, Gabriel,” she said. “Long time, no see.”
“Britta Falskog. Jesus Christ! I should have realised it was you. Nobody else I know is that crazy behind the wheel.”
“You better believe it. I’ve been ice rallying back home. Just amateur stuff, but I’m better than ever, I reckon.”
“So I’m guessing you’re not with Swedish special forces any more? Not if you’re over here pulling stunts like that.”
“I’m working with MI5 for six months. One of theirs is over in Malmo helping us take down a Satanic biker gang.”
Behind them a car hooted. Gabriel glanced back. There was a small queue building up including a couple of commuters and a scrap metal truck. He acknowledged their frustration with a wave of the hand and turned to Britta.
“We’re stopping people getting to work. Drive on to the next layby, OK?”
So it was that a minute later, Gabriel was sitting next to the woman he’d run ops with back in the day.
“You want me to believe that Sir Toby Maitland is plotting to burn down Asian community centres in West London? He’s a nasty piece of work, but I don’t have him pegged as a rightwing bootboy. I’m sorry, Britta, I’ve hea
rd of spooks going nutty, but this is beyond conspiracy theories. This is crazy.”
“On the contrary: this is straight from the horse’s lips. I’m not staking out your house because I wanted a date, you know.”
“But how? Why? And it’s ‘mouth’ by the way. Toby’s some sort of business tycoon when he’s not racing his mates round Silverstone in vintage Ferraris.”
“Look Gabriel. That’s all we know right now. We picked up some chatter on right-wing websites and social media and put it together with a couple of other sources. Then we discovered he was talking to you about a job. I just have one question. Answer ‘yes’ and I report back to back to my superiors and prepare a full dossier for you. Answer ‘no’ and I’m on my way back to London. Will you help us find out what’s going on with this Maitland character?”
Gabriel closed his eyes. Focused on a mental image of Sir Toby Maitland. His polite yet changeable manner. His references to “godlessness” and “English” values. Could it be true? Was he more than just a right-wing megaphone? Then another image collided with the first. Four men in black tactical fatigues carrying military-grade rucksacks. He didn’t like it. And he did like the Swedish intelligence officer facing him across the cream and carbon fibre interior of the Range Rover. Had once liked her very much indeed. He opened his eyes. Held her gaze for a second.
“Yes,” he said.
Britta winked at him. “I knew you would. OK, time to go to work.”
“Wait. There’s a little problem.”
“What kind of a problem?”
Gabriel ran his hand through his hair and wrinkled his nose. “I sort of rejected his job offer yesterday.”
“What?” Britta said, eyes wide. “Oh, Jesus! It took a lot of work to set you up with that – we thought you’d jump at the chance.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but maybe you don’t know me as well as you thought.”
“Well, can you get it back?”
He thought of Martin Mackenzie’s words, just before he’d fired Gabriel from the ad agency a year earlier.
“I suppose I can eat a little humble pie.”
“Great! I’ll swing by tonight yes, about eight?”
“Sure, Britta. Eight’s fine. I’ll cook.”
“OK. Ciao, handsome.”
“Ciao, speedy. Drive carefully.”
“Don’t I always?”
Before he’d reached his own car, Britta had peeled out from the layby, controlling the slide perfectly, leaving two long streaks of rubber and an acrid cloud of smoke that drifted towards him. Women drivers? He grinned. I’ll take all you’ve got.
Twenty minutes later, he was sitting on a polished antique chair, facing his soon-to-be new boss across a desk inlaid with faded green leather.
“I’m so glad you reconsidered,” Maitland said. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but believe me, you will enjoy yourself hugely. It will be hard work, and uncomfortable at times, but together you and I can achieve great things for this country. Now, come and meet the rest of my team.”
In the next-door office, Maitland introduced him to three young, bright-eyed staffers who appeared to revere their boss much as religious converts revere their preacher.
“Well,” Maitland intoned, flourishing his watch, a showy gold Rolex with a matching band and multiple dials, extra hands, and knobs and bezels adorning its case. “Now that Gabriel, my aide-de-camp, is here, let’s introduce ourselves, shall we?” He turned to his left. “Melissa, why don’t you start?”
One by one the team introduced themselves and their responsibilities. The first one to speak was a thirtyish woman, dressed all in black, from her stilettos to her velvet hairband keeping her blonde tresses neatly out of her eyes.She reeled off what sounded like a well-rehearsed networking speech. Maybe it was.
“Melissa Kent. Campaign Manager. I run day-to-day operations and also make sure the candidate is where he’s supposed to be. I also handle the media: the traditional media anyway, the big press and broadcast channels.”
She half-straightened from her own chair and leant towards Gabriel to shake hands. Warm, dry, firm – a trained handshake. And he was quick to notice an engagement ring with a row of four diamonds on her other hand.
“Recent?” he asked, gesturing at the ring.
“Yes! Last week, actually. How on earth did you know?”
“You’ve been twiddling it since I arrived. I figured you weren’t used to it yet.”
She blushed faintly as she sat down again, but she was smiling too. Everyone likes to be noticed.
Maitland breathed out noisily through his nose. “Yes, well, if you’ve finished your mentalist act, Gabriel, perhaps we may be permitted to continue?”
“Hi,” said staffer number two, a sharply dressed man with an even floppier fringe than his master’s. Late twenties, Gabriel judged. Conservatively cut grey two-piece suit set off by a violet tie and matching socks. “David Mountsteven. I handle Sir Toby’s personal appearances. Town meetings, stump speeches, things like that.”
