“What are you looking for?” Milikan asked.
“Stolen state secrets which if made public might be harmful to the good government of this country and useful to enemy states and terrorists."
“I wasn't aware we had any enemy states,” said Milikan.
“You will co-operate,” said Russell-Davis, “or you will be arrested. Give us everything you have on Apostle. Do it now. We’ll still search the offices and network and wreck your day. But the charges will be lower and you might even get off without a prison sentence. Hide anything and we’ll close you down. I promise."
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Milikan said.
Capgras fought back a grin. Milikan hit the perfect tone of baffled innocence, outraged principle and defiant mocking. The battle had begun. They couldn’t win, not against these forces but at least Tom was no longer fighting alone.
“We have been informed that you’re investigating Apostle,” said Russell-Davis.
“How would you know that?” asked Milikan. “And what is Apostle? A West End play?”
Russell-Davis glared, long and hard, at Capgras. He turned back to his men, clicked his fingers. “Get to work. Tear the place apart. Tell them to shut down the network and begin data analysis. Then we’ll get to looking at the hard drives in the newsroom. Start in here, I suggest."
Milikan made an expansive open gesture with his arms, inviting the men to do their worst. “I would like you to bear in mind the possibility that you’ll find nothing,” he said. “That being the case, we will pursue financial compensation if we’re unable to put out a newspaper tomorrow. That, and reputational damage, could run into tens of millions. So tread easy, and don’t threaten us Mr. Russell-Davis, because you’re not all powerful. Not yet."
As speeches go, it represented the longest and most direct that Tom had heard from Shawn Milikan. He glanced at Fitzgerald who returned the look with a quiver of a smirk. This was a disaster, an outrage and an abomination. A direct assault on the freedom of the press. And yet… the three of them were enjoying it.
Russell-Davis barked orders at his men. “Get the Capgras laptop. No point wasting time. We know who’s behind this.” His meaning was clear: the usual trouble-maker. The usual suspect.
“Is this politically inspired, or commercial, a deliberate attempt to help our rivals?” Milikan asked.
On the far side of the editorial floor, teams of the newspaper’s lawyers began arriving. They had acted fast, Tom thought. Milikan must have had them on standby. Had he suspected a raid, all along?
Russell-Davis ushered his men outside. They went into a huddle.
Milikan leant in close to Capgras and Fitzgerald. “Well, that’s enough evidence for me. We know we’re onto something now. I can’t believe how obtuse they are. And they call themselves the intelligence services…”
Russell-Davis stormed back into the room. “The search continues. Your lawyers can go to hell. You, with me.” He jabbed a finger at Capgras.
It was always going to happen, from the moment they came through that door. No way Tom Capgras would walk free from this one. It would be another afternoon, maybe a long evening, perhaps even a whole night in a police station, ignoring questions and biting his tongue while men in power threw their weight around. He held out his wrists as if expecting handcuffs. “It’s a fair cop, guvnor."
“Less of the lip,” said Russell-Davis. “Take him."
Two heavies escorted Tom out of Milikan’s office and led him on the long walk of shame across the newsroom. All eyes turned to him. No one had left. No one had been allowed to leave. The doorways were blocked by gym-bunnies in Armani.
Capgras felt privileged. He would be the first out of there, he thought. But he was wrong. They steered him down the stairs and past reception, then outside towards the waiting police van. On the far side of the road, hidden behind a bus shelter, talking to a distinguished man with white hair, stood Angie Gossage. She had been in the newsroom when the coppers arrived. Now she hung around out here with the security wonks. Either she was doubly cunning and a relative of Houdini, or Angie was a mole. A liar, a traitor. A spy.
Chapter 48
Inquisition
They bundled Capgras out of the police van and led him, too fast for comfort, down steps and into an alley, then through the back entrance of a redbrick building. Where were they? Not at a police station. One of the plains-clothes goons rang a bell. The door opened, and they bundled him inside. As he passed through, he saw a health and safety notice on the wall, complete with DarkReach logo. “I have a right to see a lawyer. This is not a legitimate venue to bring a prisoner."
The response was, as he had expected, short and to the point, although the swear words padded things out.
They took him along a corridor, through two sets of security doors and down a flight of stairs to a square room, ten foot by ten, with a table, three chairs, and video cameras high on the walls in all four corners. The white paint was fresh. The equipment gleamed. This was a new facility in the heart of London, and appeared purpose-built for detaining and questioning large numbers of people. Yet the building echoed as they walked, like a music hall waiting for the crowd, and the entertainment, and for the big event to get under way.
They told Capgras to sit, locked the door and left him there. He scanned for possibilities of escape. There were none. The locks were beyond anything he could defeat, and there were no windows.
After ten minutes, two men entered. Capgras recognised the first instantly: the man he had seen at the courthouse, talking to Mark. Detective superintendent Bob Shepherd, in charge of the undercover police operations, though Tom knew him better as “Rob,” Emma’s former boyfriend and the father of her son, Ben.
