“She will call you Wednesday, around five in the afternoon on your mobile. Please have it turned on."
“The first thing she’ll do is ask after Ben. I should speak to him beforehand. Now, preferably.”
“The boy is not available and won’t be for the foreseeable future."
“That’s not an answer that will put her mind at rest."
“Then lie to her. Check she’s safe and alive, then we tie up the loose ends and you’ll get the boy back. I have, by the way, decided that you should be recompensed for your willingness to forego your exclusive. I propose, therefore, paying you one hundred thousand pounds. Would that be acceptable?”
It was money that would set him free. Solve problems. Set him up for brighter days. But he didn’t want it. All the same he demurred and tried his best to seem pleased.
“Assuming all goes well on Wednesday, as I’m sure it will, then we have an agreement? You promise not to make any unnecessary revelations that damage state security?”
That might harm Sir Leo’s investments is what he meant. Or land him in jail, perhaps. “Yes, about that – there’s something more we need to discuss. The murders of James Albright and Izzy Huxley.”
“They were suicides. The police are satisfied."
“I’m not."
“These are wild accusations."
Capgras stared into the man’s face. “Did you mean for them to be killed, or did your men get carried away?”
A flicker of the eyelids. What did it mean? Guilt? Anger? Frustration?
“Leave these matters to the relevant authorities. They are equipped to deal with them."
“But they’re not aware of the links to Apostle. That’s what this is all about. Izzy Huxley gave me the evidence. Is that why she died?”
“Preposterous. I know nothing of this."
He sounded as if he meant it. But he’d spent his life in politics. He was an expert liar.
“Do you want your sister back? We were so close to resolving all of this. Assure me we have an agreement, in principle at least."
That was an interesting concept. Principles were being sacrificed all over.
“Mr Capgras… I’m waiting. There are people out there anxious to interview me… This is an important day."
Important, because he was making a grab for power.
“If you will not give me the assurances I need…."
“All right.” He would have to make the promise, sell his soul. The words stuck in his throat. He wished he could take the man’s face and pound it against the wall. The only way to deal with tyranny was to cut off the head. “I’ll do as you ask. As soon as my sister is safe, the dead man’s handle gets disabled, for good. I’ll hand over the disk, and the names. And yes, I’ll sign your damned paperwork."
And once it was done, they would kill him.
Sir Leo’s mouth creaked and creased into a self-satisfied smile that would have embarrassed a used car salesman, or a game show host. He clapped his hands twice, turned and stalked from the room, his body language triumphant.
“Don’t celebrate too soon,” Capgras muttered to himself, taking his phone from his pocket as the vibration announced an incoming call. He sighed heavily as he saw it was Waterstone. Didn’t the man realise they were enemies?
“It’s me,” Mark said. “We have to meet. I’ve found him. I’ve found Ben.”
Chapter 65
Bolthole
The pub heaved with the after work crowd that jostled into every half-decent boozer in the centre of the city around this time of day. Capgras resented these people: they didn’t belong here, with their expensive suits and flashy ties, loud conversations and confident swagger. Didn’t they have a cocktail lounge to infest?
He burrowed his way towards the bar. Pint in hand, he scoured the room and saw Waterstone sitting at a table by the window. He slid into a chair opposite. “Tell me what you know, take it slow."
Mark spoke of the stakeout at Shepherd’s house, how he’d seen Ben brought back after trying to escape, and how he followed the car as it headed west into Wiltshire. “They turned into a residential street and went through a set of gates with a guardhouse. It was the weirdest thing.”
“Military,” Tom said. “It’s a network of underground bases around Corsham, built during the Second World War using quarries and mine-workings. I researched them years ago. They were used to store munitions. During the cold war they became the emergency relocations site for the government in event of a nuclear attack. Burlington Bunker was the main base, at Copenacre Quarry."
“They’re still operational?”
“Some of them, for sure. The command and control centre is at Peel Circus in Corsham. Nothing to see but a door leading into a mound of earth, surrounded by a ring of trees. But it’s a massive base and they do something in there, but who knows what? Most of the other sites were closed in the nineties. Some were sold off. Others kept in mothballs or left to rot. My guess is they’re being reactivated."
“Why?”
“Emergency relocations. If a crisis comes: environmental collapse, civil war, a riot that turns into a revolution. They want somewhere safe, a bolthole.”
“We’ll never get Ben out. We should wait until they move him."
“That might be weeks. We have to go in after him."
“That’s madness,” Mark said. “Leave the boy. He’s not in danger. We rescue Emma. We can’t get them both.”
“They’re moving her on Wednesday. It’s our only chance. But it’s no good breaking her free if we haven’t got Ben. She won’t leave the country without him."
“Too risky. One or the other. Not both."
“Don’t ask me to choose,” Tom said.
“I’ll do it. Emma. Has to be her."
“Ben’s only a boy."
“They won’t hurt him."
“But to leave him behind…”
“Got to make the tough decisions."
“I won’t do it,” Tom said. “I can’t choose like that. It’s inhuman.”