He offered a limp, boneless handshake that left Gabriel wanting to wipe his palm on a towel.
That just left the teenage-looking young woman on Gabriel’s left to introduce herself. She wore her long black hair in plaits like a 1950s schoolgirl. Her grey eyes were dwarfed by gigantic round glasses that gave her an owlish look as she peered at him.
“Polly,” she said, so quietly Gabriel had to lean in and strain to catch her words. “I do social media. Sir Toby’s reaching out to my generation.” He wondered if her generation were even old enough to vote, let alone choose this shiny, right-wing money man with his proto-fascist outlook. He didn’t feel handshaking would be her thing so he contented himself with a “Hi” and a smile. She returned the smile, shyly, then bent over her smartphone again, thumbs skittering over the shiny screen as if dancing with each other.
They all appeared to be in awe of Maitland – his flattering attention was, Gabriel had to admit, charming.
“I’m Gabriel,” he said. I’m here to stop your boss from precipitating a constitutional crisis if my mate at MI5 has got her facts straight. “I’m a negotiator. I’m here to help Sir Toby with,” he paused, “communications.” He noted the approving smile and subtle nod Maitland bestowed on him.
The meeting was a predictable run-through of jobs and assignments. As it broke up and the others headed off to the campaign office – a former billiards room – Maitland stopped Gabriel with a hand on his arm.
“Before you go Gabriel, I have to ask you something. Is your passport up to date?”
“Yes. I renewed it last year.”
“Good, because I have a trip to the States coming up and I want you to accompany me. There are some people I need to see and I also have an acquisition to make. Having you along will give me time to brief you on my programme. Ever been to Chicago before?”
“No. Never. New York and Quantico for work a couple of times, plus the odd holiday.”
He wondered how Maitland would react to his mention of the FBI’s famous training ground in Virginia.
“Well, then, it’ll be an education for you, won’t it? Pack for a week and be here at five a.m. next Monday. I’ll have Franz drive us to Heathrow. Now, make yourself useful. There’s a pile of my opponents’ speeches and campaign materials on your desk in the war room. I want you to pick them over for gaffes, unsubstantiated claims, weaknesses of argument. Do some digging online. Give me a one-page briefing by four o’clock this afternoon. Oh, and some pithy one-liners I can use to attack them, too.”
With that, he dismissed Gabriel, turning his back and hitting one of the speed-dial numbers on his phone. As Gabriel left for his desk down the hall he heard Maitland speak.
“Ash? It’s Toby Maitland. I’m coming to see you next Tuesday. And I’m bringing my tame soldier with me, so no funny business, hmm?”
Gabriel stopped for a second. No. I’m not your tame anything. He was beginning to relish the thought of worki
ng against Maitland. He read and wrote notes for the rest of the day; but every now and again he found he’d been staring at his screen or a piece of paper for minutes without writing a word, pondering instead the content of Britta’s briefing that evening.
He read his briefing note for Maitland one more time. Only two of the rival candidates posed any kind of credible threat and he found interesting intelligence on both. The Conservative had been arrested at university for throwing paint over pensioners on a peace march. The Liberal Democrat had claimed expenses for first-class rail tickets he used to visit his mistress. Sir Toby could suggest the former was better suited to painting and decorating than politics, and the latter could hardly be trusted with the strings of the public purse when his own hand was likely to be caught inside. He took the note into Sir Toby’s office. He was on the phone and motioned for Gabriel to leave the paper on his desk then waved him out.
Gabriel checked his watch: five p.m. Enough. He said goodnight to the others and went to collect his car. It wasn’t every day you had an MI5 officer for dinner. He drove fast, feeling his shoulders drop lower the closer he got to home.
Chapter 7
Gabriel sat on a wicker chair in the garden and waited for Britta, chilled white Burgundy dissolving the last of the tension in his stomach. On this warm Spring evening, moisture in the air condensed on the sides of his glass, beading it with hundreds of hemispherical lenses. The wine smelled of peaches and steel-struck flint: it was oily on his tongue. As he waited for his dinner guest he let his mind wander. Not meditation exactly, more like a stilling, allowing whatever or whoever wanted to be heard rise to the surface. A memory swam upwards. Gabriel let it come, even though he knew it was unpleasant, knew it aroused the most painful emotion for any soldier.
His English cottage garden, splotched here and there with pastel roses, peonies and alliums, faded in his mind. The landscape that replaced it was lusher, greener, exploding with colour and sound. Hot reds, pinks and oranges, screeches from the treetops, a constant high-pitched blend of buzzing, creaking, hissing and whining, pulsing in and out of phase as the calls of millions of insects reinforced then interfered with each other. He was back in Africa: Mozambique. The former Portuguese colony had been ripped apart by civil wars almost since its first day as an independent country, and he was right in the middle of yet another. Officially, SAS D Squadron had been “seconded” – how civil servants loved that word – to the Government there to gather intelligence on the “People’s Army for the Liberation of Mozambique”, right-wing guerrillas pressing in on the capital. In reality, D Squadron were there on a covert mission to do one thing: kill a man and retrieve his plans. The man in question was Abel N’tolo, leader of the PALM. The fact that Mozambique was already free, its government elected in a UN-supervised election, didn’t seem to bother N’Tolo and his bloodthirsty crew. They had killed, tortured and raped their way to within ten miles of the capital, using child soldiers as advance guards. Now it was D Squadron’s job to stop him.