At first he didn’t recognise the second man: six foot two, heavy but athletic, an ex-soldier, by the look of him. Not a man to pick a fight with. A fixer, was Tom’s guess. Then he placed it. The guy on the motorbike. Had to be.
They waited, saying nothing. Were they trying to make him feel uncomfortable, in the hope he’d start blathering? Tom sat serene, listening to his own breath, in, out. He might not be a super spy or have special forces training, but he could wait out a lull in the conversation with the best of them. He liked silence. It was noise and chitter-chatter that bothered him.
Shepherd drummed his fingers on the table. “We know you have it. Tell us where it is. Hand over everything, any copies. Or else."
“Oh, and I’d hoped you might introduce yourselves before making threats. Who are you? Where am I? When will my lawyer arrive?”
“You don’t get a lawyer until we give you back to the police. In the meantime, you’re under our control and we do with you as we see fit."
“I must have been on holiday when they repealed the Magna Carta and suspended habeas corpus. Since when did private organisations handle interrogations involving state security?”
“That’s none of your concern."
“Looks like it’s very much my concern."
“What we’re doing here,” Shepherd said, “is covered under the existing legislation and completely legal. It is done with the full knowledge of MI5, GCHQ and the Minister."
“Which Minister?”
Shepherd ignored him. “We have the right to question you until satisfied that you no longer pose an immediate threat to national security…”
“By which you mean the commercial interests of DarkReach. Are you still a police officer? In which capacity are you here questioning me? As a copper, or a freelance spook?”
The military guy took two steps towards Capgras and smashed him in the mouth with the palm of his hand. The blow threw Tom off his chair onto the floor. His face hurt like hell, but he was damned if he’d show it. He got up, righted the seat and sat down without once looking at the man who hit him.
“Best if you wait outside,” Shepherd said.
The fixer gave Capgras a hard stare as he left.
“Excuse my colleague. He gets over exc
ited.”
“He has a temper on him. And a punch."
“He had a traumatic time in Afghanistan and has never properly re-adapted to civilian life."
“Yet you employ him?”
“He has his uses."
“I bet he does. Who keeps him under control?”
“I do."
“And what about when you’re not looking?”
“Let’s get back to you, shall we Mr Capgras?”
“If you wish. Or we could discuss my sister, Mr Shepherd. Or should I call you ‘Rob Jarsdel?’ That’s the name you were going by last time we met."
“That was long ago."
“Same lifetime though. It was still you."
“How is Emma?”
“Please, don’t pretend you give a shit."
“Very well. How is the boy?”
“He has a name. He’s called Ben. And considering what a slippery douche bag he had for a father, he’s not doing badly. In fact, he’s an extraordinary kid. I’d like to say you’d be proud of him, but I doubt that’s true. You don’t have much in common. He’s ten times the man you’ll ever be, and he’s only eleven.”
“Let’s keep this professional, shall we? Where is it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about."
“You have leaked information about secret government programmes. Do you deny that?”
“I’m not answering questions until I see my lawyer."
“Do you ever want to walk out of here, Mr Capgras? We can detain you as long as necessary."
“I wouldn’t advise that. The media will be all over this like a rash. You can’t just ‘disappear’ a reporter after taking them from the offices of a national broadsheet newspaper, in front of the entire newsroom. I expect this is all over the TV news as we speak."
“We have a broad range of injunctions."
“They won’t work. You’ve heard of the internet? You can’t silence everyone."
“Not yet. We’re working on that.” Shepherd’s eyes remained cold and lifeless. They reminded Capgras of a dead snake. “It would go better for you, your newspaper, and your family if you co-operated now while you have the chance. We intend to recover that material and prevent it being made public by whatever means necessary."
The threats were on the table. Not specific, but threats all the same. They thought they could silence the press and they might be right. Those injunctions were powerful instruments, and a newspaper was a business, had to work within the law. But they had miscalculated when it came to holding him. The question was, should he let them know? Or ride it out, sit quiet, allow the failsafe to fall over, and for the details to be blasted around the world. He’d updated the stories already. Everything new, all the material in the envelope given him by the Albright girl, would be included. But should he show his hand?
“I can invite Mr Naylor to rejoin us,” Shepherd said. “He’s waiting outside."
“Mr Naylor? Useful to learn the identity of the man who’s torturing you. Does he have a first name? An official designation? Any interesting biographical background?”
“Don’t play games."
“No game to me, I assure you. It’s my job to hold people like you accountable."
Shepherd smirked.
“To the public. You know, the people you work for?”
“I work for the shareholders of DarkReach."
“There was me thinking you were a police officer."
“The situation is fluid and complex. You need to start co-operating."
Capgras glanced at his watch. Still only seven in the evening. He had five hours to kill before he had to press that button. To tell him, or not?
“We can hold you indefinitely."
“No, you can’t."
“Oh, we can."
Tom paused, watching Shepherd’s face. “Does the phrase ‘dead man’s handle’ mean anything to you?”