“If we grab Emma, they’ll be on alert, make it twice as hard to get Ben."
Mark was right. The moment they struck, Sir Leo would realise the deal was off. Surprise was the only weapon they had. “It’s both of them or nothing. But we must time it precisely.” Tom looked at the pint which he’d barely started. He pushed the glass away. “You rescue Emma, I go for Ben. We meet at a cottage I know in Cornwall. It’s ideal. Then take the ferry from Plymouth to France."
“How do I get Emma from a prison van by myself?”
“You’re a police officer. You have the ID."
“That won’t help much."
“It’ll get you close. Find a way."
“What about you? They’ll not let a journalist near that place. Especially not Tom bloody Capgras."
“I’ll get help."
“Who can you trust?”
“Old friends,” Tom said. “Never underestimate the value of old friends."
Chapter 66
Common Ground
Tom knelt in the mush of mud and dead leaves, peering through the branches of the beech hedge. Across the common he saw a figure silhouetted against the lights of the town: a man, walking a dog. It could be any man. Any dog. But if his guess was right, it would be Douglas Wolstencroft with the trusty family labrador.
A labrador? When did Doug get so conventional? Was he always that way, even at university? Together they had rebelled against everything in sight, from the banality of the curriculum to the hackneyed clichés of undergraduate discourse. But had he been a closet conformist, even then? Was that why he ended up working for the enemy: for GCHQ itself, the monster at the heart of the lair? Doug had sacrificed their ideals for a pay-cheque and a steady career. But he hadn’t abandoned his humanity. He still believed in doing the right thing. Doug would help him. He had to.
The two black figures, man and dog, crossed the common using a well-worn path. It would bring them straight past Tom’s position. The fir
st light of dawn began to seep through the cloud cover. He lurked in the undergrowth, not wanting to show himself until the last moment. The dog was off the lead, rushing back and forth chasing smells, barking excitedly at the prospect of a rabbit.
Tom readied himself. The man turned, following the path, heading straight towards him. He shouted for the dog. It was Doug, no doubt about it now.
Capgras waited, keeping still and silent. Doug drew level, kept walking, didn’t even suspect.
Tom pushed himself to his feet and lunged out of the bush. The dog barked in alarm. Doug swore in surprise, springing around with arms flailing as if he feared a mugging. Capgras put out a hand to reassure the labrador. “You always walk the dog in the dark? Bit bloody early isn’t it?”
“Tom fucking Capgras, what are you doing hiding in a sodding hedge? You nearly gave me an effing heart attack."
“Good to see you too, old friend."
“I thought I told you to stay away."
“This is important."
“More important than my career?”
“Without doubt."
“I could land in jail just for talking to you. You’re a liability. Public enemy number one.”
“Bit harsh, isn’t it? Journalists are the bad guys now? What happened to targeting terrorists and pedophiles?”
“Clear off. I can’t be seen with you.”
“That’s why I’m in a bush, in the dark, at an ungodly hour when I should be in a comfortable bed sleeping off a hangover. I don’t want to put you in danger."
“Good. Then shut up and go away."
“I need your help.”
“Isn’t going to happen."
“Hear me out."
Doug sighed heavily. That was a good sign. The labrador nuzzled against Tom’s leg. Is that why the establishment types loved their labradors? Because the dog’s were too trusting? Or because they never questioned orders?
“There’s nothing I can do for you. Especially now, with all this going on…”
“You heard about DarkReach getting control over GCHQ projects."
“I do work there.”
“How are people taking it?”
“Is this an interview? You’re not quoting me."
“It’s not for a story. How do the guys on the ground feel about it?”
Doug swung the dog lead around in the air. “The unions aren’t happy. Even the bosses are furious. Don’t like the private sector muscling in. But what can you do? We need the help, to be honest.”
“You know much about DarkReach?”
“No.”
“I do. Let me enlighten you."
They walked together as dawn rose over the Cotswolds, and Tom told Doug about Sir Leo, about the mercenaries sent to fight wars for dictators in the Middle East and Africa, central America and obscure islands from the Pacific to the Indian Ocean.
“You heard what happened to Emma?”
“Read it in the paper. Bad business."
“DarkReach was involved.”
“Don’t be absurd Tom. All this conspiracy talk…”
“They framed her, and she’s being transferred to a prison they control. The man who fathered her son was a police spy. He now works for DarkReach. Shepherd, that’s his real name, kidnapped Ben, took him to Corsham. He’s in a bunker. An eleven year old boy, being held in an underground military complex built in the cold war. Why?”
“If he’s the boy’s father…”
“I’ve got to get him out of there."
“Don’t be stupid. What chance have you…”
“I have contacts. You’re one of them."
“I won’t help you. Especially not with this. It’s madness. You’ll get yourself killed or thrown in jail for life. And you’ll drag down anyone who helps you. You can’t kidnap a child…”
“We’re getting Emma out too. She’s being transferred on Wednesday and..."
“We? There’s someone mad enough to help you? You can’t spring someone from a prison van. You won’t get away with this stuff. Where will you run?”
“We have to act. They’re going to kill Emma."
“They might be corporate bastards but they don’t murder their own prisoners."
“When did you become so naïve?”
“Why would they? It doesn’t make sense."
He was right – it didn’t make sense. Not unless you were familiar with the whole story.: Apostle, Albright, all of it. But he couldn’t tell Doug. He mustn’t. If he did, he was putting his friend in danger. But if he didn’t, then Doug wouldn’t help him. “You can either trust me, or I tell you the truth. What this is really about. You won’t thank me though."
Doug called to the dog and attached the lead. “Once more around the common?”
“Once more should just about do it.”
Chapter 67
Forged Identity
Tom eased the motorbike to a stop. The cottage at the end of a muddy, overgrown lane badly needed a coat of paint. The postage stamp garden was littered with engine parts and tools. He saw no sign of life – no lights, no curtains. It appeared deserted. But the man lived here, alone, and rarely left, according to his sources.
Capgras parked the Norton and walked up the lane to assess the scene. There was no car, but a shed behind the cottage would be big enough for a motorbike. The man must have transport.
He leapt over a low wall and peered inside the shed. Sure enough, it was home to a Triumph Bonneville – not a poor man’s bike by any stretch. The house might be modest, but Freddie Hodgetts clearly had a fruitful source of income.
The back door clicked open. Tom turned to see a shotgun pointed at his chest.
Freddie had grown a beard and lost most of his hair along with several stone of excess fat that used to sit around his midriff. He wore glasses these days, and was barely recognisable from the man Capgras had last seen standing in the dock of the Old Bailey, listening to the judge handing down a ten-year prison sentence.
“What you doing near my motorbike, boy?” Freddie waggled the shotgun.
“Admiring it. I came on the Norton 650 out front. Thought you might remember the bike, even if you don’t recognise an old friend."
“I don’t have friends, old or new. And why should I recall your motorbike?”
“I gave you a lift on it once, when the police let you out of custody with no money to get home.”
“That must have been a long time back."
“Before you went away. You get out in five?”
“Four. Made a lot of promises. Helped out some kids, set them on the straight and narrow. You know plenty about me, stuff I don’t recollect myself."
“Tom Capgras, reporter. I followed your case, interviewed you shortly before you were arrested. I sat through most of the trial."
The story had been a national sensation. Freddie was a master forger who had made a steady income out of fake passports and driving licences, but came a cropper when he moved on to cold, hard currency. He crafted the best twenty pound notes anyone had seen. They fooled half a dozen experts from the Bank of England.
“Still can’t place the name. Or the face,” Freddie said. “Journalist eh? Bloody press, never did trust them. What do you want with me? No story here. I’ve gone straight."
“I need a favour."
“Don’t remember you ever doing me one."
“There was that lift…”
“Long time ago, that. And a trip on the back of a bike don’t count for much, now does it?”
“I can pay you. And it’s for a good cause."
“Oh, a worthy cause? My heart bleeds. What exactly is it you want?”
“Papers. Identification."
Freddie finally lowered his shotgun though he didn’t put it down. “I told you, don’t do that no more, I’m honest, never going back to jail."
“Know how you feel on that score."
“You done time?”
“Want to hear the tale? I could do with a coffee. It was a long ride u
p here."
“I like it, being remote and all. Come in then. You tell me your hard luck stories, and I’ll tell you some of mine."
Chapter 68
A Secret Map
Tom strode up the front door of the nondescript semi-detached house on a bland estate at the back end of Keynsham – an undistinguished town midway between Bristol and Bath. He knocked loudly. There was no answer. The man had to be in. This was the final piece in the puzzle.
Doug had sounded out his contacts and come up with the information Tom needed. Wolstencroft had given him the lowdown on the work being done on the bunkers around Corsham – who was doing what, why and where. He had even photographed the ID being used by the contractors.
Freddie forged the papers so easily, so accurately, and so quickly, it was hard to believe the man really was retired. He’d had the tools and materials to hand and had not asked many questions. He had grudgingly accepted Tom’s assurances that this was a matter of life and death, and that he was fighting for the good guys – the dispossessed and the put-upon. (Though he had, in truth, also taken a tidy sum of money in recognition of the extreme risk he was taking in forging such sensitive documents).
Armed with Doug’s information on how to get inside, and Freddie’s fake ID, Tom had everything he needed.
Except a map.
He knocked, louder this time. Still nothing.
A window opened next door and a woman’s face peered out. “You looking for Jim?”
“Know where I can find him?”
“You a friend?”
“It’s about Thistledon."
“That group he runs? He’ll want to see you then. He’s on his allotment."
“In this weather?”
“He’s got a shed up there. Lives there more than here."
She gave him directions, Tom thanked her, drove the half mile to the allotments and headed for the only building with smoke coming from a chimney. He knocked and Jimmie Evans opened up, a cup of coffee in one hand and a magazine dedicated to train sets in the other. The man raised a quizzical eyebrow.
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