Shepherd’s eyes twitched, his mouth puckering to a frown, then a grimace of hatred.
“If I don’t log in to a certain website, every day…”
“You’re lying."
“Your injunctions won’t work in the USA, or Australia, or Germany. Or Iran. Or Russia. They won’t work on Twitter or Facebook either."
“We could just kill you."
“Not a good idea, seeing as how famous I’m going to be, this time tomorrow."
“We can deny it."
“That might not cut it.”
“If you make this public… you have people to protect. We are powerful…” The man was angry, losing it. “You'll go to jail for the rest of your life. You won’t get out, ever.”
“That’s if you don’t bump me off first, I assume. Is this on the record, by the way? Are we recording? Because my lawyers will be interested."
“You’ll not be getting a lawyer. We use anti-terrorism legislation…”
“My newspaper will be looking for me. They have a habit of asking awkward questions.”
Shepherd glared at him. “What time? When do you have to log on?”
“Any minute now."
“Fine. We’ll get you a computer."
“That’ll leave a nice trail to follow so you can disable it. I don’t think so. Let me walk free, or it goes public."
Shepherd shoved himself away from the table, the legs on his chair squealing in protest. He slammed the door behind him.
Tom waited. He’d shown his hand. It was open warfare between him and the state. That was not a fight he could win at the best of times, and there were sure to be civilian casualties. But there was no turning back.
He waited five minutes, ten and still Shepherd didn’t return. Had he believed him? He’d be getting orders from above, covering himself in case it all went wrong. Or had he already sent out his men to begin retribution, to lay traps? Or set up extra surveillance, seize his computers, kidnap his friends?
Finally, the door opened. “Mr Naylor: any news?”
“Shut the fuck up."
“I thought I was here to talk."
“Out."
“I was waiting for Mr Shepherd."
“Don’t get clever. Get out while you can, would be my advice."
The man blocked the doorway. Capgras squeezed past. “Quite a punch back there.”
“Don’t be a wuss."
“I’ll owe you that."
“The way out is over there.” He pointed down the corridor.
“Would you give Mr Shepherd a message from me?”
Naylor grunted.
“You tell him anything happens to my sister, I’ll go public."
Naylor shoved him through the final door, out into the gloom of a London side street. Capgras didn’t look back. He strode out, heading for bright lights and busy roads, crowds of people and a sense that the world was still there, its heart beating strong. When he reached the first newsagents he paused, anxious to take in the headlines from the evening paper. But they were nothing to do with the police raid on his newsroom. Instead, they’d gone for the politics, scandal, celebrity gossip and human interest tale rolled into one, with the added advantage of a heart-churning photo: “Albright’s girlfriend found dead."
Chapter 49
Manacles
It was a fix. Emma sensed it from the start. She stood in the dock watching the magistrate’s face for a clue of his intent. He had not glanced at her, not once. His abrupt attitude was a mask, a way of hiding something. Shame? Tom had hinted at darker forces at work though part of her wanted to believe it was the journalist in him, being melodramatic.
Her lawyer had appealed for a lenient sentence, citing doubts over her intentions, the actions of her boyfriend who turned out to be a police spy, the appeal that was lodged: not a custodial sentence, he urged.
The magistrate appeared bored throughout as if he’d made up his mind. Her thoughts raced as she watched him, fearing what would come. She’d asked Tom about prison, wanting to hear how bad it would be, desperate to hear that it wasn’t as terrible as he
r fears. His silence, and the way he hid his eyes, had offered little hope.
Before coming to the courtroom she had hugged Ben, kissed him and urged him to be strong and told him that she would be home soon, hoping that might mean later the same day, but knowing more likely it would be six months from now. Or more.
They told her to stand. Her legs shook. The magistrate still didn’t look at her. He glared at the floor, his eyes dead, his voice emotionless as he announced, coldly, she would go to prison for twelve months. A year apart from her boy, from her friends and family, from her home. A year locked away from life when she’d done nothing wrong.
Despair and anger wrestled in her heart, but she found no words to shout at the magistrate. Her friends did that for her: Ruby and the others, yelling their hatred of the man as he shuffled from the courtroom. He didn’t turn back to hurl convictions at them for contempt of court, as he might have done. The guards clasped her arms and pointed her to a door that led into the dungeons of the state, to its manacles and pits where the outspoken were punished. The different. Or those in the wrong place at the wrong time.
As she left the room she turned despairing eyes towards her tribe. Tom met her gaze, his face distraught. A picture of guilt. It was true what he’d said; she knew it now. He had picked a fight and she had paid the price.
“I’ll get you out,” he shouted across the courtroom. “I promise."
Tears streamed down her cheek as the guards pressed her through the door. It slammed shut behind her and her life was no longer her own. Now she became owned, controlled, imprisoned. They would break her if they could. As she trudged down the concrete steps towards a cell, she vowed to herself that they never would.
Cold Monsters: (No Secrets To Conceal) (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 2) Page 18
